Yet it was Matthew, her son, who seemed to be the one dying. One Sunday evening after he had logged in twelve-plus hours of continuous sleep, anger forced her across the threshold into his hovel of a room. Matthew twisted his pale round face away from the blue light of the television, arched an eyebrow, and like a demented Charlie Brown, he said, “What are you doing?”

Margo jerked back. Her son’s movement’s, in the ghostly light of the TV, looked sickeningly macabre—the combination of a cartoon and a ventriloquist’s dummy act; the Rod Serling version of “Peanuts.”

She regained her composure and said, “What does it look like? What do I ever do, except pick up after you?” Her voice was hoarse and she had to sag to one knee as she hacked off a series of painful dry coughs. To Matthew’s tender sensibilities it seemed that a crew of Northwest lumberjacks were ripping through California redwoods with seven-horsepower Husqvarna chain saws. He knew that if she didn’t leave soon, he would awaken fully, long before his body rhythm was prepared for anything so hideous as consciousness. His mother continued to cough with one hand poised on her very tender lower back. The last thing she needed to do was throw out her back.

Finally Matthew effected a sit-up and turned on her, “Goddamn it! Do you always, without fail, have to come crashing in here like some deranged fiend when I’m trying to sleep?”

A back spasm stabbed Mrs. Billis and she was seized by a cramp in her foot. She had to hobble upright so she could put weight on the foot. The doctor told her the cramps had to do with a potassium imbalance or something. And the back pain! She thought that with all the morphine she was taking it was unfair that she would suffer back pain or any pain at all! The foot cramp eased but she took a few tentative steps to be sure. “All you do is sleep,” she said.

Sensing weakness, Matthew boomed, “Baloney! I’ve been sending out résumés and you know it.” His round cartoon mouth twisted into an “O” of hatred as he spit out these last words. Leonardo couldn’t have drawn a more perfect circle than those formed by Matthew’s pale lips.

Margo made three attempts to clear her throat before she said, “If you think sending out résumés is going to get you anywhere, buster—you’re crazy. Nobody reads them. When are you going to get a job, dammit? I’ve totally had it with you.” She brought her fist to her mouth and coughed.