Abigail glances at me.

“It’s hard to say. She doesn’t talk about it a whole lot—not to me, at least. She has friends here, maybe she talks to them. But I think she’s a pretty tough nut.” She swallows. “You can see sometimes when she’s in pain but she says that’s just since the surgery and is manageable. I think it’s mainly her independence she’s afraid of losing. You know,” Abigail hesitates. “If things get bad.”

She looks at me. “At first she talked about not doing any chemo or radiation at all. She said maybe it would be better to just let her body “go its way naturally”. She seems to have changed her mind about that, but I don’t know if she’ll stick to it, you know, once it all starts…”

Abigail shrugs, her shoulders heavy.

I don’t respond, because Sam’s already coming back to the table with two chocolate milk cartons and a paper bowl of Rice Krispies.

“I’m beginning to think I wasn’t feeding you enough,” I say, and he flashes me a half-smile.

“Sam, your aunt is going to come to visit Lorna with us,” Abigail tells him, and Sam bobs his head as he lays into the cereal. “What about Grandma?” he says, looking behind us, and I turn to see Mom coming into the room. Looking at her, I can see how she steels herself to walk over to the table.

“I think that might be a little too much for today, don’t you?” Abigail says, her voice cool as Mom draws up beside us.

“Morning, Mom,” I say. “How was your walk?”

“Oh, fine. Fine. Morning, everyone. Morning, Sam.”

“Morning, Grandma,” he says, a little more warmth in his voice than yesterday.

I fill her in about Oliver too, and she looks faintly surprised, but just nods.

“And then Dad, too,” Sam reminds us. “Everybody’s coming.” He spoons more Rice Krispies into his mouth. “What’s Grandma going to do while the rest of us visit Lorna?”

Mom looks around at us, her eyes moving from mine to Abigail’s with a flash of surprise that quickly shifts to acceptance. It’s the acceptance that makes me feel guilty.

“Perhaps you’ll give her my regards,” she says quietly. “It’s been an awfully long time.”

*

The streets are lively—a different kind of lively than when we drove through them yesterday evening—and the morning air is warm. Kids clamor on the sidewalks; old men sit in front of their houses, silent in ones and twos, or talking fast in groups of five or six. Apparently we’re just on the outskirts of Little Havana, which is the neighborhood Lorna lives in.

“That’s Domino Park,” Abigail points as we pass the gated entrance to a plaza with big stone chessboards where white-haired men in shorts sit playing.