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Show 149 "Yes, she has." "I mean as a person." "I mean that too." "We get along now." Hunt could barely speak. He felt the weight of the book, the gift for his mother, in his hand. "She loves you." His mother's eyes flooded. Her face washed. Hunt took a kleenex from its dispenser and blotted his mother's face, gently, lightly. "But Dad js^ feeding you enough?" "We're fine. You know -- he always rises to any new adventure. I think he's got a new Chinese place in Cushing Square on for tomorrow night. We'll be . . ." "Hunt: 'Let's not talk about food, please. Do you mind?" "No: Fine." His father had said she was taking in 300 calories at most each day. You can't survive on that, he'd said. She has to eat. She has to get her appetite back. Can you imagine Mother . . . hating food? A nurse came in. "Mrs. Hunt?" she asked. "Good morning," Hunt's mother smiled. "I need to draw arterial blood," the nurse said. Hunt watched. "Good luck," his mother grimmaced, under the smile she was trying to hold, knowing how much trouble the other nurses and the fourth-year students had had, getting a purchase on her arteries. She steeled herself. Hunt placed a hand on his mother's shoulder while the young girl, three times, fished the needle in and failed to hold and enter the artery. "I guess |