And my mother said, “Wouldn’t that be nice?” and then the waiter brought her salad and my fish, and offered pepper, which she didn’t take and I did, and for a moment we ate. The restaurant was enormous, an old warehouse space that had been converted, with great columns and enormous cloth lanterns. The food was delicious. We had tables near the great back windows, which looked out at a garden, and the last autumn flowers blew gently back and forth in the wind. The sun came in on the diagonal and lit up our food. “Harry,” said my mother. “I’m a little weak right now from the chemotherapy, but other than that, I really feel very well.” She paused, and I nodded.

“You look terrific,” I said.

“You know that my second treatments haven’t really worked. And that your father is discussing other options with the doctors, and that they’ll probably start me on something new next month.”

“The cancer’s not growing,” I said.

“The cancer’s not receding,” she said. “Please. I know that you have your routine that you go through, and I know you go through it to make me feel better, and I really appreciate that. But I’m not a fool, and I know what’s happening, and you also know what’s happening. It would be lovely if one of these things worked, and perhaps one of them will, and this time will all recede into memory. But it’s not very likely. If the first therapy had worked, I might have been fine, and there was a chance with the second, but once you get to the third and the fourth rounds of treatment, the chances are almost nil. I don’t mean that I don’t have any time left, but I think it’s limited.”

I could tell that there was something more coming, something terrible. My mother had that calm, rational, radiant quality she had had since Italy. Her blue eyes did not blink. “I don’t want you and Freddy to remember me as an emaciated wreck screaming in a hospital bed,” she said. “I don’t want that. And I don’t want to go through all that pain myself. I hate physical pain; I’ve always hated it. I hate even discomfort. I’m telling you this now, while I’m feeling very well, because if I try to tell you later it will be more difficult, and you’ll tell me I’m out of control and incoherent. Your father and I have talked and talked about this, and my decision is made. I will go on with treatments as long as the doctors say there is a chance of my getting well. But when they say that the battle is lost, that they can only extend my life for a month or two at a time, while I get more and more miserable, then I am not going to go on. I’ve thought about this, and I’ve made up my mind. It’s the right decision, the right decision for me and for all of you. My friend Stella died screaming and contorted and it was horrible for her and it was horrible for her family. I’ve heard Philip say that he will never forget that last week in the hospital with the intravenous painkillers and the sedatives. That’s not life, Harry.” My mother put down her fork and she put her hand on my hand, next to the bread basket. “Harry, I have got the pills I will need to do it. I’m not going to do it now; I’m not going to do it until I have to, and I think when the moment comes we will all know it. But I wanted to explain this to you now, so that you won’t be too shocked then. I am not going to see this disease through to the very bitter most miserable end.”