The Children's Hospital

54

“Here they come,” said Father Jane. She was peeking out their door, down the hall at the line of approaching children.

“I’m never going to remember all the names. Nine! It’s ridiculous. How many times do I have to point out that it’s ridiculous?”

“Maybe it’s ridiculous, but it’s wonderful, too.”

“It’s not too late to make nametags.”

“That’s cold. Quick, light the candles.”

“Is it someone’s birthday?” Grampus asked. “How will we remember all the birthdays?” But he lit the candles, and stood in the doorway with Jane, holding the welcome cake she had baked, and singing the welcome song she had composed. Arms occupied, he didn’t have to hug them, but kissed them all as Jane greeted them. They all had the same face — soft and round and framed in white-blond hair. The differing ages and sexes hardly made any difference in the features, but the expression worn by the teenagers — wary mistrust — set them apart from their siblings.

“Welcome Shout!” she said. “Welcome Kidney! Welcome Valium! Welcome States’-Rights! Welcome Jesus! Welcome Bottom! Welcome Salt! Welcome Sand! Welcome Couch!”

They all nodded and smiled and the littlest one gave Jane a plant — a tall spindly thing with spiny leaves and a single drooping blossom that looked like a slack mouth. There were enough of them that they ought to have sung back to them, or done some complicated dance, but instead they piled directly onto the couch, squeezing in a double row of four and a single triple column in the middle. They arranged themselves so swiftly it was obvious that they had been squeezing themselves like that onto all sorts of furniture all their lives. They all stared around the room, taking in their new home, except for Kidney — that was the smallest one, he suddenly remembered — who looked squarely at John Grampus and said, “Well, now what do we do?”