The Ninth Month

by James Patterson, Richard DiLallo

Genres: Psychological Thrillers

Synopsis

Brought to you by Penguin.

One woman is about to become the victim of her own success.

On the surface Emily Atkinson has it all. A successful job, a luxury apartment in New York City and a glamorous life. But then she lands in the hospital with a double diagnosis.

She parties too much... and she's pregnant.

Her nurse and new friend, Betsey, helps Emily recuperate and rediscover morning runs in the park and quiet nights at home.

But as a series of women go missing, Emily's pregnancy becomes decidedly high-risk...

Will she live to see it through?

© James Patterson 2022 (P) Penguin Audio 2022

Release date: August 23, 2022

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

SHE IS NERVOUS. SHE IS LATE. She is pregnant. And at the moment she is trying to run—bobbing and weaving—through the rush-hour crowds in Times Square.

Betsey Brown prides herself on her intelligence and efficiency, but both those talents seem to have left her in the lurch.

Betsey, a top-notch surgical nurse at Renwick Hospital, has just finished six hours assisting at a liver transplant procedure. Just when she thought that the operation was about to wrap, just when she thought that she’d be able to make her appointment with NYPD Detective Joel Tierney, a problem shot up, literally shot up: During the reattachment of the bile ducts one of the adjacent blood vessels began hemorrhaging. It was Betsey Brown who saw the bleeding and quickly handed the necessary clamp to the head surgeon. Betsey didn’t mind that the doctor didn’t thank her for… ohhh… saving a patient’s life. Betsey just wanted to get out of the OR.

A half hour later, mission accomplished. Operation successful. Betsey threw her coat over her bloody hospital scrubs and ran. Now, in her last trimester of pregnancy, her ankles are swollen, her back is burning, and she really, really, really has to pee.

Breathless, sweating, hurting, Betsey falls into a chair in Tierney’s office. Tierney is chowing down on a cold piece of pizza, and he appears slightly amused at the sight of his former high school friend Betsey Brown trying to catch her breath and massage her ankles at the same time.

“We still have taxis here in New York, Betsey. Next time, you should take one,” he says. Despite Tierney’s stab at wit, Betsey’s almost restored her breathing to normal.

“I’m here because I need your help,” she says. “We need to talk.”

“Okay,” says Tierney as he looks directly at Betsey’s belly. “Start talking. But talk fast. Because you look like you’re ready to pop.”

“Could you be any more annoying and cheesy?” Betsey says.

“Didn’t mean to be. I apologize. You know me.”

“I sure do,” she says.

Tierney drops his pizza crust in his wastebasket.

“Listen, Joel. This is really important.”

Tierney nods.

“Okay. Give me the story. What’s your problem?” he asks.

“It’s not my problem… well, it is sort of… but it’s not about me… or us… Not to worry. And Frankie and the kids are fine. It has to do with a friend.”

Tierney’s eyes narrow, and then he speaks.

“Let me take a wild guess.” He pauses and then says, “It has something to do with your friend Emily.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m a detective. Remember? Instincts?”

“Yeah, but, that’s still pretty amazing.”

“You can’t have forgotten that you called me when she had her break-in,” he says.

“And you showed up right away,” says Betsey.

“Just saying. We ran all the info, Detective Scofield talked to the building staff, a few neighbors. We got nothing. So if you’re here to complain, then…”

“You’re right. It is about Emily. But it’s worse, a lot worse,” says Betsey.

“Hit me with it,” says Tierney.

“Emily’s gone missing.”

“How long?”

“Four days. Four days that I know of,” says Betsey.

Tierney stands up and leans across the desk.

“Four days! Why the hell did you wait four days? You must be as crazy as your missing friend is.”

“I kept thinking that she was going to show up,” says Betsey. A pause. Then Betsey speaks with extreme concern in her voice: “I didn’t tell you this before… but Emily thinks that someone has been following her. Do you think it could be that guy?”

“No. I think Emily took a cruise ship to Antarctica. I think aliens came and captured her. For Chrissake, Betsey, of course it could be the guy she thought was following her. Does she have any idea who the guy is?”

“Maybe,” says Betsey.

“Maybe?”

“Well, it could be this guy Mike. She used to buy drugs from him.” Then Betsey adds, “In the old days, when she was using. But anyway. She’s not even sure the guy is the dealer. Emily isn’t in the greatest shape.”

Tierney shakes his head. “Why the hell did you hold off telling me?”

“I’m sorry, Joel.”

“Do me a favor, Bets. If I’m ever missing, get in touch with NYPD before they find my body rotting in an alley in Jersey City.”

Betsey bites her lower lip and says, “Look, Joel. I should have, but I didn’t. And now the situation is what it is…”

“And the situation is screwed up.”

Betsey finds her courage and talks.

“Will you come with me to Emily’s apartment? She gave me a key to the place last month when… You remember. That’s when she said she thought someone was following her… and that’s when…”

Tierney presses one button on his phone.

Thirty seconds later, Betsey is shaking hands with Detective Kalisha Scofield, whom she met once before when she and Joel came over to Betsey’s to investigate a possible break-in. AD Scofield is tall, she’s big, and she’s clearly all business.

When Betsey says, “Good to see you again,” Scofield simply nods. No smile.

“We’re going to do an emergency enter and search,” says Tierney. “Possible MP.”

Betsey’s hands are shaking. Her brain is doing the crazy dance. Why didn’t I call this in earlier? Why didn’t I at least call Joel earlier?

Then movement. Lots of it. Scofield checks her phone. Joel stands up. They’re getting ready to run.

“We’ll call you, Bets,” Tierney says.

“No way. I’m with you,” says Betsey, trying to stand up as quickly and gracefully as she can. “And anyway, I’ve got the apartment key and the code, and the doorman knows me.”

Then… car doors opening. Siren on.

Scofield drives the trio to Emily’s building on the Lower East Side. The doorman has no problem letting them in. He recognizes Betsey. Tierney pushes the key into the Schlage electronic lock.

Betsey gives him the punch-in code for the secondary lock: 0-9-9-1-7-0-1. The number is Emily’s birth date in reverse, October 7, 1990.

Tierney pushes the door open. He quickly turns his head and pushes Betsey and Kalisha away from the door.

“Holy shit!” he yells. “Stand back! This goddamn smell alone could kill you.”

A WOODEN SIGN WITH faded red lettering hangs over the door at my favorite drinking spot. No, it’s not Le Bernardin. No, it’s not Eleven Madison Park. The sign for my favorite place simply says:

The “bar” part is certainly true.

Ted’s is the perfect Lower East Side hangout: a million beautiful liquor bottles standing like a row of chorus girls behind the bartender, an only-in-New-York assortment of terminally hip downtown young folks, along with a just-enough amount of “old timers”—middle-aged bald guys wearing windbreakers, plus one or two middle-aged ladies in cotton print housedresses. The ladies are putting down some Dewar’s before they go home to catch Wheel of Fortune.

Yeah, Ted’s is a wonderland of perfectly mixed cocktails and a long list of beers—from downscale chic Schlitz all the way to upscale chic Sam Adams Utopias.

Now, what about that word grill, which also hangs on the sign at Ted’s? Well, yes, it has a kitchen, but, fair warning, you’d better like your pretzels cold and your burgers well-done.

But nobody really comes for the food. They come for the booze and the bar and, of course, for Ted’s terrific attitude.

I like everything about Ted’s. The location, 2nd Street, just above Houston Street. Coolest neighborhood in the world. (Yes, I said “the world.”)

I like the cheap black-and-white linoleum floor tiles.

I like the sign that says PIANO IN REAR. And because Ted’s has absolutely no piano, sometimes when I’ve had a bit too much to drink (which is not that often) “piano in rear” momentarily sounds like some perverse sexual direction.

I like the photo on the wall of Yankee pitcher Don Larsen being carried off the field after his perfect game in the 1956 World Series.

I like that Larsen’s picture hangs next to a more recent photo: Lady Gaga and St. Vincent standing together out on Avenue B smoking a joint and sharing a slice of pizza.

Yet, as is usually the case, the thing that really makes Ted’s so cool is Ted Burrows himself. When a guy has got a cute Paul Rudd kind of face along with the wiry muscles of a David Beckham, and he can mix a perfect peach daiquiri (Ted’s secret? A dash of orange bitters plus a teaspoon of honey), you’ve got the best bar in Manhattan.

“Is it going to be a Diet Pepsi or a slightly more adult pleasure?” Ted asks me as he slaps a cocktail napkin on the bar. His smile is so adorable.

“In fact,” he adds, “that sparkle in your eyes tells me you may have already had a pop or two before you settled down here, Peaches.”

I should point out that Ted calls his regulars by their usual drink, not by the name on their birth certificates. My usual peach daiquiri means that I’m Peaches. There are a few other regulars who share the same joke—Margarita, Gin Straight Up, Perfect Manhattan, for example—and one or two who might want to change their drink orders. I’m talking to you, Moscow Mule. And you, Mr. Pink Lady.

“I haven’t been any place but my office until now, one hand holding a phone, the other banging away at my laptop.” I’m lying a bit here. I’ve actually been lounging around my apartment, drinking Diet Pepsi and gobbling ibuprofen. (I’ll admit I’m still trying to fully recover from my wild and crazy Las Vegas trip last week.)

“Whatever you want me to believe, I’ll believe,” Ted says, and, okay, I’ll admit it, as Ted shakes my peach daiquiri, I watch his butt for a few pleasantly satisfying seconds.

“You look very nice from the back,” I say to him.

“You look very nice from the back and the front.”

Flirtation between me and Ted, as always, is on. On the other hand, I am thinking that my flimsy, scoop-neck sundress, white with pink and red flowers, does look kind of adorable and, okay, sexy. (Maybe it’s just eye-catching because I’m the only woman in New York today who’s not dressed in black.)

Ted and I are pretty honest with each other. But not honest enough for me to tell him that he guessed right; I did do a teeny-tiny bit of drinking before I arrived at Ted’s. I fueled up a bit at my favorite dive bar, the nearby Library on Avenue A. I guess I thought that a white wine spritzer in a quiet saloon wouldn’t really count as drinking. Anyway, here I am.

Ted is pouring my peach drink into a large, chilled cocktail glass (I told you the place was perfect) when I feel a hand on my shoulder.

“Emily,” says the voice that’s attached to the hand. “Long time, no see.”

I know that voice too well, and I’m really not in the mood to hear it right now.

THAT VOICE BELONGS TO Mike Miller, and the phrase “long time no see” is Mike’s idea of a clever conversation starter.

“If you consider yesterday a long time ago, Mike,” I say, “then I guess it’s true.”

I don’t exactly remember when and where I met Mike Miller. If I went to church on a regular basis, I’d say that church is where I met him, because Mike Miller has the face of an altar boy. He also has the fashion sense of an altar boy: button-down white shirt, blue blazer, baggy chinos, no socks, penny loafers. You’ve met this guy.

On the other hand, most altar boys don’t peddle drugs, and, although Mike claims to be an attorney with a degree from Harvard Law (I’ve never checked, but I should), selling coke and various other mind benders is really what Mike does best.

“How about a snow flurry to go with that drink, Emily?” he asks.

A girl has a better chance of scoring coke in New York City than she does of finding a seat on the subway. But coke is really not my thing. So, saying no isn’t all that hard right at the moment.

“Not even a tiny taste?” Mike asks. “Half a line, on the house.”

Then Ted jumps in. “Okay, Beefeater, your sales pitch is over. We sell booze, burgers, and pretzels here, nothing else.”

Mike’s smart enough not to mess with Ted. Mike holds up the palms of his hands to say, I’m going. I’m going. Then the creep begins walking toward the exit.

I finish my drink. Sweet and icy and fruity and tangy and smooth and… I look at my watch. The digital face says 11:46.

Oops. I forgot to mention. That’s 11:46 a.m., as in 11:46 in the morning. I know I showered and did my makeup this morning. But I’m not remembering if I actually slept. My life and my schedule are relatively confusing.

Okay, maybe one more daiquiri. Ted makes them so well. But first… “

Hey, Mike!” I yell.

Mike Miller stops just as he reaches the door. He turns around, looks at me. I nod, and Mike raises his eyebrows. He walks back over to me.

“I’ve changed my mind,” I say. “There is something you can do for me.”

“Emily, I would do anything for you. You know that.”

“Actually, I do know that,” I say. “I’m a little too lovable for my own good.”

Mike is nodding and smiling. I’m not sure he got the joke.

“Okay. How may I help you, mademoiselle?” he asks.

“I’ve gotta get back to work. And I’m just not feeling it. Have you got an amphetamine in that vault?” I ask.

Mike’s eyes widen.

“You’ve come to the right place, my lady,” he says.

He reaches into the inside vest pocket of his stupid blue blazer. Then he smiles and says, “Emily, I’ve got a lid-popper with your name on it. How many you need?”

“I need about forty of them. But I’ll settle for just one.”

THE HUGE MOLLY THAT Mike Miller sells me must be the amphetamine version of a 7-Eleven Big Gulp. I swallow it, and a shudder goes through me. This feeling is nothing like the reds that I popped when I was at Princeton and had to stay awake to finish a term paper, nothing like the ones that got me through a few deadly boring dinner parties that my folks insisted I attend.

Now even with just one or two drinks inside me I feel myself going from buzz to blotto.

Ted pulls me a nice big glass of ginger ale with a splash of bitters. That’s his way of saying that he knows what I’m going through. Okay. Good. I do have to get back to work, and I do have to deal with my irritating boss and my clients and my colleagues.

My straw and I are playing with the ice cubes in my ginger ale when I have a visitor. A woman—my age, my height, my hair color—stops at my spot. I think she’s on her way to the ladies’ room.

“Can I ask you a question?” she says.

“Nothing hard,” I say. “No state capitals.”

She pauses. She’s confused. I don’t blame her. So am I. Then she continues.

“I was just wondering. What’s the name of that mascara you’re wearing?”

Without even a second’s pause, I say, “I have no idea, ma’am.”

She smiles and says, “Come on. What is it?”

I consider telling her that I’m feeling so strange in my blurry little upper world that even if I knew the brand’s name, I might not be able to enunciate the word. The lady walks away. I think I hear her mumble the word bitch. Too bad she thinks that; I’d have told her if I could only remember.

I look around the room. It’s filling up with people. Lunch-break people. People in neat jeans, people with good haircuts. In other words, people with real jobs, people who care about those jobs.

The air is filled with the smell of broiling burgers and fries. One of Ted’s bartenders, Aviva, has come on. Ted is mostly making cocktails. Aviva is mostly pulling Allagash White on tap.

Suddenly I’m feeling sleepy. The glass of ginger ale feels heavy, and I’m afraid that if I do manage to lift the glass, I won’t be able to find my mouth. My instinct is to rest my head on the bar, like a first grader who stayed up too late the night before. I am, however, somewhat aware that Ted probably doesn’t want anyone snoring on his bar.

In a moment I see Aviva standing before me. She doesn’t look angry. She doesn’t look happy. She simply looks… professional. Yeah, professional. That’s the word. Why I decide to share this opinion with this annoyingly attractive bartender is a mystery to me. But things you think when you’re a wee bit drunk are often a mystery. I speak.

“You look… you look like a real bartender, like a beautiful bartender in a movie or a TV show. Real professional. Like that girl on Cheers. The first girl. Shirley Long.”

“I don’t know that. Is that a movie?” Aviva asks.

“No,” I say, in a voice that even I know is way too loud. “It’s a TV show. You don’t know Cheers?”

She does not answer my question. Instead she says, “Emily, how about you go to the back room and take a little nap. You rest, and I’ll stay here and help Teddy.”

I think I just want to say no, but instead I say, “Teddy? Teddy? When did you start calling him Teddy? I never heard anyone call him that.”

For reasons that I can’t explain (of course), I just want to leave the bar. I must get to the office. I really do have work. I have to return calls and texts and emails. I’m so very busy. And I’m so good at my job. And everyone likes working with me.

I look at the guy sitting next to me, a middle-aged guy, fifty maybe. He’s dressed like a teenager from the fifties. Tight jeans and a white T-shirt and classic Stan Smith sneaks.

“I gotta get back to my office,” I say to him.

“Uh-huh,” he says. Aviva is watching me closely. Then the guy speaks to me.

“It’s Shelley,” he says.

“What?” I say.

I just discovered how to straighten my legs. I am convinced that I am finally standing up.

“The woman on Cheers. The actress, her name is Shelley Long. Not Shirley.”

I don’t mean to be rude, but I only have enough energy to say, “Oh… thanks.”

No time for good-byes. I’m only slightly confused. I head toward the door. I’ve had this wonderful, glorious feeling a million times before. My boozed-up body decides its own direction. My brain is barely involved in my body’s decisions. I am like a mechanical rag doll. I push the door open. It’s not sunny outside, but it sure as hell is bright. I fumble in my pocketbook for my sunglasses. I can’t find them. Maybe I should go back. Maybe I left them in the bar. I turn. But my shoes simply do not move with my feet.

My left shoulder explodes with pain, and just as suddenly it shoots down my left arm. I think the pain might burst through my fingertips. I shake. With pain. With fear. My chest begins to throb with pain, as if some powerful person five times my weight is squeezing me hard from behind. These are symptoms of what? A stroke? A heart attack? Some neurologic catastrophe? Does it matter? One thing is certain, I know I’m going to die.

Again, I try to turn, and then I fall, a five-foot-six woman falling straight down on her face like a piece of wood. I am gone. I am out. I assume that I am dead.

ONE OF MY EYES is working. The other eye sees nothing. I am in a bed somewhere.

This is not good.

Two men who are wearing powder-blue scrubs are standing over me. Three women, I think, are standing with the men. Maybe it’s four women. Have I forgotten how to count? It is a great wall of powder blue. Nurses and doctors and all those eager little residents. Clearly, I’m in a hospital.

This is not good.

I tell myself, Let’s look on the bright side, Emily. At least one thing’s for sure. You’re not dead. Put more accurately, as I can figure by the voices coming from around me: You’re not dead yet.

MALE VOICE 1: So, you’ve ruled out cardio?

MALE VOICE 2: Yeah, sure. Unless we cut her open and see something we don’t like. The echo is good. The first two ECGs are good. The echo confirmed it. The enzymes are all good. The ankle pulse is still very fast.

(I feel hands touching my ankles and legs. Then I hear people reading off a bunch of numbers and then responses.)

MALE VOICE 3: Not terrible.

MALE VOICE 2: Not great, either.

Damn, why did this third guy have to show up to contradict the other guy?

And damn, it turns out that he’s the one my body decides to go with.

Suddenly there is a sharp pain in my chest, a pain so huge that I begin gagging. The back of my head throbs with pain. It feels as if I’m choking, really choking, a car tire is stuck in my throat, and the pain in my head will have to escape through my ears. I want to die, and I may just get my wish. Air. What the hell happened to my air?

Alarms and screeching sirens go off. It’s just as I thought, that crappy little two-pronged plastic plug in my nose is totally useless. Somebody has read my mind. Somebody pulls it out.

MALE VOICE 2: (yelling) Give her a tube!

MALE VOICE 1: (yelling louder) No tube! It’s got to be her heart. Fuck the cardio results. I’m betting it’s the heart.

Then I hear a woman’s voice. It is a calmer, more soothing voice. “Swab,” she says almost softly. Then, only a little louder, she says, “Double swab.” A moment later I feel a sharp stabbing pain just above my breastbone. Then I’m out.

The next time I am conscious—I don’t know how much later—I hear the same woman’s voice. Maybe it’s a few seconds later, maybe a few hours, maybe weeks.

“Ma’am,” the woman says. “It’s all right. It was your heart—it stopped for a moment but we got it going again. Dr. Calvelli is coordinating your recovery. He’s great, one of our best. He’ll be in to see you soon. Everything is going to be…”

My body begins shaking, and the pain that I had in my chest has made a mad rush to my back. I am not nauseated. I am not gagging. Is this what labor feels like? Is this what death feels like?

“Call it!” someone shouts.

A screeching alarm begins. A red light over my bed begins to flash. A voice on a loudspeaker: “Patient emergency! Patient emergency! Patient…”

SURPRISE! THE NEXT DAY arrives, and I am still here.

I am actually a living, breathing part of the world. For all I know, I’m barely living and barely breathing, but here I am in a hospital bed. There are plastic tubes and noisy monitors connected to my arms and my neck. There is a persistent but small amount of pain in my chest. There is a woman in a sort of white pantsuit sitting in a visitor’s chair. The woman in the white suit seems to be studying me as if I were a painting hanging in a museum.

“I see we are wide awake,” the woman says.

Because she uses the plural pronoun we, I am sure that the woman is a nurse. In the next few minutes I learn that she is relentlessly sweet, kind, and cheerful. But her eyes are deep, strong. I’m smart enough to realize that she’s going to be in charge of me, not the other way around. I will come to learn that this woman is the impossible combination of strength and sweetness, muscle and mercy.

“For someone who’s been through what you’ve been through, you are looking excellent,” she says as she straightens my top sheet and blanket.

There is no mirror nearby, so I don’t know for certain how I look. But I’m pretty sure that the word excellent does not apply. Yet my sense is that this is a woman who is pretty much addicted to the truth. Then she speaks again.

“Now, before I prattle on and on, I’ll introduce myself. I’m Betsey Brown. I’m a surgical nurse. If there’s anything you need, just…”

But she won’t be finishing her sentence. We both hear a man’s voice, a voice that sounds both New York City tough yet nice-guy gentle.

“Sorry to interrupt you, but can I come in?”

Both the nurse and I look toward the doorway. Hmmm. I’m thinking that I truly must be alive, because this is one sweet-looking just-tall-enough short guy: longish dark hair, glasses in nerdy black frames, jeans, all topped off with a doctor’s white coat.

“I’m Doctor Calvelli,” he says. “And you are…” He doesn’t know my name. He glances down at his iPad. “And you are Ms. Emily Atkinson, who, I could add, has miraculously survived a heart attack and a severe lung infection.”

“Wow, I did both those things?” I say. Dr. Salvatore (it says so on his ID badge) Calvelli smiles at my little joke.

Dr. Calvelli (who in my mind has already become “Dr. Sal”) looks at Betsey Brown and then says, “Is it my imagination or did I see you listed for renal TP this morning, Betsey?”

“I am so talented that I can be in two or three places at once,” Nurse Brown says. Then she adds, “I’ll say good-bye so you can talk to Ms. Atkinson privately.”

“No, please stay,” I say. “That way, when the doctor leaves and I can’t remember anything he told me, I’ll be able to ask you.”

MY BUDDY DR. SAL pulls up a chair, and my buddy Nurse Betsey stands at the foot of my bed.

But I can sense that although this scenario has all the trappings of a children’s story (Dr. Sal and Nurse Betsey Help Emily Get Better), this is going to be something serious. My guess is confirmed as I watch the doctor’s sweet little smile transform into a sort of blank-faced seriousness.

“So, Emily,” he begins, “I’m the doctor who took care of you when they brought you in yesterday. And, to put it mildly, it was touch-and-go, as we say, from the moment you arrived… unconscious. To begin with, you were having a heart attack. You had a blockage in one artery and a thickening of the aorta wall. It was necess…”

I really think I’m being helpful when I interrupt and say, “My father and my grandfather both had bypass procedures, three arteries each…”

“Okay. Fine. That’s helpful to know,” he says, “but the tests show that your coronary problem—which could very well be hereditary—was exacerbated by alcohol and drugs.”

My self-defense mechanism kicks right in.

“Like I said, it’s got to be hereditary. But I’ll be honest. I do have one or two drinks every day. I admit it, and I occasionally do some recreational weed. So there you go.”

Calvelli is listening to me, but I can see he’s not buying it. Or he doesn’t care. Or (most likely) he’s heard this song a million times before. Betsey Brown remains looking on, but she is looking on quite seriously. Calvelli continues.

“Our tests show that your blood alcohol was point-two-five. That’s severe intoxication. Much higher than that, you might not still be alive and breathing.”

And speaking of breathing, what Calvelli says next is almost as frightening as the cardiac info.

“You also presented with a serious lung infection.”

“Imagine that,” I say, but, wow, this flirtatious-funny approach of mine is not working with Dr. Sal. If anything, my act may actually be pissing him off.

“Lung infection? It’s a big bad day for me if I even share one Marlboro Light with a friend.” There is a dead silence in the room. So I jump right in.

“I was at a nasty little party the other night. And you know the old saying, ‘If you do coke or crack at a party, it’s not really doing drugs.’”

“My instincts tell me that you know this is serious, Ms. Atkinson.”

Why am I not listening? Why are the doctor’s comments not registering for me? What the hell is wrong with me? Other than heart disease and a lung infection?

Calvelli stands up.

“I don’t want to give a sermon. I’m a doctor, not a preacher. But the fact is, Ms. Atkinson, that there’s the truth we tell ourselves and others, and then… well, there’s the actual truth.”

I say nothing, but, damn it, I feel my eyes welling with tears. Holding the tears back is making my chest hurt worse. And I know my hair is greasy. And I know I’m lying like a five-year-old.

I cannot keep the tears inside of me. I dab at my eyes with the top of the bedsheet. I do the best I can at taking a deep breath. Then I say, “Truth or not, what are we going to do about all this? The heart? The lung?”

Betsey walks from the front of my bed to the side of my bed. She takes my hand in hers.

“For the lung infection, all I can do . . .