“I am. Macaroni man, all my substance on the outside. I’m better, now, it’s true—dying teaches you a lot about how to live; I’m sure you know that as well as anyone. But I lived a pretty shallow life. I kept myself from myself as much as from others. I know you care for me. But what you’re in love with, Myra, is the idea of someone loving you. You’ll find someone so much better. The truth is, I’m not good enough for you.”

I feel as though some hand that holds up my insides has been abruptly pulled away. “That’s not true!”

“It is.” He leans back, rearranges himself slightly. Something’s hurting. “What’d you get at the grocery store?”

“I … haven’t gone yet. It took longer than I thought at the agency. I had to orient someone to all of my patients.”

He nods. And then, carefully, he says, “Myra, is there anything you want to tell me?”

“About what?”

“About anything.”

“No.”

“Good.”

Frank, finally finished with his drink of water, comes over to lay his drenched muzzle in my lap. “Oh, look at this!” I say, jumping up, incredibly grateful for the distraction.

Chapter 24

Early Thursday morning, I’m sitting in the living room, drinking a cup of coffee. Chip is sleeping. When he gets up, we’re going somewhere. Last night he told me he didn’t want to sit around the house anymore, waiting. He wants to take Frank and a basket of food and head out. I’m thinking the ocean, maybe the small town of Rockport. It’s only a little over an hour away. There are parks there where he could stretch out and take a nap, nice places to walk that are flat, benches everywhere.

I stare out the front-room window at the cars moving along the road, trying to make out the features of each driver. It’s a game I play sometimes. If I can see them clearly enough, I make up a life for them. Here, this red-headed young woman with her hair up in a ponytail, I make her a receptionist at a health club. A gum snapper with a big heart, who dots her i’s with an oblique dash. This bald-headed older man, driving along with a scowl on his face: He sells insurance, he’s doing poorly, and his gout is acting up. Now comes a woman who looks remarkably like me. Remarkably! I stand, strain to see her more clearly. She’s dressed in a white blazer, driving a red Sentra. Amazing resemblance. And what is her life? What is her life, I wonder.

The phone rings. I answer it quickly.

“Myra,” Chip’s mother says. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

“No, I’ve been up for a long time. How are you?”