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fourteen. She heard loud music in the background: Jennifer; Blondie—“Dreaming, dreaming is free.” And then the sounds of her youngest child, Ernest, imitating an airplane. She was grateful for the noise, for the chance to quiet them with her arrival.
    “What’s for dinner?” Roy asked.
    “Nothing,” Mrs. Harrington answered, “unless Jennifer cleans up like she promised. Jennifer!”
    “Ma,” Ernest said, flying into the kitchen, “the party’s tonight, right? Timmy’s gonna be there, right?”
    “Right,” she said. He was her youngest child. His nose was plugged with cotton because it had been bleeding.
    Her daughter came in, sucking a Starburst. She had on a pink blouse Mrs. Harrington didn’t much care for. “How was it?” she asked, beginning to scrub the pots.
    “Fine,” said Mrs. Harrington.
    “What’s for dinner?” Roy asked again.
    “Chicken. Broiled chicken.”
    “Again?”
    “Yes,” Mrs. Harrington said, remembering the days before when chicken hadn’t mattered. Those days took on a new luxury, a warmth to match Christmas, in this light—the four of them, eating, innocent.
    “Can I make some noodles?” Roy asked.
    “Noodles!” Ernest shouted.
    “As long as you make them,” Jennifer said.
    Roy stuck out his chest in a mimicking gesture.
    “I’ll make them, I’ll make them. In a few minutes,” he said.
    The boys left the room.
    “Dad called,” Jennifer said.
    “Was he at home?”
    “He and Sandy are in Missoula, Montana.”
    “Ha,” said Mrs. Harrington. “One minute in Trinidad, the next in Missoula, Montana.”
    “He asked how you were.”
    “And what did you tell him?”
    “The truth,” said Jennifer.
    “And what might that be?” asked Mrs. Harrington.
    “Fine.”
    “Oh.” Mrs. Harrington melted butter in a saucepan, for basting.
    “Are you looking forward to the party tonight?” Mrs. Harrington asked.
    “Yes,” Jennifer said. “As long as there are some kids my age.”
     
    Occasional moments it came back to her, and she had to hold on to keep from fainting. Such as when she was sitting on the toilet, in her green bathrobe, among the plants, her panty hose and underpants around her knees. Suddenly the horror swept through her again, because in the last six months the simple act of defecation had been so severely obstructed by the disease—something pushing against the intestine.
    She held the edges of the toilet with her hands. Pushed. She tried to imagine she was caught in ice, frozen, surrounded by glacial cold, and inside, only numb.
    But then, looking at the bathroom cabinet—the rows of pills, the box with the enema, the mouthpiece to keep her from grinding her teeth (fit into her mouth like a handkerchief stuffed in there by a rapist)—it came back to her, all of it.
     
    Roy tossed the noodles with butter and cheese; Jennifer sliced the chicken. A smell of things roasting, rich with herbs, warmed the kitchen.
    “Niffer, is there more cheese?”
    “Check the pantry.”
    “I’d get it if I could reach,” Ernest said.
    Their mother came in. “Looks like you’ve got everything under control,” she said.
    “I put paprika on the chicken,” Jennifer said.
    “I helped with dessert,” Ernest said.
    “It’s true, he helped me operate the blender.”
    Mrs. Harrington set the table, laid out familiar pieces of stainless steel. One plate was chipped.
    “Rat tart!” Roy was shrieking in a high imitation of a feminine voice. He was recounting something he had seen on television to his sister. She was laughing as she tossed salad. Ernest rolled on the floor, gasping, as if he were being tickled. Mrs. Harrington smiled.
    They sat down to dinner.
    Food made its way around the table—the bowl of noodles, the chicken, the salad. Everyone ate silently for a few minutes, in huge mouthfuls. “Eat more slowly,” Mrs. Harrington said.
    She wondered where they’d be today if, indeed, she had died. After all, in those frantic first weeks, she had