“Well, that’s not … it’s not unusual. People have different ways of coping. Sometimes, the first thing they need to do is—”

She stiffens. “Oh please, don’t … I assure you, I know my son.”

“I’m sure you do.”

Silence. There is the rich sound of a clock ticking somewhere nearby.

“So,” she says, finally.

I stand. “Yes. Why don’t I go and see him?”

She leads me to the stairs, then points. “It’s the first room on the right. My husband’s name is Charles.”

The bedroom door is closed; I knock softly. It is opened by a man who looks like an older version of Chip. “Miss Lipinski?”

“Yes.”

He closes the door behind him, nods gravely, then gestures for me to move down to the end of the hall with him. “I understand you’ll be coming every day.”

“Yes, I will.”

“I wonder if I could just ask you about something.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t know if … Well, first of all, I’d like to ask you to be very straightforward with me about everything, all right?”

“All right.”

“I really mean it.”

“So do I.”

“Good. So, I’ll just say this. I was wondering if Chip …” Abruptly, he starts to sob, but it is nearly silent, and completely dry-eyed. He does not acknowledge this—does not apologize, does not seem at all embarrassed. He just stands there, staring straight ahead, waiting for his chest to stop heaving and his breathing to quiet. It is as though he is waiting for a loud plane to pass overhead. I know better than to try to comfort him. There are times you reach out, and there are times you must let someone hold a terrible thing by themselves.

After a few seconds, he continues. “I was … pretty tough on Chip, when he was growing up. Times were different, then.” He looks at me, seeking agreement, I assume.

“I know what you mean,” I say. “Children weren’t raised the way they are now. My parents were really strict, too.”

“I don’t believe I was abnormal, but I was tough on him. And now I can’t help but wonder if … I’ve been thinking that maybe his cancer—”

“Mr. Reardon?”

The expression on his face is that of a child’s, caught in the act of doing something he shouldn’t.

“If what you’re wondering is whether anything you did caused this—”

“Oh, no, it’s more that I … Well, yes. Yes. I guess that is what I was wondering. Not that I can do anything about it.” He has been looking everywhere but at me, but now his gaze is direct. Pleading.

“No one knows what causes this cancer,” I say, gently. “But I can absolutely assure you that it’s not your fault.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“And I think the fact that Chip has come here says something about his relationship with you.”