I sit down and put my hands over my eyes, rubbing them, hoping that if ] rub hard enough, maybe I can make my way to a different reality. When I open them, I’m still here. I have no choice but to resign myself to it. “When can I release the book?” “I won't be around much longer,” Evelyn says, sitting down on a stool by the island. “Enough with the vagaries, Evelyn. When can I release the book?” Evelyn absentmindedly starts folding an errant napkin that is sitting haphazardly on the counter. Then she looks up at me. “It’s no secret that the gene for breast cancer can be inherited,” she says. “Although if there were any justice in the world, the mother would die of it well before the daughter.” I look at the finer points of Evelyn’s face. I look at the corners of her lips, the edges of her eyes, the direction of her brows. There is very little emotion in any of them. Her face remains as stoic as if she were reading me the paper. “You have breast cancer?” I ask. She nods. “How far along is it?” “Far enough for me to need to hurry up and get this done.” I look away when she looks at me. I’m not sure why. It’s not out of anger, really. It’s out of shame. I feel guilty that so much of me does not feel bad for her. And stupid for the part of me that does. “I saw my daughter go through this,” Evelyn says. “I know what’s ahead of me. It’s important that I get my affairs in order. In addition to finalizing the last copy of my will and making sure Grace is taken care of, I handed over my most-prized gowns to Christie’s. And this .. . this is the last of it. That letter. And this book. You.” “I’m leaving,” I say. “I can’t take any more today.” Evelyn starts to say something, and I stop her. “No,” I say. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Don’t say another goddamn word, OK?”