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Byline: Ann Patchett
About three weeks after Lucy Grealy died, people started asking if
I was feeling better. "Your voice sounds a little better today," they would say. "Are you feeling a little better?" By sounding better I suppose they meant I was no longer walking through my house howling like a wolf, but the answer was still no. Lucy was my best friend for 20 years. We were both 39. It had been three weeks. I was not better. I was, for the most part, in bed, having hours-long phone conversations with her other close friends. In different states far away from mine they were in their own beds. We would talk until I fell asleep, the phone still pressed ...