“Wait a minute, Myra! I’m calling to talk to you! Why did you leave last night?”

I say nothing.

“I know she’s probably right there, but was it because of Diann?”

“Oh, no. No.”

“Well, I wish you hadn’t left.”

“Okay.” I don’t know what else to say. I suppose I wish I hadn’t left either—it only made things worse. But I felt so foolish. We were all sitting at the table, eating pie, when Diann asked why I became a nurse. I meant to say something pithy and intelligent, and ended up going on forever, talking like a person starved for company. Talking like what I am.

I told them that the summer I turned fifteen, my mother was hospitalized for a hysterectomy. She developed a nasty infection, and so her stay there was prolonged. In the room next to her was a sixteen-year-old boy, dying of some kind of terrible disease. I used to see his legs when I went past his partially open door. They were thin and so white, lying on sheepskin, uncovered. They were always in the same position, always very still. I learned about his age and diagnosis from one of my mother’s nurses. “It’s very sad,” she said, “especially since it looked for a while like he was going to make it.”

“Where’s his family?” I asked, and she said, oh, there was always one of them with him. At least one, sometimes two. Always somebody there.

“Well, why don’t they talk to him?” I said. “I never hear them!” My mother, embarrassed, said that was enough, now; no more questions. The nurse said it was all right, it was natural for someone to be curious. But she didn’t answer the question.

Once, walking past the boy’s room, I pushed the door open wider so I could see all the way in. There was a visitor sitting by the bed, but whoever it was didn’t notice me; the chair had its high back to the door. The boy was awake, and when the light from the hall came into his room, he turned toward me. He was bald, and his thin face was full of a terrible longing. I swallowed, raised my hand in a silent greeting. He stared; then, slowly, raised his hand back. The visitor turned, saw me, and came over to shut the door. She was an old woman, his grandmother, I assumed. She held knitting in her hands, a pale blue sweater she was making. I wondered if it were for him. I thought, It’s terrible if it is—he’ll never get to wear it. And then I thought, It’s terrible if it’s not—it means they’re showing him they’ve given up.