“Anyway, that’s not going to be your first time.”

She watched a couple around her age slip their arms around each other as they walked along the sidewalk in front of us.

“What happened?” I asked.

“It’s just unfortunate. If you get any kind of family push-back, just bring Bethanny in. If she can’t talk them down, they can go elsewhere.”

She smiled at me and said, “You’re going to be meeting your first client soon. If you have questions along the way, just let me know.”

I nodded, though I didn’t feel remotely ready. But maybe this was the sort of thing you could never be ready for.

“Bethanny’s going to send you the client’s file in a week or two. I’ve already started the questionnaire with her, but she wanted to take a break to wind down her treatments.”

“What’s her name?”

“Daphne.”

She leaned over and hugged me again—awkward, because she was wearing her seat belt.

“I’m glad to be doing this with you,” she said.

Daphne. I had never met a Daphne before.

11.

It rained for a week straight, long enough for the sound to become familiar again. I still hadn’t received Daphne’s file, and considered calling or e-mailing Bethanny to tell her that I was anxious and tired of waiting. Though my insomnia had been briefly brought under control during our training sessions, it was back full-force now. Instead of watching juicing infomercials, I got high and read through grief message boards and message boards for women with rare forms of metastatic cancer discussing how many years they had clocked at Stage 4. I don’t know what I was looking for, but my lack of sleep was showing on my face in the form of deep pockets under my eyes. I was having a hard time hiding my hangover. I faked a virus and told Bobby I was taking some sick time from work.

One morning, as I checked my e-mail hoping to see Daphne’s file, Bobby said, “You still look worn down. When are you going to call the doctor?”

I decided to pay him back by standing up in our marriage counselor’s office that evening and screaming, “I don’t know how to be a wife.”

I wasn’t holding my head; my hair wasn’t flying out at all sides as if I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket, like you see in old pictures of unhappy wives. I was wearing jeans and a T-shirt and sneakers that were showing the first signs of a hole at the toe. The doctor was concerned about me. He said, “What part don’t you understand? You just have to be.”

Bobby added, “Why are you acting like it’s hard? Just do it. What’s the problem?”