My mother is back, pacing in circles like a caged animal. I know what she’s working up to—the final chapter, the long goodbye. She wants to say her piece. Then she can escape back to Hawaii and drink herself to death.

Outside, more fans have gathered. We are in the final act. Chants of “Jackie, Jackie,” rise from the parking lot. I worry they’ll disturb the other patients.

“Go home!” I want to scream at them. “Go home!” But it’s too late. They’ll never go home; I’m under contract. Fame is a gift that keeps on giving long after your blood runs dry. Ask the Jimmys. Morrison Hendrix and Dean. Ask Princess Di.

Merilee’s shoulders jump at the sound of the door opening. It is Emme. She asks my mother if she is okay and if she needs anything. I’m irritated by Emme’s interest in my mother. I want to report her, turn her in, tell Emme my side of the story, extol the horrors of Merilee. I want a warm blanket. My feet rubbed. Emme pours Merilee a glass of water from the pitcher next to my bed. “That’s mine!” I want to yell. “I’ll decide who gets water here.” Emme touches her on the shoulder and goes back out the heavy door. I console myself that she’s just doing her job. Nurses can’t pick and choose who they are nice to. Besides, she has no way of knowing what I feel. If she did, she would take my side, back me up, and throw that paper cup of water in Merilee’s face.

No. She wouldn’t. Not my Emme.

Emme is a real nurse. It is her calling to tend to wounds. And like it or not, when it comes to being wounded, my mother, with her shaking, sweaty hands kneading her pocketbook and breath coming in little hiccups, gives me a run for my money.

Merilee takes a few short sips of water, makes her way over, and sits on the wicker chair. She rests for a moment, then undoes the top button of her blouse, takes a Kleenex from under the cuff, and dips it in the cup. She wrings out the soggy tissue and presses it to her chest, moving the tissue up around the back of her neck. Gradually, her breathing steadies.