“More than that, though, there was this kind of aloofness in him. Even when we were alone, I felt continually frustrated trying to reach him, to get to that place. There was never any sense of sureness. Of certainty. Even if he told me over and over that he loved me and seemed to really mean it, you could feel this holding back. He never really gave himself away—not to me, and not to anyone else, either, as far as I know. The irony is that now, when I think he might finally let himself be fully loved, I don’t think I can do it.” She contemplates the floor, then looks up at me, naked faced. “Myra, tell me. When he dies, what will it be like?”

“It will just be him,” I say. “Leaving. I don’t know how else to describe it, really. Unless something dramatic happens, something really fast, you’ll just sort of see him disappear. There’ll be less and less of him, until he’s gone.” If I add that witnessing such a thing can be deeply rewarding, that often times a dying patient becomes a radiant instructor, someone wonderful to be next to, she’ll probably stay. If I tell her it’s unbearably hard, which it also is, she’ll probably not stay.

I look at her, meaning to say that attending someone’s death is really very difficult; not many people can do it. That it’s best to admit it, if you can’t; there’s no blame in that. That it may not even be worth it to do it, because oftentimes the memories you’re left with are so grim. Better to remember him as he was. Better to say good-bye now and go home before the going gets tough. Leave him to the care of his family and professionals like me. Leave him to me. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is, “I think you should try to stay with him for as long as you can. I’ll be here. I can help you.”

“But if he lasts for weeks and weeks …”

“Your work?”

“Oh, no. That’s not a problem. I can work pretty well from anywhere. No, I mean it’s a long time to be here. I can’t ask you to put me up that long. I’d need to get a hotel room.”

“No, you wouldn’t.”

Later, lying in bed, I wonder who has entered my body and made it say these things I don’t mean. I turn onto my left side. Then onto my right. I sit up, rub the back of my neck. Turn on the bedside light and pick up a book. Put the book down and turn out the light.