“She was a professor of nursing and worked in Montreal, but after she had surgery, she quit her job and moved home to Greenley, where she grew up. She had to move back in with her mother. She and I were friends from our first day at McGill, when we were just starting out.”

“It’s terrible to lose a good friend,” said Chiyo.

Hazzley added, “I’m so sorry, Addie.”

What had just happened? Her closest friend was dying, not dead. Addie lowered her head, horrified at the mistake, at describing Sybil in the past tense. She could hardly correct herself now, could she? When you lie, quote a distant witness.

“Sounds as if we’ve all dealt with the illnesses of our loved ones—some for short periods, some long,” said Hazzley. “Short or long, the stress of this takes its toll.”

What have I done? Addie asked herself. I didn’t actually say that Sybil has died. Everything else I said was true. If she were only here, in Wilna Creek. But that would be selfish, to move her away from her mother and her family. And Greenley’s hospital does have palliative care, which we don’t have here. She’s going to need that type of care—all too soon. And now the people around this table believe she’s dead.

The others were staring. Had Addie said any of this aloud? She didn’t think so. So many rapid thoughts, like eyelids moving in REM sleep. The way you hear of events flashing before your eyes during your final moments. Was that a myth? She refocused. The people here had lost someone important in their lives. They were present because they wanted to discuss death, feelings, reactions to loss, ways of coping. They were wondering how she was coping.

Some people know when to remain silent, she told herself. Others blather. I’m an internal blatherer. But I’m not invisible.

The dark place behind her eyes suddenly shifted and allowed a flicker of light. She felt her strength quicken, revive. “You know,” she said, “when I’m having difficult moments during my days off, I clean my apartment. Stow my thoughts in some neutral space where I don’t have to deal with them while I push a vacuum around. Sometimes I listen to music while I dust. Put on a CD and turn up the volume. The Emperor Concerto is great for dusting. Keeps my thoughts from dwelling on the mundane or the miserable.”

The others laughed.

“I’m with you,” said Chiyo. “I do the same. But not while listening to classical music. I call up movie soundtracks. Spaghetti westerns.” Ocarina, she was thinking. A Fistful of Dollars. The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. A slow, mesmerizing dance. “I flick a soft rag; dust motes float and settle in the air while I listen. That’s what I do.”

“I stare out the window a lot,” said Tom. “At home and at work. I keep the radio on for company—both places.” He thought of mentioning the black notebook partially filled with poems in the desk drawer at his shop, but he didn’t. He thought of demoted Pluto on the cover of his notebook. He thought of the way he was now writing back to front.