“Forget it. I’m your nurse.”

“But you’re more than that. You feel like a friend.”

Sometimes, your spirit can rise and sink simultaneously. “Well … Yes. I am your friend.”

“So! I’ll see you in the morning.”

“No, five o’clock, Chip. P.M.”

“Oh. Right. I guess I wish it were morning.”

Foolishly, the indicator rises.

“Myra?”

“Yes?”

“I just want to say what a relief it is that it’s you who’s going to be taking care of me for this … for all this. What a surprise and a relief.”

“Well.”

“I mean it. You’re very … comfortable.”

“Thanks.” I guess.

I hang up the phone and look out the window at the sky, the pale blue now overtaken by the moody colors of dusk. You never know. You never know what’s going to happen from one day to the next. I can vouch for that. So can Chip. So could anyone, really. Oh, it’s overwhelming, sometimes, how much we really are all sharing the same, leaky boat.

I lie quietly for a while, watching the dark come, and then I get up and turn on all the lights.

I’m going to make a pie. I’ll surprise him, have it all done so he won’t have to wait for anything. So we’ll have more time.

Chapter 5

My visits today are going smoothly. Tiffany did a terrific job on Rose’s apartment—took out all the garbage, stocked her refrigerator, did the laundry, even washed and curled Rose’s hair. Ann Peters’s eyes are improving, and her daughter has agreed to put in the drops on weekends.

Fitz Walters bought a new hat, a red feather at the band, and his happiness at this small thing is nothing short of inspiring. “I’ll take those ladies’ breath away when I show up in this,” he told me, modeling it; preening. He walked across the room, a cross between Fred Astaire and Chuck Berry.

“What ladies?” I said.

He chuckled.

“Fitz?”

He waved his hand. “Go on, now.”

“No, really. What ladies are you talking about? The ladies from your church, those ladies?”

“Aw,” he said, “you just giving me a hard time, ain’t you? Yeah, you like to give me a hard time. You know who I’m talking about! At the Pussy Cat Lounge, those ladies. You know.”

“Yeah, I do. And you’ll knock them out, Fitz, you look like a movie star in that hat.”

“That’s what the guy who sold it to me said! Said I look like Sidney Poitier.”

“Exactly.” I checked his blood pressure. A little higher than usual, but only from joy. One night, I’ll ask if I can go with him to that lounge. Try to differentiate for him between the real and the silicone. Not that he can see, but maybe he’d want to know.