The house is a large colonial, white with black shutters. The lawn is well kept; there is a garden that runs along the side of the house, full of flowers in bloom—blues, pinks, yellows. The riches of summer.

At almost the same time that I ring the bell, it is answered by the kind of older woman you see in magazine ads proclaiming you’re only as old as you feel. She has the bone structure of the classically beautiful woman; longish gray hair held back at the sides by combs. She wears black linen pants, a white silk blouse, pearl studs. She has the distressed look I have anticipated—the start of a smile overtaken by grief.

I hold out my hand. “Hi. I’m Myra Lipinski.”

“The nurse.”

“Yes.”

“Please come in.” She stands aside, and I hear her small sigh, a mix of regret and relief. I enter a hallway, dark and cool and redolent with the scent of roses. And then I see why—on a small table is a cut glass vase full of them. A mauve color. Beautiful.

“Chip’s upstairs, in his bedroom. His father is with him. But I wonder if we could just talk a little before you see him.”

“Of course.”

We go into the living room: yellow silk furniture; a floral Oriental rug, many paintings in heavy gold frames. Formal drapes. A fireplace, now holding a large basket of dried hydrangea.

Mrs. Reardon gestures for me to sit on the sofa. I do, with my bag at my feet. In this room, the bag looks more beat up than it is.

She clears her throat, smooths the leg of her pants. “Chip is not really responding appropriately to his diagnosis.”

I nod, wait.

“As you know, it’s a very aggressive form of cancer.”

“Yes.”

“He had the surgery, of course. But now he won’t do anything else.”

“You mean …”

“Well, I mean chemotherapy, radiation therapy … even psychotherapy!” She laughs. “Really, he won’t consider anything. Now, I know none of this will necessarily keep him from…. I know it’s not exactly a cure, but it can buy him time. And if he gets some time, even a few months, who knows what they could come up with!”

I’ve got a pretty good idea what “they” could come up with in a few months: nothing.

She leans forward, speaks softly. “I’m hoping you’ll be able to talk him into treating this thing. Really going after it. Persuade him that it’s the best thing. It is the best thing. It’s the only thing.”

“You know, Mrs. Reardon, it can be really hard when someone doesn’t make a choice that seems obvious to us. But—”

“I mean, he acts as though this is some kind of joke! Most of the time he answers the phone saying ‘Chip Reardon, cancer patient.’ Last night, he answered it saying ‘Check-Out Inn.’”