I take a few steps down the sidewalk, hear her call my name. I turn around, say nothing.

“I … Can I still stay here?”

“Nothing has changed, Diann. I said you could stay here. You can stay here.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Why don’t I make us all some dinner?” she calls after me. “Pasta? A salad?”

“Fine.”

She closes the door, and the words I put to the rhythm of my steps are, Why don’t you just leave, huh? Why don’t you just leave?

When I start the engine, I look at myself in the mirror. I don’t know why I’m so mad at her. She may be a lawyer, capable of star-spangled lying, but I do believe her. And damn it, I’m starting to like her.

Chapter 7

Chip’s parents are waiting for me at the front door. They lead me into the living room and we sit down—all of us, I notice, close to the edge of our seats. I lean back, meaning to communicate something I don’t really feel: relaxation. Confidence.

“Chip’s upstairs, getting ready,” his mother says.

I nod.

“I understand he’ll be seeing you at … your place?”

“Well, he—”

“Oh, we have no objection. It’s just that occasionally we’d like to talk to you as well. There are certain things that may come up. Things we may need you to do.”

“Of course. You’re welcome to call me, any time. I believe I gave you my number.”

“Yes.” Mrs. Reardon smoothes back the hair at one side of her head, checks her watch. Recrosses her legs and neatens the crease line in her pants. Then she looks over at her husband, pointedly raises her eyebrows.

“I can’t,” he says quietly.

She sighs.

“I can’t!” He turns toward me. “Myra, my wife wants me to tell you that we both believe Chip should aggressively pursue other options; that he is no longer capable of making decisions for himself, and we should intervene on his behalf. There’s a clinic in Switzerland we heard about. But as I told you before, I’m just not sure—”

“As you told her when?” Mrs. Reardon asks. “When did you two talk about this?”

“It was just in passing,” I say. “It wasn’t really a conversation.”

“Ah,” she says. “Well, I’m just his mother. Why should I be included?”

A long moment passes. Finally, I say, “You know, all of this takes time to work out. There are so many—”

“We have no time!”

“Elaine,” Mr. Reardon says.

“No! We have no time! That’s the truth! We’re going to sit around here talking about his ‘feelings’ and his ‘options’ and his ‘right to participate in the decision tree,’ and while we’re talking and talking and talking about what to do, he’s going to die! Doesn’t anyone but me understand what’s really happening here?”