You are nine years old when you’re told that your favorite uncle is sick, and it is time to go see him. If he’s sick, you ask, shouldn’t we stay home? Won’t we get sick, too? Your mother slips worn sneakers on your feet, tying and retying the laces even though you’ve known how for years. She doesn’t meet your eyes when she tells you he isn’t that kind of sick, and you don’t know how to ask what that even means.

You sit smashed between your older sisters, their elbows digging into your ribs, driving to see your uncle. You wonder which hospital he’s in. You wonder if your mom brought quarters for the vending machines, and if you’ll be allowed to pick a snack. When your father parks the car in front of your grandparents’ house, relief floods your chest. If Uncle Dan were really sick, he’d be at the hospital, you think. He must not be that sick after all.

You walk into your grandparents’ house and are met with an explosion of sound and light, such a sharp contrast from the quiet, dark car ride over with your parents and sisters. Your aunts and uncles and cousins are there, spilling into every room, even the formal living room with the delicate figurines and plastic-covered couches that you’re only allowed to sit on during special occasions. The grown-ups wear thin smiles and sad eyes, but your cousins are laughing, joking, playing. Music is dancing through the house, all your uncle’s favorite songs. Bon Jovi. Elvis Presley. Aerosmith. You know all the words because your uncle, the life of every party, the magnetic force in your family, usually sings them while cooking, while drinking, while teasing you and your sisters. You wonder where he is and why he’s not singing now, at this party for him.

You sit with your cousins, drawing pictures and pretending like this is a normal night, when it clearly is not. What is going on?, Amanda asks. Why are we all here? You shrug your shoulders and find comfort in not being the only one who is confused. 

Your dad calls for you, motioning for you to come into your grandparents’ bedroom. When you wind your way through the adults—there are so many adults blocking the hallway and doorway—you find the source of the noise and laughter and music: your uncle. You don’t understand why there’s a hospital bed in your grandparents’ room, or how your uncle lost so much weight so quickly. You notice dark red patches dotting his skin and wonder if he’s fallen. He seems paler, smaller, less of himself. But then he speaks. Uncle Dan makes a joke about your dad, ending with his scratchy laugh, and his eyes sparkle at you. He is still Uncle Dan, even if his smile is tighter across his face and he smells different. Even if you’re a little bit afraid.

Uncle Dan says he’s hungry and your grandmother fights her way through the crowd to ask what she can get him. No, no, he says. I want to order out. I want to go big. I want calamari and stuffed mushrooms, crab cakes and fried ravioli. And mozzarella sticks?, you ask hopefully, though your mother hushes you. And mozzarella sticks for Jamie, he adds, pointing a thin finger at you. There is a stack of restaurant fliers by his bed that you hadn’t noticed. He plucks one from the pile and hands it to your dad, tells him to order anything he wants. My treat, Uncle Dan says. Your dad dutifully circles all the foods your uncle mentioned, plus the mozzarella sticks. Your heart swells; Uncle Dan gives you a wink.

You blend into the adults, pretending you understand their jokes and stories. You’re not sure why you’re allowed to stay in the room, but you don’t want to leave, so you stay quiet and will yourself invisible. You notice that the perfumes and jewelry and pretty things that used to spill across your grandmother’s bureau have been replaced by pill bottles and papers and Uncle Dan’s Miami Dolphins bear. You wonder how long he’s been in this room. 

The food arrives and you squeal with delight. Your mom gives you a stern look, but Uncle Dan digs through the Styrofoam boxes and hands the entire container of mozzarella sticks to you. You eat as many as your mother allows, even though the cheese has cooled and gone hard and they’re not as salty as you like. Your uncle, who was so hungry he ordered a feast, doesn’t eat much, if at all. You’re not paying attention, really. You’re so focused on your mozzarella sticks.

When it is time to say goodbye, you notice tears on the grown-ups’ faces. You lean delicately onto the makeshift bed and give Uncle Dan a kiss. You tell him you love him and thank him for the mozzarella sticks. You tell him you hope he feels better soon, and you mean it. Your mom whisks you and your sisters outside, and you still don’t understand what she meant by not that kind of sick. 

You don’t know that this is the last time you’ll see your uncle. You don’t know that he had been sick for years—before you were born, even. All you know is that he was your favorite uncle. He was happy and healthy, until he wasn’t. He was a fixture in your life, until he slipped away. For years, you’ll think that any cold, any illness, could be deadly. You’ll develop bronchitis, your dad will get the flu, and you’ll wonder if it’s that kind of sick. You’ll wonder if you’ll die, too.

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Jamie Orsini is a journalist and MA in Writing candidate at Johns Hopkins University. Her short fiction is forthcoming or has been published in Flash Fiction Magazine, The Furious Gazelle, Grim and Gilded, and The Birdseed.