“If I write this book,” she says, “maybe I’ll say that the best responses I’ve gotten have been from people who were genuine and didn’t edit themselves.” She looks at me. “Like you.” I try to remember what I’d said when Julie told me she was dying. I remember feeling uncomfortable the first time, devastated the second. I ask Julie what she remembers me saying. She smiles. “Both times you said the same thing, and I’ll never forget it, because I wasn’t expecting that from a therapist.” I shake my head. Expecting what? “You spontaneously said, in this quiet, sad voice, ‘Oh, Julie’—which was the
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