She coughs and I taste the bile from her empty stomach and the blood from the ulcers inside her lungs.

She pulls back again.

– Bowl. Bowl.

I get the plastic bowl and hold it in front of her and she heaves a couple times and nothing comes out.

– Fuck. Goddamn fuck.

I put the bowl aside.

– It’s cool, baby.

She turns from me.

– Bullshit. It’s not. It’s not cool. I’m sick. I’m so sick of this.

– You can take it, baby.

– Are you? I can take it? You have no fucking.

She rolls on her back, talks to the ceiling.

– Go away, Joe.

I don’t go away.

She looks at me.

– Goddamn it, if you can’t do something to help me, go away! You think this helps? Standing there, looking at me like that? You think I feel better about what’s happening, having your sorry ass here moping over me? Do something! Fucking do something!

I reach out to touch her.

She slaps my hand.

– Don’t touch me. You said you wanted to take care of me. Then fucking take care of me. Fucker! Fucker! What use are you? I’m sick. I’m fucking dying and you’re standing there. You, you. Always doing things. Your fucking job. Your job, and you can’t help me. All you can do is put more blood in me for this fucking disease to live in. You don’t help. You.

She’s sitting up now, her pajama top slipping off her boney shoulder, showing the pale skin and freckles.

I stand there.

She yanks on the hose in her arm.

– Fuck this. This can’t make me better. Nothing can make me better. You can’t. You can’t.

She throws the dripping needle at me.

– Go do something! Save me, goddamn it! Fucking save me!

The nurse comes in, sees the mess, shakes her head, gets to work.

Evie flops back into the pillows.

– See, this bitch, at least she can do something. She cleans up after me. She brings me crap food I can’t eat. If I could take a shit, she’d wipe my ass for me.