"Do not."
"Good comeback."
"You wouldn't know good TV if it bit you in the ass."
Kate smiled, but it was as washed out as her complexion. With her bald head and sunken eyes, she looked impossibly young and fragile.
"Are you getting tired?" Tully said, sitting up. "Maybe we should go to sleep."
"I noticed that you apologized to me on air. In your own way." Her smile expanded. "I mean, without admitting you were a bitch or actually saying the words. You meant that you were sorry."
"Yeah, well, you're on morphine. You probably saw me fly, too."
Kate laughed, but it soon dissolved into coughing.
Tully sat up quickly. "Are you okay?"
"Hardly." She reached for the plastic glass on the table by her bed. Tully leaned over and guided the straw to her mouth. "I started the journal."
"That's great."
"I'll need you to help me remember," she said, putting the glass back. "So much of my life happened with you."
"Seems like our whole lives. God, Katie, we were such babies when we met."
"We're still kids," Katie said softly.
Tully heard the sadness in her friend's voice; it matched her own. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was how young they were. For years they'd teased each other about getting old. "How much have you written?"
"About ten pages." When Tully fell silent, Kate frowned. "You aren't going to demand to read it?"
"I don't want to intrude."
"Don't do that, Tully," Kate said.
"Do what?"
"Treat me as if I'm dying. I need you to be . . . you. It's the only way I remember who I am. Deal?"
"Okay," she said quietly, promising the only thing she had to give: herself. "It's a deal." She had to force a smile and both of them knew it. Some lies, it was obvious, would be unavoidable in the days ahead. "You'll need my input, of course. I was a witness to every important moment of your life. And I have a photographic memory. It's a gift. Like my ability to apply makeup and highlight hair."
Kate laughed. "There's my Tully."
Even with self-regulated pain meds, Kate found leaving the hospital a difficult endeavor. First of all, there was the crowd: her parents, her kids and husband, her aunt and uncle, her brother, and Tully. Second, there was just so much movement—out of bed, into the wheelchair, out of the wheelchair, into the car, out of the car, into Johnny's arms.
He carried her through the comfortable, pretty island house that smelled of scented candles and last night's dinner, just as it always had. He'd made spaghetti last night; she could tell. That meant tomorrow night it would be tacos. His two recipes. She rested her cheek against the soft wool of his sweater.
What will he cook for them when I'm gone?
The question made her draw in a sharp breath, which she forced herself to release slowly. Being home would hurt like this sometimes; so would being with her family. In a strange way, it would have been easier to spend her final days at the hospital, without all these reminders around her.
But easier wasn't the point anymore. Time with her family was what mattered.
Now they were all in the house, scattering like soldiers to their different tasks. Marah had herded the boys into their room to watch television. Mom was busy making casseroles; Dad was probably mowing the lawn. That left Johnny, Tully, and Kate, making their way down the hallway toward the guest room, which had been redecorated for her homecoming.
"The docs wanted you in a hospital bed," Johnny said. "I've got one, too, see? We'll be like Ricky and Lucy in our twin beds."
"Of course." She'd meant to sound matter-of-fact, to simply acknowledge what they both knew: soon she would have trouble sitting up and the bed would help, but her voice betrayed her. "Y-you painted," she said to her husband. The last time she'd seen this room it had been barn-red with white trim and red and blue furniture—a casual, beachy look with lots of painted antique pieces and shells in glass bowls. Now it was pale green, almost celery-colored, with rose accents. Family photos were everywhere, in white porcelain frames.
Tully stepped forward. "Actually, I did it."
"Something to do with shysters," Johnny said.
"Chakras," Tully corrected him. "It's stupid, I'm sure, but . . ." She shrugged. "I did a show on it once. Couldn't hurt."
Johnny carried Kate to her bed and tucked her in. "The bathroom down here is all set up for you. Everything has been installed—railings and a shower seat and all the stuff they recommended. A hospice nurse will be coming by . . ."
She wasn't sure when she closed her eyes. All she knew was that she was sleeping. Somewhere a radio was playing "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" and she could hear people talking in the distance. Then Johnny was kissing her and telling her she was beautiful and talking about the vacations they would someday take.
She awoke with a start. The room around her was dark now; she'd slept through the remaining daylight hours, obviously. Beside her, a eucalyptus-scented candle burned. The darkness lulled her for a moment, made her think she was alone.
Across the room, a shadow moved. Someone breathed.
Kate hit the button on her bed and moved to a sit. "Hey," she said.
"Hey, Mom."
She grew accustomed to the darkness and saw her daughter, sitting in a chair in the corner. Although Marah looked tired, she was so beautiful that Kate felt a cinching in her chest. Being home again made her see everything and everyone with perfect clarity, even in this gray darkness. When she looked at her teenage daughter, with her long black hair kept out of her eyes with little girl barrettes, she glimpsed the whole arc of life—the child she'd been, the girl she was, the woman she'd become.
"Hey, baby girl." She smiled and leaned sideways to turn on the bedside lamp. "But you aren't my baby anymore, are you?"