I struggled in vain for a snappy comeback, and in the silence, Marge poked my ribs with her feet. “Lighten up,” she said. “No doom and gloom allowed in this house.” She peeked over her shoulder. “Was Liz okay?” she finally whispered.

“I guess so,” I answered. “We didn’t really talk.”

“You should,” she said. “She’s actually a very nice person.”

“Are you done?” I asked with a halfhearted smile. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

“A lot better than yesterday,” she answered. “Which reminds me – can I take London roller skating this weekend?”

“You want to take London roller skating?” My disbelief must have shown, because Marge bristled.

“Believe it or not, I refuse to let all of you keep me cooped up in the house, and I think London will enjoy it. I know I will.”

Left unsaid was that it would likely be something that London would remember forever, since it would be her first time. “When was the last time you even went roller skating?”

“What do you care? It’s not like I’ve forgotten how to do it. If you recall, I used to be pretty good.”

It’s not that, I thought to myself. I’m wondering whether you’ll have the strength. I looked away toward the screen, convinced that Marge was in denial. In the freeze-frame image on the television, Julia Roberts was in a bar, confronting her roommate about money. Though I hadn’t seen the movie in years, I could still recall the film practically scene by scene. “Okay,” I said. “But only if you hit play so we can watch the movie.”

“You want to waste your morning watching Pretty Woman? Instead of earning money?”

“It’s my life,” I said.

“Well, just don’t make it a habit, okay? You’re welcome to come by after work, but not before. I’ll probably start needing my beauty rest.”

“Just hit the play button already.”

She lifted her eyebrow slightly and pointed the remote. “I just started it a few minutes ago.”

“I know.”

“We used to watch this together.”

“I know,” I said again. “Just like I also know you’ve always had a crush on Julia Roberts.”

She laughed as the movie started up again, and for the next couple of hours, my sister and I watched the movie, calling out lines and sharing a running commentary, just like when we were kids.

After the movie, Marge went to the bedroom to take a nap while Liz and I drank coffee in the kitchen.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do,” Liz admitted, with the expression of someone overtaken by events she can hardly comprehend. “In Costa Rica, she seemed fine. She barely coughed and it was hard for me to keep up with her. I don’t understand how she could seem so healthy a month ago, and now…” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I canceled my appointments today and tomorrow, but Marge basically forbade me from taking a leave of absence. She wants me to continue working at least a few days a week, insisting that your mom can fill in as needed. That we should work out a schedule, or whatever.” When she raised her eyes, they were full of pain. “It’s like she doesn’t want me around.”

“It’s not that,” I said, covering her hand with my own. “She loves you. You know that.”

“Then why is she essentially telling me to stay away? Why can’t she understand that I just want to be with her as much as possible, for as long as possible?”

She squeezed my hand in return as she stared out the window, unseeing.

“She still wants to go to New York next week,” she finally added.

“You’re not seriously thinking of going, are you?” Roller skating was one thing, but a sightseeing trip to one of the busiest cities in the world?

“I don’t know what to do. She asked the doctor about it last night, and he said that if she was feeling up to it, there was no reason for her not to go since it’s between chemo sessions. But how can I go and not think to myself, This will be the last time Marge sees this, or, This will be Marge’s only chance to do that that?”

She was looking to me for an answer, but I knew there wasn’t anything I could say.

Most of her questions, after all, were the same as my own, and I had no answers, either.

On Tuesday morning, the first day of December, I got a text from Marge, asking London and me to dinner that night. It was a subtle way of telling me not to swing by the house before that.

The thought depressed me, and after dropping London off at school, I arranged to meet Emily for coffee. In jeans and a thick turtleneck sweater, she looked as fresh-faced and youthful as a college student.

“You look tired,” she observed. “Are you holding up okay?”

“I’m surviving,” I answered, pushing a weary hand through my hair. “I’m sorry for not calling the last couple of days.”

She raised her hands immediately. “Don’t be. I can’t imagine what you’re going through. I’ve been worried about you.”

For whatever reason, her words were a comfort. “Thanks, Em,” I said. “That means a lot to me.”

“Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” she said, touching my arm.

For the next hour I rambled on, my cup of coffee gradually cooling to room temperature. Listening to myself, I realized that since Emily had come back into my life, I’d been careening from one emotional catastrophe to the next. Even as she held me later, I found myself marveling that she was still willing to put up with me.