voice than sheâd wanted, âYour electric razor is still in my bathroom.â
âOh,â he said.
For a moment, she remained silent and fought off an urge to weep. It stung to see this man who had giggled and tumbled in her bed now hold himself at a distance. And when she was sure she would not cry, she laughed. âIt was just a fling, right?â Her voice sounded fake, and though she knew this pretense made her ridiculous, she couldnât help herself.
âSure,â Charles said. âI just wanted to see you again.â He put his head down, and for a moment Kate thought he might cry. But when he looked up again, he managed to smile briefly. âIt was nice,â he said.
He wanted her to agree. He wanted her to say something equally fake and cheerful, but she didnât.
Melissa came back to her, as sheâd said she would. In the late afternoons, she opened her books on the kitchen table and worked while Kate prepared dinner. One afternoon, Melissa brought dozens ofcollege brochures home from school, and Kate and Melissa paged through them, talking about whether a large or a small college experience would suit Melissa best. Did she want a school with a Greek system? âThatâs not for me,â Melissa said. And Kate, who didnât want to be too influential, was inwardly glad that her daughter would not be a sorority girl. It was far too early to be so absorbed by these questions, but Kate was grateful for any opportunity to talk about her daughterâs future, and Melissa seemed to know this and indulged her.
In December, Kateâs double vision worsened and she finally left the bank for good. Her doctor recommended that she tape her left eye shut and wear a patch. And so this small part of Kate was already dead. Once or twice a week, she would suffer headaches that were bad enough for morphine. But for the most part, dying was surprisingly painless. More than anything else, it was exhausting, so exhausting that merely standing up was a struggle. At times, death seemed more mundane than frightening. The drawn-out brightness of the mornings, the length of midday and of the late afternoons when she lay on the couch alone waiting for Melissa to come home from school left her fatigued and drowsy.
Kate still had her bursts of energy, though theyâd last now for hours rather than days. When a blizzard descended on Ann Arbor, Kate and Melissa put on their fattest winter coats, gloves, and hats, and walked for more than an hour in the new snow.
Melissa and Kate almost never spoke of what was happeningâand what would soon happenâuntil one afternoon when Kate was especially sick. She lay over the couch, groggy from painkillers and covered in blankets. Kate had been discussing as lucidly as she could the virtues of Carleton College, while trying to hide the fact that this was the school she would choose for her daughter, when Melissa stopped her with a blunt question. âDoes it hurt?â
Kate looked at Melissa for a moment. âYouâre sure you want to know?â
Melissa nodded.
âSometimes,â she said. âBut not as much as I thought it would.â
âBut it hurts.â
âYes.â
âWill it hurt when it happens?â Melissa wasnât looking at her. She was paging through a glossy college brochure.
âNo,â Kate said. âI wonât be awake.â
Melissa shook her head. âI donât think I want to be there then. If thatâs OK.â
For an instant, Kate wanted to beg her daughter to be there, to stay with her, above all, at that moment. Instead, she nodded. âIâll be asleep. I wonât know whoâs there.â
âIs it OK?â Melissa asked.
âItâs OK,â Kate said.
It was raining out when someone knocked. The day nurse had just gone home, and Kate had to summon all her energy to rise from the couch and answer the door. A cold in-suck of air filled the