The doctor says, “Forgive me for being blunt,” but he doesn’t seem to Viv the sort of doctor who needs forgiveness in order to be blunt. “I can relocate her to a hospice,” he says, “but don’t know that there’s much point, is there?”
“I don’t know,” Viv says, you tell me. Sheba hasn’t moved from her place by the woman’s bed, she hasn’t stopped stroking the woman’s arm. The girl is the calmest Viv has seen her; it’s terrifying. Viv looks at Molly visibly bobbing on her sea of delirium and says, “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s slipping away,” the doctor snaps, then, looking at the little girl, softens. “She’s slipping away,” he says again.
“But what’s she dying of?”
“She’s dying of dying. It may have been coming on a long time, but there’s no way to know that,” and he adds, “Have you made arrangements for her daughter?”
Viv says, “I’m her mother.”
“How’s that?” says the doctor.
Viv starts to repeat herself but stops.