“Well, he never married, you know. He’s stuck with us.”

“Still.”

“Oh, I know. I know he loves us.” He passes his hand over his eyes. “Jesus. This is so difficult.”

“Yes,” I say, softly.

“He’s our only child.”

“I know. I’m so sorry.”

“My wife must have told you he’s refusing any further treatment.”

“Yes, she did.”

“I just want you to know that I’m not so sure he isn’t right.”

I nod, slowly. “Okay.”

He straightens, points to the door. “So! He’s all yours! Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine. I’ll just do an admission interview today; it’ll take about an hour, at the most.”

“Cup of coffee?”

“No thanks.” I am at the door, ready to knock, when it opens. And there he is. And except for the baseballish line of sutures along the shaved side of his head, I would say he has not changed much at all. Some gray in his hair. Perhaps a very slight slackening at the jaw-line. But mostly he looks like the boy Chip dressed up as the man Chip.

He stares at me for a long moment, trying to place me, I’m sure. Then, “Oh, my God, Myra?” He laughs loudly. “You look exactly the same!” Not much of a compliment, I’m afraid. “Hey, Dad!” he says. “This is Myra Lipinski, remember? We went to high school together.”

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Reardon says. “Of course.”

But he doesn’t remember, I know.

“God, it’s been so long,” Chip says.

I smile, feel the warmth of a blush start to rise up my neck. Then I remind myself of what I’m here for: head-to-toe body system assessment, emphasis on neuro deficits. Evaluation of activities of daily living status—can he do independently all he needs to do for himself? Medication review—does he know what to take, when, and what it’s all for? Home safety check: electrical hazards … “You’re a nurse?” Chip asks.

I shrug. “Yeah.”

“Are you still Myra Lipinski?”

“… What do you mean?”

“I mean, are you married?”

“Oh! No.” I laugh. “No, not … at all.”

“Huh. Me neither. Never did do that. Still time, though, I guess. People could say, ‘They never got out of the honeymoon phase.’ And they’d be right! Well. Won’t you come in? It’s small, but it’s home.” He looks over at his father. “Dad?”

“I’ll be downstairs,” his father says quickly. “Call me if you need anything.”

Chip closes the door behind us. Then he sits on the bed, grinning, looking up at me. “Let’s see … The last time I saw you was sixth period English, right? That idiot Mr. Saunders. He read poetry with all the sensitivity of a ‘goddamn toilet seat.’ Remember that guy? In The Catcher in the Rye?”

“Holden Caulfield, talking about Ackley,” I say. “Yes, I do remember that.”