“Or we could eat it right out of the pie plate, bite for you, bite for me.”

I stop at a red light, smile over at him. Then the light changes, and I pull away a little faster than I have to. Quite a bit faster.

He laughs. “Great.”

And then we keep quiet, listening to the radio, each of us having our own separate fantasies, until we arrive at my house and see a red Lexus pulled up in front of it. A tall woman opens the door, climbs out.

“I wonder who that is,” I say, at the same time that Chip says, “Diann!”

She starts walking over to us as I pull in the driveway. Waves gaily. She is wearing tortoiseshell sunglasses, has her hair (silver streaks now mixed in with the black) pulled up carelessly and clipped to the top of her head. Her silk pants and top are the cool turquoise of swimming pool water; over them, she wears a white linen blazer, sleeves pushed up. She has a wide silver bracelet on one arm, an expensive-looking watch on the other. Silver hoop earrings. Espadrilles. Nice woven purse. She comes over to me as I finish climbing out of the car, pulls off her sunglasses, and smiles. There are her blue eyes. Those eyes. There are her straight, white teeth. She’s lost nothing. She extends her hand, and I take it. “Myra Lipinski,” she says, though she is not looking at me any more. “Nice car!” she says, but she is not looking at it, either.

From inside my house come the outraged barks of Frank, who, for two days in a row, now, has been left home. Well, he’ll come with me tomorrow. Tomorrow, everything will be back to normal.

I pull my nurse’s bag up higher on my shoulder. “We were just going to have some pie,” I say. “I … made a pie. Come in.” I go first, alone. They follow, together. I have never been so ashamed of my back.

Chapter 6

Ethel Schwartz boiled three bones for Frank. Two of them she wrapped in Hanukkah paper and froze so that they would “last” until we got home; the third, she has just given him now. He goes to the corner of the kitchen where he is allowed, collapses happily, then looks up to me as if to say, “Go ahead; I’m fine.”

“I wonder if I could just have a private moment with you before we do the pills,” Ethel says, holding onto my arm tightly, speaking in a low and tremulous voice between her clenched teeth. She often clenches her teeth when she speaks; otherwise, her dentures make small, clicking sounds. I’ve told her those dentures don’t fit, that she should have them adjusted. She always waves her hand and says, “My teeth should be my biggest problem.”