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about having said that, but it’s over and done. I can’t take it back.
    “Tell me what’s going on,” said Mom.
    I looked at her closely. I thought she seemed a bit more alert than usual. Her eyes had opened and her voice seemed stronger.
    “What’s going on?”
    “Yes,” said Mom. “In your life. How are you and Dawn getting along these days? How is Ducky? What re you working on in school?”
    I settled in on Mom’s bed for a talk. We hadn’t had one in awhile [sic]. This was nice.
    “Dawn and I are friends again. But I guess you knew that. I mean, from talking to Dawn. It’s like before anything happened. Like old times.”
    “That’s nice,” said Mom.
    “Mm-hm. And Ducky is good. He was here a few minutes ago, but he didn’t come in.”
    “That’s okay.”
    “Mom, I didn’t tell you that Ducky and I had a fight. A big one. But we made up. Just now.
    And I’m really glad.”
    “What was the fight about?”
    “Oh, it’s a long story.”
    I didn’t feel like telling Mom the story. Not because she wouldn’t understand, but just because I wanted to talk about other things. It was so nice to be sitting here sharing stuff with her. We hadn’t done that in a long, long time. She hadn’t felt well enough. Did she actually feel better now? I had to know.
    “Mom? You look a little better today.”
    Mom smiled apologetically. “Well, that’s nice, honey. Thank you for saying so.”
    “But — ?”
    “But … I’m in a lot of pain.” I must have looked confused because she said, “The doctor gave me a new pain medication and right after I take it I feel great for a little while.”
    “Oh.”
    Disappointment.
    10:48 P.M.
    Continuing after a phone call from Ducky …
    I have seen Mom in all sorts of states over the past year or so. I have seen her bald. I have seen her barfing from the chemo. I have seen her so tired that reaching for a glass wears her out. I have seen her looking so lifeless I thought she had died. I look at this newest Mom. She seems a little better, and now I learn that’s because she’s actually worse. She’s in so much pain that she’s on super-strength medication that makes her feel better for a while, then drops her back into some abyss of misery I can’t comprehend or imagine.
    I decided to take advantage of Mom’s drug-induced condition to have a real talk with her, though.
    “Mom,” I said, “tell me about when I was a baby.” I swear, I do not know where that came from.
    It sounds like something an eight-year-old would say. But the words fell out of my mouth.
    I think Mom was as startled by them as I was. “What?” she said.
    “When I was a baby, your baby, what was I like?”
    “Well …” Mom searched for words. “You were sunny. Your personality, I mean, I think we would have nicknamed you Sunny even if your name wasn’t Sunshine. You smiled all the time, and everything made you laugh, even things that might have frightened other babies.”
    “Like what?”
    “Like thunder or a big dog or being taken to a strange place. Some babies would have cried. But you would look at us and laugh. We were delighted. Mostly because you were so delighted.”
    (God. I’m looking at myself in the mirror right now and I do not see a delightful, sunny person.
    I see someone dressed in black jeans and nasty-looking black boots, a black T-shirt, and black jewelry. My hair is dirty, and I hardly ever smile anymore.)
    “You were a great baby,” Mom went on. “The best. Ideal. Like a baby out of a fairy tale. Your dad and I were in love with each other and in love with you. Sometimes we would say, ‘How can two people be so lucky? We lead charmed lives.’ ”
    I marveled that Mom could say this. Does she still think she has led a charmed life?
    “How come you and Dad never had any other kids?” I asked.
    Mom didn’t answer right away. “We weren’t able to,” she said at last. “We wanted other children, because we liked you so much. We thought, ‘If all