Marah was in a chair beside William, with her eyes closed, listening to an iPod through tiny headphones. She moved to the beat of music only she could hear. The boys were so big; it was a painful reminder of how long Tully had been apart from them.

Beside Marah, Mrs. Mularkey sat, staring intently at her knitting. Sean was beside his mother, talking on his cell phone. Georgia and Ralph were watching TV in the corner.

By the looks of it, they’d been here a long time.

It took a huge act of will to step forward. “Hey, Johnny.”

At the sound of her voice, they all looked up, but no one said anything and suddenly Tully remembered the last time they’d all been together.

“Kate called me,” she explained.

Johnny eased out from under his sleeping son and stood up. There was only a beat of awkwardness, a clumsy pause, before he took her in his arms. She could tell by the ferocity of his embrace that it was more to comfort himself than her. She clung to him, trying not to be afraid. “Tell me,” she said, more harshly than she intended, when he let go of her and stepped back.

He sighed and nodded. “We’ll go into the family room.”

Mrs. M. stood up slowly.

Tully was struck by how much Mrs. M. had aged. The woman looked frail and a little hunched. She’d stopped dyeing her hair and it was snow-white. “Katie called you?” Mrs. M. said.

“I came right away,” she said, as if speed mattered now, after all this time.

Then Mrs. M. did the most amazing thing: she hugged Tully, enveloped her once again in an embrace that smelled of Jean Naté perfume and menthol cigarettes, with just a hint of hairspray to give it spice.

“Come on,” Johnny said, breaking up the hug, and leading the way to another room. Inside there was a smallish fake wood conference table and eight molded plastic chairs.

Johnny and Mrs. M. sat down.

Tully remained standing. No one spoke for a moment and every passing second was a turn of the screw. “Tell me.”

“Kate has cancer,” Johnny said. “It’s called inflammatory breast cancer.”

Tully had to concentrate on each breath to remain upright. “She’ll have a mastectomy and get radiation and chemotherapy, right? I have several friends who have fought—”

“She’s already had all of that,” he said gently.

“What? When?”

“She called you several months ago,” he said, and this time his voice had an edge she’d never heard before. “She wanted to have you at the hospital with her. You didn’t return her call.”