It is too hard to keep going with this conversation, so I shift it aside. “How’s the family?”

Paul brightens, pulls a grin, and begins to recite his kids’ achievements.

I don’t have to listen, just nod here and there. I am worn out with worry and travel; it is easier to let him talk and think that I’m an interested stepaunt than to keep up the volley of verbal gunfire. He can never expect me to forgive him, but at least he can relax and chat with me as if we are two strangers meeting on a bus. I’m too tired right now to care. Maybe Paul’s right. Maybe it is ancient history.

“So, where are you staying? Which hotel?”

“Right here at the Hotel Meade. Nonsmoking single couch.”

“That’s no good. Come to my house. I can offer you a bottom bunk.”

“As tempting an offer as that is, I came to be here. I’ve slept on worse couches.”

“I don’t think that Mom can keep this up. This nursing. It’s why we thought you should come.”

I didn’t expect candor and I’m surprised that Paul is so open with the truth that I wasn’t called because I was the daughter; I was called to serve. “Now it makes sense.”

“But for heaven’s sake, you don’t have to sleep on a couch.”

“Thanks. Let’s just see how it goes.” I guess I mean how long it takes, but that seems a weird way to put it. I also don’t say that I’m not likely to stick around too long. I have a life. I know that death comes in its own time, and most likely will take longer than anyone thinks. My father is up and using a toilet, which, to me, proves that the direness of the situation was overstated. So I may not be around for the final curtain. I haven’t come here to be a nurse, just to say good-bye. Not to make peace, but because Candy persuaded me to come, pushing me out the door and into Artie’s rig with those rose-colored words: “So you won’t live to regret it.”

But while I’m here, I’ll help the best I can. I won’t say that I owe it to anyone; I don’t owe anyone anything. I’ll do it because I know how.

Chapter 20

20

Alice and the dog come in from their morning walk. She hangs the leash on one of the back door pegs they use for keys, raincoats, and grocery bags, as if it had always hung there. “He really is a good boy. He never pulls.”