Her mom gasped, and then, realizing it was a joke as Lauren laughed (and coughed), glared at Josh.

“I don’t like to brag,” said Tyler, “but I do have a reputation.”

“I feel neglected,” Lauren said. “I’ve never slept with you, Tyler.”

“Text me,” he said with a wink. “Hold the gauze, you know the drill, and voilà! Get out. Go. Leave me.”

“Maybe he can be your next true love,” Lauren said to Josh.

“I could do a lot worse.”

“It’s not funny,” her mom said. “First, my husband drops dead, and now my daughter is dying.”

“Thanks for the reminder,” Lauren said. “Can we get Thai food? You want to come, Mom?” Because even if her mother was a little black rain cloud, she was still her mother. “Let’s call Steph and see if she can come.” Her mom was better behaved when there was a more functional peer around.

Lauren also found that she’d become inspiration porn . . . that too many people bent over backward to praise her for simply being alive. Her social media accounts were suddenly burgeoning with compliments about her boring photos of food and trees. Mean Debi was the worst. You’re amazing! You can do anything! Keep up the good work! #prayers #LaurenStrong. (Not that she came by or made a casserole or anything.)

Only Jen, Sarah and Asmaa stayed sane . . . Sarah even going so far as to post yawn when Lauren posted yet another picture of the sky at sunset. Lauren appreciated that.

She didn’t want to be known as Dying Lauren or Terribly Sick Lauren. She didn’t want to start a YouTube channel or a foundation (though huge props to those who did, because Lauren would occasionally watch those videos for a lift). She didn’t want to document her illness . . . she wanted to think about living. Yes, IPF was a big part of it now, but there was no way she was going to post pictures of herself on oxygen to “inspire” anyone. To quote the great philosopher, ain’t no one got time for that.

She did start a Twitter account under @NotDeadYet0612 with an avatar of a skeleton smoking a cigarette. The purpose was to document stupid things people said, because if you couldn’t laugh at them, you might become homicidal. She became quite popular, reporting from the trenches.

Stranger at my doctor’s office asked what I have. Her reaction: “Oh, my God, my cousin’s other grandfather? He had the same thing. It was awful. He wasted down to nothing. He didn’t even look human in the end. He reeked of death.”

Me: “That’s so reassuring. Thank you.”

Some dude on a conference call, asking about my cannula: “Well, we’re all dying, really. I could get hit by a bus crossing the street!” How many people actually die this way? Are bus drivers filled with road rage? Why not say “car” or “dump truck”? Poor bus drivers get a bad rap.

Lady in post office when I am innocently mailing a package: “I see that you’re on oxygen. Are you sick?”

Me: “No, I just like the buzz.”

Her: “Can I hug you?’

Me: “No.”

Her: “Let me hug you.”

Me: “You touch me, and I’ll punch you.”

She and Sarah laughed till they cried over that one, and it became their catchphrase . . . let me hug you. Never failed to make them giggle. Asmaa, who was sweeter than both of them put together, never got the joke and hugged Lauren every time she heard the line, which just made it funnier.

So she had a terminal condition. Didn’t everyone? Everyone would die, after all. Lauren’s death was just a little more real than getting hit by a bus.

She could live with that. She was living with that. She didn’t have much choice.

17

Joshua

Month five

July

HE’D STARTED WORKING again, almost every day. Better to do something that might help someone somewhere than watch television. It wasn’t easy to concentrate, and his brain would play small, cruel tricks on him. If he finished this phase of the design or read an article about that subject, Lauren would come back. If he could work for an hour, Lauren would come back. If he was just good enough, time would flow backward, and Lauren would be back. Sometimes he thought he heard her at the door or in the kitchen, and he spooled out the notion. Yes, she was back. No, it wasn’t the AC clicking on. It was his wife. The past four and a half months had been a bad, excruciatingly detailed dream.

One night, he’d set out her favorite mug next to his. Just to see them together again. Just to pretend for a few seconds that she’d be in this kitchen once more. Even if it was her ghost—and he didn’t believe in ghosts. Anything. Anything from her.

There was nothing.

He answered texts and emails and sometimes even the phone. He took Pebbles for a run in the morning, a walk at lunchtime, and, most nights, a romp in the dog park. If a person asked what her name and breed was, he’d answer. Every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon, he went to karate, which was actually pretty fun. Being around five-year-olds with badass attitudes let him escape a little bit. He and Ben resumed their long, rambling walks. Ben had a soft spot for Pebbles and loved throwing her the Frisbee, which Pebbles could catch in midair.

“How are you doing, son?” Ben asked.

“Doing okay.” Somehow, those brief talks helped. He guessed it was just knowing Ben was with him that did the trick. They had never needed a lot of words, after all.

The anger would come in red flashes. He lost his car keys one day and tossed the apartment like a DEA agent looking for meth, knowing as he flipped the couch cushions and slammed drawers and barked out curse words that he was overreacting (and would be the one to clean the mess up later). His car didn’t start one day, and he kicked it so hard it dented. When his shirt got caught against a chain-link fence during a run, he tugged it, tore it, and then ripped the whole shirt off and split it in half, then tossed it in the trash.