Sometimes I feel like I’m looking down at myself, thinking, Woman alone, living lonely life. Those are the times my inside edges feel raw. Most times, though, I just don’t think about it. I walk through the days: Saturdays, I cook for the week and pay the bills; Sundays, I do the laundry and sew. I plant new annuals every spring, new bulbs every fall. On my birthday, I buy myself a present, the price of which must exceed $150. At Halloween, I dress as a witch and Frank as a clown (Butterick #4601) to answer the door for the kids. I give out regular-size candy bars, too, not those gypy two-inchers. (I also give out a few movie-size candy bars to randomly selected trick-or-treaters, who are always so shocked they forget to say thank you.) At Christmas, I have a small tree, each ornament chosen with care, a wrapped Oinker Roll for Frank beneath it, a few new toys for him, too. If someone were to say to me at any given moment, “Quick! Are you happy?” I would answer, “Well … Yes. I believe I am.”

I do go to bed early. Sometimes it’s only eight, and in the summer, the sky’s hardly dark enough for me to sleep. It’s mornings I like, the promise of them, the unknowability. No dim accounting. Instead, a blank slate. A chance.

• • •

After my soak in Crabtree and Evelyn’s rose-scented bubble bath, I go into my office and make a few notes on Chip. “Admission procedure deferred on first visit per patient request,” I write. And then, “According to distressed parents, pt. is refusing any treatment beyond surgery. Will work with patient and family toward realistic decision-making and acceptance of patient’s wishes. Will encourage as much independence for as long as possible.” And then I put my pen down, stare at the page. What can it feel like for him to wake up in his parents’ house? Does he think, Here I am, then. What an end. Does he look at his watch? Out the window? Does he run his hand over his cut head, fingering the sutures and moving his lips to count them, making sure he can still do that?

I go into my bedroom, lie down and close my eyes, then cross my arms over my chest. Body language. I suppose I am guarding my heart. I think of us at Ned’s Place, eating lunch and talking so easily. Sitting there, I felt some stubborn gate creak open. I felt I could say anything. I think of Chip’s arm stretched out behind me as we sat on the playground bench, my softening at the center.