They hadn’t made love now in nearly three months. She didn’t feel like it—and, obviously, under the circumstances, John didn’t press. “Hey,” she said, laying her book on the bedside table and taking his hand, “it’s a much better excuse than claiming to have a little headache, isn’t it?”

“You never claimed that,” he replied, smiling, once again grateful it hadn’t touched her sense of humor.

“See, I should have. Then you wouldn’t be asking me so many questions now.”

“Does it hurt a lot?” he asked softly.

“There you go again.”

He stroked her face. “Tell me how it feels.”

This stiff-upper-lip stuff was starting to wear her down. “I guess it feels just about the way I look.”

That needed no elaboration. Although her fears about losing her hair had passed—the two cycles of standard chemo had left it only slightly thinner—she’d never imagined anyone could appear so perpetually fatigued. No matter how much sleep she got, it was never enough to dispel the rings beneath her eyes; they’d become as much a part of her revised face as her nose and lips. Nor, it seemed, was sunlight able anymore to lend her pale, tired features so much as a suggestion of their former color.

“So it doesn’t hurt so much now? There’s no actual pain?”

“Only when I look in the mirror.” She reached to him and took his hand. “Oh, John … I try so hard not to complain. Please let me know if I ever start reminding you of Camille.”

He smiled. “I don’t think there’s much chance of that.”

“But you know what? Lots of times I want to complain, I feel melodramatic.” She paused and made the face she always did when annoyed with herself; only, now it seemed less amused than anguished. “See, listen to me now! Oh, God, let’s talk about something else.”

But, of course, more and more these days, attempts at normal conversation—even when the subject at hand was some fascinating detail of his day—tended to lead back to the same place. A story about the latest secret dispatch from the Middle East peace negotiations would end up being about the alleged medicinal properties of hummus; an anecdote about a recalcitrant congressional leader turned into one about a relative of the legislator who’d been treated at the ACF.

Still, she had no need for concern on this score: the crisis had the opposite of a chilling effect on their bond. Though, even with his wife, John had never been particularly comfortable with emotional exchange, generally giving no more of himself than a situation demanded, now, suddenly, he found himself making excuses to linger at her side; more in the present than perhaps he’d ever been.

“You want me to turn out the light?” he asked. “Probably you should get some sleep.”

“Yes, please.”

He reached over and flicked off the bedside lamp.

“John?” she said tentatively.

“What, my love?”

“You don’t have to spend the night in here.”

“I know that.” He paused. “Are you worried about the calls waking you up?”

He’d never liked to defer; he had a standing order that he was to be awakened with any news deemed by aides to be even marginally important.

“No.” She laughed softly. “I just wanted to make sure you really wanted to. You know how I hate pity.”

“Don’t worry, you don’t inspire it.”

“I worry about embarrassing you. I worry about letting you down.”

He rolled over on his side to face her. “Please, Elizabeth, I’m the one who should be embarrassed, putting you through all this pretense. I hate it. Sometimes I just want to say ‘Screw it!’ ”

“No. I’m managing all right. Just keep me away from long flights of stairs. I’m running out of excuses for why I get winded.”

“You mean more to me than anything, you know that.”

She laughed, but the laugh quickly turned into a cough. “No, I don’t! And in the position you’re in, I shouldn’t!”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek and took her in his arms. “You can’t help yourself, can you?—always with a wiseass remark.”

“Not wiseass, true. I don’t try to fool myself, John, and I don’t resent you for it.”

“What is it, anyway, about the stairs? What does your doctor say?”

“Stillman?” He couldn’t see her face, but the distaste was clear in the way she spoke the name. “Something about the tumor preventing fluid from draining from the lungs, so it fills up the air sacs. Actually, it’s pretty interesting, if it were happening to someone else. I wish I didn’t have to always drag things like that out of him.”

“Elizabeth, he’s the absolute best. Everyone says so.”

“Maybe.”

“No maybe about it. He is the number-one specialist at the leading cancer institute in the world.”

“Okay. But it’s been an education—and not just about air sacs in the lungs.”

“Meaning?”

“When it comes right down to it, they have no idea how to beat something like this. It’s just trial and error. That’s the big secret they keep from the rest of us.”

They lay in silence for a long while, just holding hands. Suddenly he was aware that she was crying.

“Elizabeth?”

“Never mind. It’s just me being stupid again.”

He took her in his arms again, her face damp against his. “You’re thinking about the children?”

She nodded. “It’s so trite. I so much want to be there when they get married. I want to see my grandchildren.” Burying her face against his shoulder, she began to sob in earnest.

“Shhhh,” he comforted, stroking her hair. “It’s going to be all right.”

They both knew it was a lie, of course. But this time, safe in his arms, terrified, she let it pass.