We’re in those cheap plastic chairs that perch on tiptoes and threaten to fold in on themselves when you try to move closer to the table or scoot back. They remind me of the stripy chaises and Mom. My focus: pasta salad. I eat half my meal, which is more than I’ve eaten in awhile. “You’ve lost more weight,” Margie says. Her voice is all worry. “A few pounds,” I agree. “No more, okay? You’re thin enough.” “Okay.” I sit carefully back in my wobbly chair, trying to keep it on all four legs. “I spoke with Dr. Pratchett,” Margie says, then waits for me to respond. “He said you might,” I say, hoping these are the right words. I’m not sure what Margie wants. “Does it bother you that I might know what you’re talking about with Dr. Pratchett?” “No.” “Because I want you to be able to talk to him openly. But to help you at home, I need to understand more than you’re willing to share with me right now. Make sense?” “Sure. It doesn’t bother me.”
