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Show 140 fleshed her light and laughter through nearly all her days; but a pale wax semblance, at once flat and inflated. "It's the medication," Hunt's father said from just behind him. "The medication that they give her for the emphysema, the Pretnisone: It gives a deceptive fullness to her face. But she's down under a hundred pounds," he added. "Jesus," Hunt said. And he knew that there were fragile things, fragile things only, keeping him from crying. "Shit," he said. "Don't let her hear you talk like that," his father said, being his father "I'm sorry," Hunt said and stepped quietly into the room. "She sleeps a lot." It was the fingers and the wrists. So thin! And her skin was dry, and looked bruised everywhere. "Everything," Hunt's father said, his own voice choked. "The slightest thing turns her black and blue. "She's been my life." God it hurt! It hurt to be here. It hurt to see her. It hurt to hear his father's voice tremble and rupture. It hurt to think. It hurt to picture. It hurt to remember or even to breathe. It hurt to see all the goddamn IV tubes, all the tributaries to her arm. "Some days she's wonderful. Some days she's her old self," Hunt's father went on. "Her face is full. She's laughing. She's kidding me - and saying 'Remember the dinner party we had for suchandsuch?' And I . . ." His father's voice broke. Hunt turned and hugged his father, hugged the man tight. But Hunt's father's arms and hands only dangled loosely, awkwardly between them. |