She said, "I don't need makeup, Charles," and got out of the chair.

From her place in the makeup chair, Tully stared at herself. It was the first time, in all her years spent in seats like this, that she'd really noticed how huge the mirrors were. No wonder it was so easy for a celebrity to get lost in her own reflection.

He stared at her, gape-mouthed, his own seriously overstyled hair falling across his face. "You're kidding me, right? You're on in fifteen."

"Let them see me as I am."

She walked around the studio, her fiefdom, watching her employees scurry around, running to and fro to make sure everything went off without a hitch, and that was no mean feat, given that she'd called everyone at three yesterday to change the theme of today's live show. She knew that several of her producers and bookers had worked late into the night to put it together. She herself had been up until almost two in the morning, doing research. She'd faxed and e-mailed dozens of the best oncologists in the world. She'd spent hours on the phone, relaying every bit of information on Kate's case that she'd been able to glean. Every specialist said the same thing.

The theme music started, and she walked onto her stage.

There was nothing Tully could do. No amount of fame or success or money would help her now. For the first time in years, she felt ordinary. Small.

"Welcome to The Girlfriend Hour," she said as she always did, but then something went wrong, just stopped. She looked at her audience and saw strangers. It was an odd and disconcerting moment. For most of her life, she'd sought approval from crowds like this, and their unconditional support had buoyed her.

She sat down on the edge of the stage. "You're all thinking I'm skinnier in person and older. And that I'm not as pretty as you'd thought."

They noticed something was wrong and fell silent.

"I'm not wearing makeup."

The audience laughed nervously.

But, for once, she had something important to say.

"I'm not fishing for compliments. I'm just… tired." She glanced around. "You have been my friends for a long time. You write to me, e-mail me, come to my events when I'm in your city, and I've always appreciated it. In return, I've given you my honest self or as close as I can without some kind of medication. Do you remember a show from a few years ago, when my best friend, Kate Ryan, was ambushed on this very stage? By me?"

They burst into applause.

"Well, Kate has breast cancer."

"It's an extremely rare kind of cancer that starts not with a lump, but with a rash or a discoloration. Kate's family physician diagnosed it as a bug bite and prescribed antibiotics. Unfortunately, this happens to too many women, especially younger women. It's called inflammatory breast cancer and it can be aggressive and all too deadly. By the time Kate was diagnosed, it was already too late."

There was a nervous rumbling, a shaking and nodding of heads.

A murmur of sympathy.

Tully looked up through a blur of tears. "Dr. Hilary Carleton is here to talk about inflammatory breast cancer, and to educate you about the symptoms: the rashes, the localized heat, the discolorations, the puckered skin, and the inverted nipples, to name a few. She'll remind us all that we need to look for more than just lumps. The doctor has brought a woman with her -- Merrilee Comber from Des Moines, Iowa -- who first noticed a small scaly patch near her left nipple…"

There wasn't a sound from the audience.

She heard a gasp following her announcement; this time the sound came from backstage.

The show rolled forward as they all did, on the wheels of Tully's personality. She interviewed guests and showed pictures and reminded her audience of millions not only to get yearly mammograms but to watch for any changes in their breasts. At the end of her broadcast, instead of her usual We'll talk tomorrow tagline, she looked into the camera and said, "Katie, you're the best friend I have and the best mother I know. Except for Mrs. M., who is good, too." Then she smiled at her audience and said simply: "This will be my last show for a long while. I'm taking time off to be with Katie. As all of you would."

"This show is, after all, just that: a show. Real life is with friends and family, and as an old friend pointed out to me a while ago: I do have a family. And she needs me now." She unclipped her microphone, dropped it to the floor, and left the stage.

On Kate's last night in the hospital, Tully convinced Johnny to take the kids home, and she took his place in the room's other bed. She pushed the bed across the linoleum floor until it practically butted up to Katie's. "I brought you a tape of my last show."

"I'll have you know that was poignant and powerful. And important."

"You think that's true of everything you do."

"Good comeback."

"Do not."

"Ha ha." Tully put the tape in the machine and hit play, then crawled into her bed. Like a pair of eighth-grade girls at a slumber party, they watched the taped broadcast.

"Are you getting tired?" Tully said, sitting up. "Maybe we should go to sleep."

Kate laughed, but it soon dissolved into coughing.

Kate smiled, but it was as washed out as her complexion. With her bald head and sunken eyes, she looked impossibly young and fragile.

"You wouldn't know good TV if it bit you in the ass."

When it was over, Kate turned to her. "I'm glad to see you'll still use me to bump up your ratings."

"I noticed that you apologized to me on air. In your own way." Her smile expanded. "I mean, without admitting you were a bitch or actually saying the words. You meant that you were sorry."

"Yeah, well, you're on morphine. You probably saw me fly, too."

"You would think that's what a dying woman wanted to watch."

"Treat me as if I'm dying. I need you to be… you. It's the only way I remember who I am. Deal?"

"Seems like our whole lives. God, Katie, we were such babies when we met."

"Do what?"

"I don't want to intrude."

"About ten pages." When Tully fell silent, Kate frowned. "You aren't going to demand to read it?"

Tully heard the sadness in her friend's voice; it matched her own. The last thing she wanted to think about right now was how young they were. For years they'd teased each other about getting old. "How much have you written?"

"Okay," she said quietly, promising the only thing she had to give: herself. "It's a deal." She had to force a smile and both of them knew it. Some lies, it was obvious, would be unavoidable in the days ahead. "You'll need my input, of course. I was a witness to every important moment of your life. And I have a photographic memory. It's a gift. Like my ability to apply makeup and highlight hair."

"We're still kids," Katie said softly.

"Hardly." She reached for the plastic glass on the table by her bed. Tully leaned over and guided the straw to her mouth. "I started the journal."

"That's great."

"Don't do that, Tully," Kate said.

"I'll need you to help me remember," she said, putting the glass back. "So much of my life happened with you."

Tully sat up quickly. "Are you okay?"

Even with self-regulated pain meds, Kate found leaving the hospital a difficult endeavor. First of all, there was the crowd: her parents, her kids and husband, her aunt and uncle, her brother, and Tully. Second, there was just so much movement -- out of bed, into the wheelchair, out of the wheelchair, into the car, out of the car, into Johnny's arms.

Kate laughed. "There's my Tully."

What will he cook for them when I'm gone?

The question made her draw in a sharp breath, which she forced herself to release slowly. Being home would hurt like this sometimes; so would being with her family. In a strange way, it would have been easier to spend her final days at the hospital, without all these reminders around her.

He carried her through the comfortable, pretty island house that smelled of scented candles and last night's dinner, just as it always had. He'd made spaghetti last night; she could tell. That meant tomorrow night it would be tacos. His two recipes. She rested her cheek against the soft wool of his sweater.

Now they were all in the house, scattering like soldiers to their different tasks. Marah had herded the boys into their room to watch television. Mom was busy making casseroles; Dad was probably mowing the lawn. That left Johnny, Tully, and Kate, making their way down the hallway toward the guest room, which had been redecorated for her homecoming.

But easier wasn't the point anymore. Time with her family was what mattered.

"The docs wanted you in a hospital bed," Johnny said. "I've got one, too, see? We'll be like Ricky and Lucy in our twin beds."

"Of course." She'd meant to sound matter-of-fact, to simply acknowledge what they both knew: soon she would have trouble sitting up and the bed would help, but her voice betrayed her. "Y-you painted," she said to her husband. The last time she'd seen this room it had been barn-red with white trim and red and blue furniture -- a casual, beachy look with lots of painted antique pieces and shells in glass bowls. Now it was pale green, almost celery-colored, with rose accents. Family photos were everywhere, in white porcelain frames.

"Chakras," Tully corrected him. "It's stupid, I'm sure, but…" She shrugged. "I did a show on it once. Couldn't hurt."

"Something to do with shysters," Johnny said.

Johnny carried Kate to her bed and tucked her in. "The bathroom down here is all set up for you. Everything has been installed -- railings and a shower seat and all the stuff they recommended. A hospice nurse will be coming by…"

She wasn't sure when she closed her eyes. All she knew was that she was sleeping. Somewhere a radio was playing "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)" and she could hear people talking in the distance. Then Johnny was kissing her and telling her she was beautiful and talking about the vacations they would someday take.

Tully stepped forward. "Actually, I did it."

She awoke with a start. The room around her was dark now; she'd slept through the remaining daylight hours, obviously. Beside her, a eucalyptus-scented candle burned. The darkness lulled her for a moment, made her think she was alone.

Across the room, a shadow moved. Someone breathed.

Kate hit the button on her bed and moved to a sit. "Hey," she said.

"Hey, baby girl." She smiled and leaned sideways to turn on the bedside lamp. "But you aren't my baby anymore, are you?"

Marah stood up and moved forward, twisting her hands together. For all of her grown-up beauty, the fear in her eyes made her look ten years old again.

"Hey, Mom."

Kate tried to figure out what she should say. She knew how much Marah wanted everything to be normal, but it simply wasn't. From now on the words they said to each other would be weighted, remembered. That was a simple fact of life. Or of death.

She grew accustomed to the darkness and saw her daughter, sitting in a chair in the corner. Although Marah looked tired, she was so beautiful that Kate felt a cinching in her chest. Being home again made her see everything and everyone with perfect clarity, even in this gray darkness. When she looked at her teenage daughter, with her long black hair kept out of her eyes with little girl barrettes, she glimpsed the whole arc of life -- the child she'd been, the girl she was, the woman she'd become.

"I was a bitch to grandma, too. That's what teen girls do: rag on their mothers. And your Aunt Tully was a bitch to everyone."

Kate had waited years for this moment, actually dreamed of it in the days when she and Marah had been at war; now she saw it from a distance and knew that those battles were just ordinary life -- a girl trying to grow up and a mother trying to hang on. She'd give anything for another fight, actually; it would mean they had time.

"I've been mean to you," Marah said.

Marah made a sound that was half snort, half laughter, and pure relief. "I won't tell her you said that."

Kate could have held on forever, that was how good it felt. For years, Marah's hugs had been perfunctory at best, or a reward for getting her way. This was the real thing. When Marah drew back she was crying. "Remember when you used to dance with me?"

"Believe me, honey, it will come as no surprise to her. And I want you to know something: I'm proud of your big personality and spirit. It will take you far in this life." On those last words, she saw her daughter's eyes fill with tears. Kate opened her arms and Marah leaned down to her, pulling her into a fierce embrace.

"None of that," Kate said. "Put down the bed rail and sit by me."

"When you were really little, I'd hold on and twirl you around until you giggled. Once I did it so long you threw up all over me."

Marah struggled with the rail, but finally got it down. She climbed into the bed and pulled her knees up.

Marah sighed. Some habits were in the teen DNA; the disappointed sigh, it seemed, simply couldn't be overcome, not even by cancer. "Okay."

Kate stroked her daughter's hair, knowing she should say something profound here, something that would be remembered, but nothing extraordinary came to her. "Did you apply for a summer job at the theater?"

Marah laughed at that. "He's totally hot, if that's what you mean. He asked me to the junior prom. Can I go?"

"I'm not gonna work this summer. I'll be home."

"You can't put your life on hold, honey," Kate said quietly. "That's not how this is going to work. You said a summer job would help you get into USC anyway."

"We shouldn't have stopped," Marah said. "I shouldn't have, I mean."

"Of course you can. But you'll have a curfew."

"How's James?" Kate asked.

"I'm into Tyler now."

"And is he a nice boy?"

Kate worked to keep her voice level, to imply that this was simply an ordinary teen/parent talk and not a glimpse of the rocky future. "The USC drama school is the best around."

"I got the lead in the summer play," Marah said after a while. "I wasn't going to try out because you were sick, but Daddy said I should."

Their conversation drifted into other ports. For the next hour, they just talked. Not about It, the big thing on the horizon and how it would change them all. Instead they talked about boys and writing and the movies that were out.

Marah shrugged, looked away. "I decided to go to UW, like you and Aunt Tully."

"I don't want to talk about college," Marah said, and Kate let it go for now.

"I'm glad you did. I know you'll be amazing."

"You don't want me that far away."

Marah launched into a long monologue about the play, the costumes, and her part. "I can't wait for you to see it." Her eyes widened in realization of what she'd said, the subject she'd unintentionally broached. She slid off the bed, looking desperate to change the subject. "I'm sorry."

That was true. Kate had gone out of her way to tell her defiant daughter that California was too far away and that drama was not a smart major.

"Of course."

Kate reached up and touched her cheek. "It's okay. I'll be there."

"Are we going to the North Pole?"

"Will you trust me?"

Tully helped maneuver Kate into the wheelchair and wrapped her in blankets.

"I love you, too."

"We're going outside," Tully answered, opening the French doors that led out to the deck. "Are you warm enough?"

It opened a moment later, so fast Kate barely had time to wipe her eyes before she heard Tully say, "I've got a plan."

"I love you, Mom."

Marah wiped her eyes and bolted out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her.

Marah stared down at her. They both knew it could end up being a broken promise. "Remember when I was in middle school and Ashley stopped being my friend and I didn't know why?"

"You took me out to lunch and it was like we were friends."

Kate laughed, grateful to be reminded that life could still be funny and surprising, even now. "You always do."

"To my everlasting ruination, yes."

Kate swallowed hard, tasting the bitterness of tears in the back of her throat. "We've always been friends, Marah. Even when we didn't know it."

"I'm sweating. Grab that pouch off the nightstand, will you?"

The yard on this cool June night was stunningly, unexpectedly beautiful. Stars blanketed the sky and cast pinpricks of light onto the jet-black Sound. A full moon hung poised above the glittering distant city lights. The grassy lawn rolled down toward the water. Blue moonlight illuminated a trail of toys and bikes left on the side of the wide hard-packed dirt path that led to the beach.

Tully grabbed the pouch, dropped it in Kate's lap, and then took control of the wheelchair.

"I can't wait forever."

Tully maneuvered her off the deck, down a wide wooden ramp that was a very new addition; then she paused. "Close your eyes."

"It's dark out, Tully. I hardly need --"

"I do not throw tantrums. Now close your eyes and put your arms out from your sides, like an airplane's wings."

Kate closed her eyes and extended her arms.

Kate laughed. "Fine. I'm doing it so you don't throw one of your tantrums."

Tully pushed the wheelchair over the bumpy bit of grass. There, at the lip of the slow hill that rolled down to the beach, she paused. "We're kids again," she whispered into Kate's ear. "It's the seventies and we've just sneaked out of your house and gotten our bikes." She began to push the chair forward; it went slowly, bumping over the uneven grass, dipping in potholes, and still Tully talked. "We're on Summer Hill, riding without our hands, laughing like crazy people, thinking we're invincible."

Kate felt the breeze along her bare head, tugging at her ears, making her eyes water. She could smell the evergreen trees and rich, black earth. She put her head back and laughed. For a moment, just a heartbeat really, she was a kid again, on Firefly Lane with her best friend beside her, believing she could fly.

Tully helped her into one of the beach chairs, and then sat down beside her.

When the ride was over and they were on the beach, she opened her eyes and looked up at Tully. In that moment, that one poignant smile, she remembered everything about them. The starlight looked like fireflies, falling down around them.

"Yeah, you're a real drama-free zone." Grinning at her own wit, Kate dug into the purple pouch on her lap and pulled out a fat white doobie. At Tully's awestruck expression, Kate laughed and lit up. "I have a prescription."

They sat side by side, as they'd done so often in the past, talking about nothing that mattered, this and that.

"No, thanks. I wouldn't change places with Marah for the world. All that angst and drama."

Kate glanced back at the house, saw that no one was on the deck, and leaned toward Tully, whispering, "Do you really want to feel like a kid again?"

They passed it back and forth and kept talking, giggling. They were so caught up in then that neither of them heard footsteps coming up behind them.

The sweet, strangely old-fashioned scent of marijuana mingled with the tangy sea air. A cloud of smoke darted between them and disappeared.

"I turn my back on you girls for ten minutes and you're smoking pot." Mrs. Mularkey stood there, dressed in faded jeans and a sweatshirt from the nineties -- maybe even the eighties -- her snow-white hair in a lopsided, scrunchied ponytail. "You know that leads to worse things, don't you? Like the crack or LSD."

Tully tried not to laugh; she really did. "Just say no to crack."

"You are totally bogarting the joint," Tully said, and they both laughed again. Just that word -- bogart -- sent them spiraling back to the seventies.

Mrs. M. pulled up another Adirondack chair and positioned it beside Kate. Then she sat down and angled toward her.

"That's a lesson I tried to teach Marah in choosing her pants," Kate said, giggling.

"Mom!"

"Don't tell my mom," Kate said.

For a moment they all sat there, staring at one another while smoke drifted into the air.

"Well?" Mrs. M. finally said. "I taught you to share, didn't I?"

Kate leaned back in her wheelchair, grinning loopily up at her husband. Cast in the pale and distant light from the hallway, wearing his drugstore bifocals and an old Rolling Stones T-shirt, he looked like a hip professor. "I hope you've come to join the party."

At one o'clock in the morning they were in the kitchen raiding the refrigerator when Johnny walked in and noticed the pile of junk food on the counter. "Someone has been smoking pot."

"Oh," Mrs. M. said. "That, too."

At that, her mom and Tully burst out laughing.

"You knew about that?" Tully said.

Mrs. M. waved her hand. "You girls from the seventies think you're so cool. Let me tell you, I was around for the sixties, and you've got nothing on me." She took the joint and put it in her mouth, taking a long, deep drag, holding it, and blowing it out. "Hell, Katie, how do you think I got through the teen years when my two girls were sneaking out of the house at night and riding their bikes in the dark?"

Kate laughed. "You said it was booze that got you through."

He scooped her into his arms, said goodnight to everyone, and carried her to their new room. She hung on tightly, her face buried in the crook of his neck, and smelled the last hint of aftershave he'd put on this morning. It was the cheap stuff the kids gave him every Christmas.

He moved toward her, bent down, and whispered, "How about a private party?"

In the bathroom, he helped her to the toilet and let himself be her crutch as she brushed her teeth and washed her face. By the time she was dressed for bed, she was exhausted. She hobbled slowly across the room, clutching Johnny's arm. Halfway there, he swept her up again and carried her to bed, tucking her in. "I don't know how I can sleep without you in bed with me," she said.

She put her arms around his neck. "You read my mind."

"I'm right there. Ten feet away. If you need me in the night, just yell."

She touched his face. "I always need you. You know that."

His face crumpled at that; she saw the toll her cancer had taken on him. He looked old. "And I need you." He leaned down and kissed her forehead.

That scared her more than it should have; the forehead kiss was for old people and strangers. She grabbed his hand, said desperately, "I won't break."

Slowly, still looking at her, he kissed her lips, and for a glorious moment, time and tomorrow fell away. It was just them; when he drew back, she felt colder.

"Goodnight, Katie," he said at last, and turned away from her.

If only there was something they could say; words that would ease them over this bumpy road.

"'Night," she whispered back, watching him go to his own bed.