Not the surgery, not the radiation, not the chemotherapy, nor the discussion of bone marrow transplants, nor the recent mention of amputation of Bett’s leg had made Dilly feel as if her mother’s L.E. should be lowered. Until this morning it had been impossible for Dilly to project any end to her mother’s life other than that of a quiet falling to sleep sometime when Bett was ninety or more. When the occasional thought had come to her of how irrational it was constantly to adjust others’ life spans and yet keep her mother’s the same, Dilly had simply waved them away. She didn’t care whether her thoughts seemed irrational, she knew she was right. Her mother would live a long life. It was as simple as that. In her thinking Dilly always skipped over the small selfish link which made it important that her mother’s life be long. She was her mother’s daughter. Of the four children, she was sure she most resembled Bett in body, genetic code, spirit and mind. In Dilly’s unacknowledged thinking, if her mother were to live a long life, she, Dilly, would be assured of many more years.
