“You didn’t have to,” she said. “When you called Emily on Thanksgiving, the way you felt about her was plain as day. Mom raised her eyebrows while Dad turned to me and said, ‘Already? He’s not even divorced yet.’ ”

Despite everything, I laughed. That was my dad, all right. “I didn’t realize it was so obvious.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, nodding. “I just wish you hadn’t waited until today to bring her by. I look like hell. You should have had us meet right after Costa Rica, when I was still tan.”

I nodded, struck by how normal Marge sounded.

“My bad.”

“I’d like to meet Bodhi, too. Since I’ve heard so much about him.”

“I’m sure you’ll have a chance.”

She twisted the hospital sheet, winding it tight and letting it unfurl. “I’ve been thinking about baby names,” she said. “I bought one of those books, you know? At work, whenever I’m bored, I look through it. I even started highlighting some of them.”

Baby names? Was she really talking about baby names? I could feel pressure behind my eyes and I struggled to get the words out without my voice cracking. “Any favorites?”

“If it’s a boy, I like Josiah. Elliot. Carter. If it’s a girl, I like Meredith and Alexis. Of course, Liz is going to have her own ideas, but I haven’t spoken to her about it yet. It’s still pretty early in the process, so we have plenty of time to make a decision.”

Plenty of time.

Marge must have heard herself because she looked first toward the clock, then the door of the room, which was propped open. Nurses hurried past, going about their duties as if today were no different than any other day. “I wonder when they’re going to finally let me out of here,” she said. “What’s taking them so long? I’ve been here for hours already. Don’t they know I have things to do?”

When I had no answer to that, Marge sighed. “You know I’m going to be okay, right? I mean, I’m not ignoring what happened this morning, but I don’t feel all that bad. I feel a lot better than I did before I left for Costa Rica, in fact. I probably just picked up some parasite while I was down there. Lord only knows what the sanitary standards are like in those kitchens.”

“We’ll see what the doctors say,” I murmured.

“If you see them, tell them to hurry up. I’d rather not waste my whole weekend here.”

“I will.”

Marge continued to wind and unwind the sheet. “London comes back tomorrow, right?”

“She does. I don’t know what time exactly. Early evening, I’d guess.”

“Why don’t you bring London over for dinner with Liz and me this week? You’ve been so busy lately, we haven’t had time for our normal sit-downs.”

Watching her work the sheet, I could feel my throat tightening again. “Dinner sounds great. But none of that Costa Rican food. What with all the parasites, right?”

“Yeah,” she said, looking right at me. “Trust me when I tell you that you don’t want what I have.”

The day crawled by.

Midafternoon. Late afternoon.

Vivian texted, asking if there was any news. I replied that we were still waiting.

Emily texted, asking how I was doing.

Scared to death, I replied.

As dusk approached, the sky began to cloud over. Marge’s hospital room was bathed in flat gray light, and the TV was tuned to Judge Judy, though on mute. The machine monitoring her vitals beeped steadily. A doctor that we hadn’t met came into the room. Though his demeanor was steady, his expression was grim and I already knew what he was going to tell us. He introduced himself as Dr. Kadam Patel, and he was an oncologist. Over his shoulder, in the hallway, I watched as a young girl in a wheelchair was rolled past the room. In her arms was a stuffed animal, a purple pig.

Just as my mother had dreamed.

I went blank, my mind tuning out almost as soon as he began to speak, but I caught various bits and pieces.

Adenocarcinoma… more common in women than men… more likely to occur in younger people… non-small cell… slower growing than other types of lung cancer, but unfortunately, it’s advanced and the CT scan shows that it has metastasized to other parts of the body… both lungs, lymph nodes, bones and her brain… malignant pericardial effusion… stage IV… incurable.

Incurable…

My mom was the first to let out a cry; the plaintive wail of a mother who knows that her child is dying. Liz followed a moment later and my dad took her in his arms. He said nothing, but his lower lip trembled while he squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to block out reality. Marge sat unmoving on the bed. Watching her, I felt as though I would topple over but somehow, I remained upright. Marge kept her gaze fixed on the doctor.

“How long do I have?” she asked, and for the first time that day, I heard fear in her voice.

“It’s impossible to say,” Dr. Patel answered. “Though it’s incurable, it’s treatable. Treatment has improved exponentially in the last ten years. It can not only prolong life, it can alleviate some of the symptoms.”

“How long?” Marge demanded. “With treatment?”

“If we had caught it earlier,” Dr. Patel hedged. “Before it had metastasized —”

“But we didn’t,” Marge said, cutting him off.

Dr. Patel stood a bit straighter. “Again, there’s no way to know exactly. You’re young and in good condition, both of which increase life expectancy.”