A Dying Man’s RoomThe room was bright. There was an IV-stand and various pill-bottles on a hospital table that was moved in. I looked around at the many photos, but none was of me. I was removed from the family record, like some out-of-favor apparatchik. I passed around Father Mike as he left, likely to lurk and eavesdrop, to my mother, who hugged me.
“It’s important to him, baby. Tell him you’re not really—”
“I am what I am, Mom.”
“But—”
“I’m not here to fight or to argue. I’ve been led to understand that he had a change of heart about me. Is that not true?”
“We all thought when you saw him, you’d understand, that you’d come around. Why can’t you just do that? For me?”
“That’s what it’s come down to? You want me to lie to him—this is not some phase I’m going through, this is who I a
