The Privileges_ A Novel Part 12

She hadn't brought anything to read, and there was too much cloud cover even for a look out the window. She supposed that this was a time when one might naturally think about the past. Up to now she'd been able to keep herself moving and thus hover above whatever it was that she should be feeling. But going over her father's failings, their little moments of disconnected joy-this seemed too much like eulogizing him, hurrying him into the grave, and she resisted it. Instead she found herself wondering what was the last really great advance, in terms of speed, in human transportation. The jet engine? What was that, a hundred years ago? Why did it take just as long to get from New York to Florida now as it had before she was born? What kind of sense did that make? But if she was thinking of it now, chances were excellent others had already been thinking about it for a while: work was being done somewhere, somebody needed an angel.

Dawn had found her a decent hotel in Fort Myers, and Cynthia went there first to drop her bags and take a quick shower. She tried not to hurry, because hurrying seemed like bad luck somehow, or an absence of faith; her cell sat on the dresser as she changed, and she avoided staring at it just as she might have if someone were watching her. She called the concierge up to her room to tell him that she would need a car and driver on call at all times during her stay, which would be indefinite; but it turned out Dawn had called ahead and arranged for all that too. Cynthia's driver was a man as old as her father, a Cuban named Herman with a crewcut and a neck whose folds were unevenly browned. Herman was unfailingly polite but he had a real meanness in his eye. She thought he was probably ex-military. He never spoke first. He wore a suit jacket over a short-sleeved shirt, and she imagined that when he got home after work every day, the first thing he did was throw that jacket on the floor, and his wife would pick it up and hang it for him.

Florida. It really was a blight. Maybe that's why old people a.s.sembled here-having to leave it behind wouldn't seem like such a bad deal. She stared out the back of the limo at the six-lane roads and the shopping plazas, the endless construction, the high walls and dimly visible golf courses, as if life on a golf course were so desirable that too direct a look at it would sear your eyes somehow. They were still in the middle of the whole car-infested h.e.l.lscape-somehow she'd imagined they wouldn't be-when she felt Herman slow down, and they turned left past a gas station with a Krispy Kreme inside it, and another two hundred yards past that was the Silverberg Hospice of South Florida.

She'd never had any reason to see the inside of a hospice before and had only a dim idea what went on in there. Partly in fear, partly out of a superst.i.tion that it was important to continue acting as if she had all the time in the world, she walked in a sort of dream languor down the long corridor to the nurses' desk, her heart banging, and from what she could observe it was basically a hospital that didn't smell like a hospital. Also it was quiet, and less crowded, and only one story high. Also it was staffed by people who were clearly angels of some sort, drably luminous avatars of selflessness. She was ambivalent about this. She could not be expected to integrate with these people. She was hoping that at least one of them would feel as scared and selfish and inadequate as she did, that maybe there was someone who was only working here as a condition of his community-service sentence and would form a bond with her and maybe give her a slug from the bottle he kept in his locker just to get through the day without freaking out completely. But no. Some stout woman in a nurse's outfit that could almost have been worn as a Hawaiian shirt actually came out from behind the desk to greet her before she'd even reached the end of the hallway. Somehow the woman's very informality was scary too, as if civility were one of the pretentious earthly comforts Cynthia was apparently supposed to have checked at the door.

"You're Charlie's daughter," she said. "I could see it a mile away. I'm Marilyn."

"h.e.l.lo," Cynthia said. She wanted to turn and run back up the hallway to Herman, to jump in the back seat of his car and see, in the rearview mirror, his disappointed frown.

"Your dad's sleeping at the moment," Marilyn said, "but I'll take you in to see him. He is a charmer, that one."

She took Cynthia's hand and led her down the hallway; and Cynthia, a grown woman, a woman who ran a major philanthropic foundation, with a staff for both business and household, a woman who had dedicated her life to good causes all over the world, actually caught herself pulling backward slightly, like a child, on that hand as they walked through her father's door. It was like a fantasy hospital room, like the secret room deep within a normal hospital that only the man who'd endowed it would ever be allowed to use. It was huge and well furnished, with a high, gabled ceiling where a large fan turned slowly and noiselessly. The lights were off, and the blinds were about three-quarters shut; the walls had a bluish tinge but it was too dark for her to tell whether they were actually painted blue or not. There was a dresser along one wall, on top of which was a portable stereo and a stack of CDs. At the room's far end, in the soothing gloom that was like the gloom not deep underwater but just a foot or two below the surface, there were some monitors on either side of the bed. All of them were turned off. The bed itself seemed gigantic, proportioned like a regular-size bed would be to a child. After a minute she could make out his head lying on the pillow. There were railings on either side, and a mountainous comforter that certainly didn't look like hospital-issue. It might have been something he'd brought from home. She wouldn't know. It was so quiet that suddenly it struck her, as in a dream, that everyone else was just waiting for her to realize what they knew, that her father had already died. She turned around but Marilyn had left the room.

In the darkness she would have to get quite close to his face to really see it and she wasn't prepared to do that yet. Through the blinds to the left of the bed she could just make out a small lake: plainly man-made and perfunctory-seeming, a kind of trope of serenity, in spite of which a few ducks had come to paddle in its shallows, and on a rock on its far bank a cormorant held its wings spread to dry them. The lake's symmetry was unlovely and it seemed squeezed into a s.p.a.ce too small for it, like the fruit of some design compromise or maybe the sentimental whim of whoever endowed this place, which the contractors had no choice but to shrug their shoulders and carry out. Marilyn came back into the room behind her carrying a jar of moisturizer and a Snapple iced tea with a straw in it.

"So that's the last thing a lot of people see," Cynthia whispered to her, still looking out the window.

"Who knows what they see," she said kindly. "Anyway, your father's friend spends a lot of time looking at it."

And only then did Cynthia notice that to the left of the dresser there was a door-oversize, so that through it could pa.s.s a wheelchair or maybe even the great bed itself-that led to an enclosed veranda, where it would be possible, at least, to feel the breeze and the sun, and to hear something, even if it was very likely just the sound of traffic and construction. Sitting in one of the two chairs out there, smoking a cigarette, was Irene Ball. Cynthia couldn't see much more than the back of her head, which was coiffed and blond almost to the point of whiteness. Her legs were crossed, and a huarache hung as still as an icicle from her toes.

Beyond the lake was a strip of trees probably meant to hint at forestlike depths, even though the highway was just on the other side of it. Or maybe a golf course. She thought it was the highway, though. She'd lost her bearings a little bit when they turned into the driveway.

As quietly as possible-not wanting to wake him, she told herself-Cynthia sat down in one of the chairs that had been pulled up near the head of the huge bed. It was probably there because that's where Irene liked to sit. Her father's mouth hung open, and when she tilted her head forward a bit she could hear the arrhythmic catch of his breath. She started to cry when she saw how he looked: starving, thin-haired, his skin spotted. But she also felt she would be happy to stay like this for a while, if not indefinitely. She wasn't ready to let him go, but she didn't exactly want him to wake up either, because anyone as weak as this was very likely to need something, and how would she know what he needed? How would she know how to give it to him? She'd come all the way down here and all she was really good for was to ask for help from someone else. She wished the bed, or the room, or the place itself, was unsatisfactory in some way she could see, so that she could inquire nicely or pitch a fit or even just donate some money and cause it to be improved. But everything here seemed perfectly suited to its purpose. His old head was like some vandalized monument and she resisted the urge to reach out and stroke it. I'm here, she said silently to him. I made it in time. Outside, the smoke from Irene's cigarette rose and rose until it blunted itself on the roof of the veranda. She hadn't lifted it to her mouth in a while.

Holding the grease-spotted bags and balancing a stiff cardboard drink holder with several types of soda in it, Jonas rang the bell at 236 with his elbow, then rang it again, but no one came to the door and he couldn't hear anyone moving around inside. The street behind him was narrowed by two lines of parked cars but nothing anywhere seemed to be moving. When he walked around to the side of the house to see if there was a window he might discreetly look through, he noticed a flight of exterior stairs that led to an entrance on the second floor. That had to be it, he thought; he climbed the stairs and, rather than knock with his foot, called through the door that he had brought the Arby's. A second later the door opened inward and Jonas stepped inside.

No one was there in front of him, but he was aware of being peeked at through the wedge of s.p.a.ce between the open door and its hinges. He took another step or two forward. Though he could see opposite him a tiny hallway that must have led to a bedroom and a bathroom, Novak's home was mostly one square living room, which would have been dark, since it faced alleys on two sides, were it not for the fact that there were at least twice as many lamps as were necessary for a room that size. All of them were turned on. The effect was compounded by the fact that the walls were freshly painted in a kind of skull-frying white. Pieces of paper were taped over the windows. The odor inside the room was such that Jonas had to make an effort not to flinch.

Novak closed the door behind him and grabbed the food out of his hands. There was a small, grimy-looking kitchenette off to their right and Novak emptied out the bag on the counter in there, unwrapping each item and checking carefully, in the case of the sandwiches, underneath the bun. He lifted the cover off each soda, stuck his finger in it, and then poured it down the sink. Jonas cleared his throat.

"Joseph?" he said. "I'm Jonas."

"That's going to be confusing," Novak said, and started eating a roast beef sandwich with some kind of cheese on it. Jonas felt his own surprise reflected in Novak's stare and realized that each was taken aback to see how young the other one was. Novak, though he was well on his way to baldness, still looked no older than about twenty-five.

"Why did you bring all this food?" Novak said. "This is way too much. n.o.body else is coming, right?"

"Just me. I just wasn't sure what you liked, so I got a sampling."

"A what?" Novak said. He scowled. "You're here to steal from me."

"No. Absolutely not. Like I said on the phone, I'm kind of a fan of yours. I went to a fair in Chicago and some of your drawings were hanging on the wall there. I thought they were really beautiful. Did you know that people as far away as Chicago think you're a great artist?" He could hear himself talking as if Novak were a child, but how else was he supposed to handle it? How did you know what aspect of him you were speaking to?

"You don't know what you're talking about," Novak said.

"I will pay you a lot of money for your art, if you're willing to sell it. But I'm not going to steal anything from you. I promise. Why, do you think other people have been stealing from you?"

"Do you think other people have been stealing from you?" Novak repeated, licking his fingers.

"Like your brother, maybe?"

"Like your brother, maybe?"

He said these things that seemed sarcastic or childish or angry but the tone of his voice didn't really change significantly, nor did the look on his face. The sandwich got the lion's share of his attention. He wore gla.s.ses with clear plastic frames, and what hair he had was so fair as to be almost invisible, like a baby's hair; his pale skin was still touched by acne. Most remarkably, though Jonas was uncomfortable even noticing it, was that these features sat on a head that was so small he thought he could have palmed it like a cantaloupe. Novak put a handful of french fries in his mouth and then went over to the door and locked it.

"I don't like other people seeing my drawings," he said.

That's what makes them so worth seeing, Jonas thought, but instead he said, "I can understand that. It's private. What do you usually do with a drawing after you finish it?"

"I don't know."

"How often does your brother come to visit?"

"I don't know."

Jonas stopped trying to make eye contact with him; he felt the need to make his own presence less provocative somehow. As his eyes grew used to the overpowering lighting, he thought he picked something up from the walls themselves, something other than just the shocking white. He took a few steps forward and saw, or thought he saw, the ghost of a face.

"Do you draw on the walls sometimes?" he asked. Novak reacted as if he'd been poked, jumping up and walking toward the papered-over window, lacing his fingers on top of his head. "Only sometimes," he said. "Not that much. She just painted again. She was really mad. I only do it if I'm out of paper and can't go out, when I'm not feeling good."

"When you're not not feeling good?" Jonas said. No reply. "Does drawing make you feel better?" No reply. He felt like he was burying himself deeper but he had to keep going until he hit on the right question to ask. "What makes you feel like doing it?" he said. feeling good?" Jonas said. No reply. "Does drawing make you feel better?" No reply. He felt like he was burying himself deeper but he had to keep going until he hit on the right question to ask. "What makes you feel like doing it?" he said.

"I don't know," Novak said, pacing now.

The wall drawings were an interesting idea but Jonas's first thought was that of course there would be no way to get them out of the apartment itself. Unless he came back with a camera. But right now it was hard to imagine Novak ever letting him back in here again. "Joseph," he said, "you know, if you like, I would be happy to give you some more paper so you don't run out. I could buy a lot of it for you. Is that something you'd like?"

"I don't know," Novak said.

"You don't know? But then you could draw all you wanted, and you wouldn't have to worry about her"-he didn't know who he was referring to: Novak's landlord, he a.s.sumed, unless it was his mother-"getting mad about the walls."

"She said she'd throw me out," Novak said.

"Right, so this way you could keep drawing and not have to worry about that. What do you like to draw with most?"

"Sharpies," Novak said miserably. He stopped pacing in front of the papered-over window, with his back to Jonas.

"Sharpies cost money too, right? I could get you all of those you wanted. You could draw whenever you felt like it without getting into trouble. Wouldn't you like that?"

"I don't know," he said.

It could have been the "I don't know" of a three-year-old, just a conversation stopper; anyway, Jonas chose not to hear it. "Really?" he said. "Then why do you do it?"

"I don't know," Novak said, and turned around, and started walking forward; and Jonas, when he saw the expression on his face, took a step back toward where he thought the door was. "I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know I don't know." Their eyes met, and for one incredible moment he knew they were wishing the exact same thing at the same time, which was that Jonas had never come here; and then Jonas started a little too casually toward Novak's front door, but before he could figure which of the two locks to unlock, something hard, harder than a fist anyway, connected with the back of his head. He had never really been hit before, not ever, his whole life long. Everything went white, as if his eyes had rolled all the way around, and it couldn't have been more than a few seconds later that he opened his eyes and was looking up at Novak sitting on a stool in the kitchenette, eating another one of the cold Arby's sandwiches, and looking very worried.

Time, of course, would not stand still in the way Cynthia wished it to, and so eventually the door to the veranda opened and Irene came back squinting into the darkened room. The change in light was such that Irene didn't seem to see her right away. Cynthia didn't say anything for fear of waking her father, though she was unsure why, when she had rushed down here precisely because his death was imminent, she should now be placing such value on his sleep. Then Irene began gesturing with her thumb, like a hitchhiker, and Cynthia understood that she was suggesting the two of them go out into the hallway.

They shook hands. Cynthia put her age at about sixty; she appeared younger than that, but she had the look of a woman who was older than she looked. She smelled like cigarettes. Her hair had that sculpted s.e.xagenarian appearance Cynthia had become familiar with through her time on the charity circuit. She was almost a head shorter too. Her skin was amazingly fair; how could you live in Florida, Cynthia wondered, and have skin that looked like that? Did she never go outside?

"Oh, I'm so excited to finally meet you," Irene said. "Charlie talks about you all the time. He's so proud of you and your husband, and all the success you've had." Cynthia, with no similar civility to offer in return because she had had no notion of this person's existence until a few days ago, smiled weakly. She could see already that Irene was the sort of woman who wore every emotion, no matter how fleeting, on her face, and so it became clear that she had been antic.i.p.ating a more expansive Cynthia, as if there were already a bond there, as if this were a long-awaited reunion rather than a meeting of total strangers. "Anyway," she said, "part of the reason I wanted to talk to you out of the room is that there are some things you may want to be prepared for before Charlie wakes up."

"What is that?" Cynthia said. There was something about this moment, about Irene's status as an intermediary between Cynthia and what was happening to her, about the spectacular presumption of her kindness, that was threatening to reveal itself as unbearable. Irene closed her big eyes, giving Cynthia a look at her horrifying blue eye shadow, and sighed.

"So at Charlie's request they've taken him off every type of medication except pain management. One of the side effects of that is that his blood pressure has dropped so low that it's affecting the blood flow to his brain, and so he's showing some signs of dementia. Nothing big-sometimes he doesn't know where he is, and sometimes he thinks he's somewhere else-but he's in and out of it, and it can be kind of scary, especially if you're not expecting it. He's been sick a long time but still, it's happened so fast. Part of it is going off the medication but really it's amazing how fast he slipped physically once he'd made the decision to let go. Amazing to me, at least. Marilyn says that it happens that way all the time."

She finally found the Kleenex she'd been fishing around for in her bag. Nurses and other personnel moved around them with perfect impa.s.sive grace as Irene stood there crying in the middle of the hallway. The fact that you never saw them look the least bit disconcerted or surprised should have been soothing but instead Cynthia felt a little undermined by it.

"Anyway," Irene went on, "I'm sorry to drop that on you first thing, but when I saw you sitting there beside the bed, I didn't want you to be too upset if it happened, or if he didn't know right away who you were. I'm sorry for the circ.u.mstances but it really is such a privilege to meet you. I'm really looking forward to us getting to know each other. It's never too late, right?"

"What have you signed?" Cynthia said. Her sudden curiosity about this surely could have waited, but Cynthia felt a strong, almost fearful impulse to keep things on a certain officious level. "Here at the hospice, I mean. If he's not sure where he is they must have needed somebody to sign some consent for this or that."

"Charlie signed everything. He was still perfectly lucid. They only stopped the medication after he was admitted."

"It's not that I don't take your word for all this," Cynthia said. "But are there any actual doctors here during the day? Or is it all just nurses and priests and whatnot? Because I wouldn't mind speaking to an actual medical professional at this-"

But then, she saw, or rather felt, that one of the nurses who slid so un.o.btrusively behind her back had gone into her father's room. "Good afternoon, Charlie," Cynthia heard her say. "You have some visitors here. Is it okay if I turn a light on?"

Cynthia spun and hurried back through the door, just as the nurse snapped on the lamp beside the bed. She had implored herself over and over not to let herself be shocked, for her own sake and for his, but it was no use. His face was like a skull. He was wearing some kind of nightshirt, much nicer than the standard-issue hospital gown but antiquated and ridiculous all the same. His neck throbbed perceptibly, like a frog's, and his mouth still hung open. His eyes seemed almost to protrude from his head, but then Cynthia caught on that, unlike the rest of his face, the eyes were actually expressing something; they were especially wide right now because he was trying to figure out where he was. He was staring right at her but he couldn't figure it out.

"Your daughter is here," the nurse said softly to him. She didn't make it into a question, like she was trying to reorient him; it wasn't condescending in that way. There was no more progress or recovery, in that sense, to be made. It was just about making him less terrified.

Incrementally, the light came back into his eyes. From that terrible leveling impersonality, he returned to occupy his own face, and where a minute ago he hadn't really seemed in the room at all, now he dominated it again. He struggled to raise himself up on the pillows, and his hand started vainly toward his hair before falling back on the comforter. He licked his lips. "h.e.l.lo, Sinbad," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "What do you make of all this?"

The nurse was already backing away discreetly from the head of the bed before Cynthia even realized she was moving toward it. She hadn't heard herself called Sinbad in about thirty-five years.

There was no getting around it: he felt like a total p.u.s.s.y for having been taken out and disoriented so completely by one blow to the head. One's head, he felt, should be tougher than that. He didn't see any blunt object around and so was thinking that maybe it was only Novak's fist after all. And Novak was a figure whom he would have naively estimated, as recently as a couple of hours ago, that he could take. Fear and heedlessness were all the guy was really armed with, and it turned out to be enough.

He was still a little in and out, maybe just from the shock of it all. He was sitting on Novak's rancid couch, at the end of the living room farthest from the door. He had to squint a bit against the blazing lights. He could see that a lot of the furniture in the room had been pushed around so that it was no longer in the configuration he remembered from when he first walked through the door. Most of it was now in front of him, and one wall, the wall directly across from him, was cleared away. Novak wasn't in the room but Jonas could hear him moving around somewhere-maybe around the corner in the kitchenette. Then he heard something else-a ringing phone-and he recognized the ring as his own, though it was coming not from his pocket where his cell phone belonged but from somewhere else in the apartment.

Novak came around the corner from the kitchenette, holding Jonas's cell phone in front of him like a compact mirror. "Stop it," he said. After the fourth ring it stopped. Novak put it back in his own pants pocket and left the room again.

What the f.u.c.k is happening? Jonas asked himself. He couldn't make sense of it. He wasn't restrained or tied down in any way. It was possible to get up, and yet he couldn't, and he realized that what was really going on was that he was frightened, almost to the point of paralysis. The series of events that had led to his being here in this room at all was so bizarre and arbitrary that it seemed to him like if he thought about it logically enough, he could actually undo it, like snapping himself out of a dream-prove to himself that he wasn't here, but somewhere else much more familiar.

He felt like he might throw up, but instead he went to sleep again, and when he woke up, a good portion of that blank white wall in front of him-the upper third of it or so-was covered with a picture. The whole place now smelled like Sharpies, which was sickening but still something of a blessing considering the other smells the Sharpies were masking. The picture itself was fantastically detailed, full of dogs and cats and televisions and those signature open-mouthed faces, like a Brueghel almost but without the technique, an unpatterned riot of primary industrial color, and it might have been beautiful, but Jonas really couldn't see it.

Cynthia asked Dawn to fax her whatever she could find on the Silverberg Hospice and learned that it was one of the most popular, high-profile charities in the city, well run and financed to the gills. She was secretly hoping for a different answer because she had conceived this fantasy that she would just buy the place. It's not like there was anything she could have improved about it. She would have given everyone there an immediate raise but she also just wanted to be able to succ.u.mb to the illusion that every single professional in the building was working for n.o.body else but her-the sort of selfish emotional fancy anyone with a sick parent or child might have had, the difference being that Cynthia had the resources to make such fancies real every once in a while. She wondered if her father was in the best-appointed room available and though she could have learned the answer to this question in five minutes just by walking up and down the hall-there were only about eight other rooms, and the apparent custom was for the doors to stand open-who knew what you were liable to see when you poked your head in one of them. She finally got up the nerve to ask one of the nurses; the answer was that the rooms differed only in whether or not they had the lake view. No one there ever looked at her strangely when she had a question like that.

The hospice really only employed one doctor. He made the rounds twice a day, and he did almost nothing, which Cynthia had to keep reminding herself was the goal. She overheard an exchange at the nurses' station between the doctor and Marilyn that suggested they both belonged to the same church: that explained a lot, she said to herself, though in truth she wasn't sure what it explained at all.

It was particularly hard to watch when they would change the sheets in her father's bed with him still in it, the gentle but practiced way they rolled the wisp of his body from side to side, the pa.s.sivity outside the reach of shame with which he submitted to it. He was similarly receptive to being shaved, though it was easier for Cynthia to understand the sensual appeal involved there. Knowing him, he'd probably splurged on the occasional professional shave back in the day. She wished she could do it for him, but there was no way she could trust herself to stay calm enough; shaving someone's face with a razor would have been nerve-racking even under better circ.u.mstances. When watching this kind of upkeep got to be too much for her, she stood out on the veranda and stared at the artificial lake. It was easier to look at somehow when the birds were around; they didn't seem on any kind of schedule, though. Irene didn't join her out there, because Cynthia had told her she was allergic to cigarette smoke-a lie Irene likely recognized, but there were moments when Cynthia found she just couldn't bear anyone's company.

She would have brought him anything at all to eat, and they encouraged her to do that, within certain limits; his systems were closing down, and so anything too hard to digest might not bring him as much pleasure as she expected. But he had very little interest in food. Once he asked for ice cream, which was brought to him immediately, but after Cynthia fed him one spoonful, he declared himself full. He had always had a terrible sweet tooth, so maybe the whole ice cream thing was more memory than desire anyway.

"Would whipped cream help?" Irene asked him, too loudly, from over Cynthia's shoulder. "Do you remember how I used to put whipped cream on it for you?" She spoke to him in a tone of dramatic simplicity, like she was sitting at a Ouija board. It wasn't long before he was asleep again, his mouth open, his breaths arrhythmic. The two of them sat on opposite sides of the great bed and talked in hushed tones when they talked at all. The nurses brought them meals, after a fashion; Irene kept suggesting they give themselves a break and go out somewhere for a lunch or dinner where they could, she said earnestly, stop whispering, but Cynthia declined. Her excuse was that she was too afraid that her father would wake up and ask for her and she wouldn't be there, which was true though not comprehensively so: whatever it was that Irene was so eager to talk about, Cynthia felt pretty certain she did not want to talk about it. Disillusionment was too bitter a prospect.

It wasn't hard to outlast Irene: around dinnertime she would start to yawn, and a few minutes later she drove home to sleep in her own bed. Visiting hours were technically unlimited, but the nurses kept suggesting, in their seen-it-all way, that Cynthia go back to the hotel and get some real sleep too. She'd seen the nurses wheeling some kind of cot down to the far end of the corridor, for a guy she'd b.u.mped into a few times at the nurses' station or the soda machine who was there waiting for his wife to die of leukemia. His eyes were always red. He looked about forty and had a bald spot that was so sunburned it was peeling. He gave off absolutely no vibe that suggested he wanted to talk to Cynthia about anything, which was great, because Cynthia had no desire to talk to him either. They scared each other a little bit. If your experience was too similar to someone else's then maybe it wasn't worth all that you felt it was.

When she was too tired to stay awake, or when she needed a change of clothes so badly she could smell herself, she would give in and call Herman and have him drive her back to the hotel. But she couldn't really sleep there either: it engendered despair even more quickly than the hospice, she found, because it was nowhere, and she had no one. She would turn the TV on, mute it, try to figure out what time it was in China, and then call Adam anyway.

"He's not dead yet," is how she would begin these calls.

"Is he comfortable?" Adam said. "I actually don't know what I even mean by that. What about you? How are you doing?"

"I don't know. It's rough. Sometimes he's fine, sometimes he's agitated and it's pretty hard to know what to say to him. I just want to be some kind of comfort to him but it's all so deep inside him at this point that you can't get at it."

"What about this Irene? Is she any help at all? I mean presumably she's been with him the whole time he was sick, so maybe she's more used to the signs or whatever?"

References to the past, even the recent past, made her instantly tense, or maybe it was just lack of sleep. "You'd think," she said. "But actually she tends to fall apart every time his condition slips the least little bit. It's almost like she expects me to help her get through this, which is so not what I signed on for."

"So what other-"

"I mean she's not exactly a complex figure," Cynthia said. "You can look at her and pretty much imagine what that whole relationship was like. You can see what a good audience she must have made. She's like a dog. One bit of kindness and she's so grateful she forgets about whatever happened a minute ago."

She squeezed her eyes shut to keep from crying.

"What about the nurses, though," Adam said. She loved him for changing the subject. "You're getting some help from them at least, right?"

"The nurses are basically unicorns," Cynthia said. "I feel like I should photograph them to prove that I'm not insane."

He laughed. There followed one of those silences the presumed awkwardness of which was the difference between a conversation on the telephone and a real one. "Listen," he said. "This may sound weird, but one thing I keep thinking about, which may or may not make you feel any better: you will not have to go through this yourself."

"I thought I was going through this myself," Cynthia said.

"No, I mean ... I'm sorry I'm so far away. This isn't how it's supposed to go. But what I mean is that you and I pretty much had to start over in terms of family, and we did it. We succeeded. We're Year Zero. Those things can't ever be taken away from you again. Who knows why he chose to live like he did, but you will never be alone in that way. Just in case you were looking at him and wondering that."

That he would even try to articulate something like that meant more to her than whatever he was actually saying. "Baby, we didn't just succeed, we're a f.u.c.king multinational," she laughed, wiping her eyes. "We've trademarked ourselves. It doesn't get any more solid than us. Anyway, I am madly in love with you. Do you ever wonder what would have become of us if we hadn't found each other?"

"Never."

"Yeah, me neither. Listen, have you been able to get a hold of Jonas?"

"No. I left messages. You mean he doesn't even know you're down there?"

"Maybe not. I mean definitely not, or else he would have called. How about April? Is she right there?"

"Next door. Still sleeping. It's not quite six A.M. A.M. here. I'll send her your love." here. I'll send her your love."

Each day the dementia was a little more p.r.o.nounced. You could always tell from his eyes when he didn't know where he was. Somehow he both recognized Cynthia and believed she was away at college; sometimes she seemed younger to him-"Do you want me to read to you?" he said to her once-but mostly he asked questions about cla.s.ses, and about how soon she had to leave again, when the new semester began. Which was odd, since the two of them had never had a conversation like that for his memory to draw on. He was out of the house intermittently for as long as she could remember, and then gone for good by the time she was nine or ten; by the time she went away to school, whole years would go by where she would hear from him only via letter or the occasional, unpredictable phone call.

"So," he said to her, "any boyfriend at present? Or boyfriends? At your age, that's allowed, you know."

She smiled at him. Irene sat across the bed from her, though at the moment he didn't seem to know she was there, and Cynthia found it perversely satisfying that, for all the other woman knew, father and daughter were remembering something that had actually happened. His lips were cracked; she refilled a kind of sippy cup from the water pitcher that always sat by the bed and held it to his mouth. "A few," she said to him, a little coquettishly, imitating the self he thought she was. "Nothing exclusive."

"Well, you just have fun. That's what youth is for. You don't need me to tell you to be careful. You have your mother to do that."

She wanted only to be generous. Still, she was worried that she was going to start holding things against him. It did get to her a bit that the past into which he was receding wasn't what really took place, wasn't even the past at all-more like something new. Unless this was a fantasy he had kept to himself for a long time, and now he had been stripped of the ability to maneuver between what was in his head and what was outside of it.

Several times, over those first few days, he would suddenly try, apropos of nothing, to get out of bed; he would submit when she touched his shoulder, but he kept looking around him for something on the floor, like maybe something had fallen there. The third or fourth time it happened, late at night when the two of them were alone, he pa.s.sed from a mild curiosity into a state more like anger.