“Alice,” she said, and held out both her hands, grasping like little pale lobster claws. Alice dutifully reached back and let the woman hold her hands, but the woman wasn’t finished, and kept pulling Alice closer until their bodies were pressed flat against each other in a tight embrace. She was small and nicely dense, like a snowman, with a corona of graying curls.
“Hi,” Alice said. “I don’t think you’re a doctor.” The woman looked like every Upper West Side therapist she’d ever met, or a middle school principal, a profession that required both warmth and a firm hand. There was something familiar about her face, but Alice couldn’t place her. The cheese counter at Zabar’s. On line for popcorn at the subterranean Lincoln Plaza Cinemas. She looked like someone’s mother. Alice had a momentary panic that this woman was her mother, but no, that wasn’t possible.
The woman laughed. “Please, can you imagine? You know how well I do with blood.” She let go and sat down in the only chair in the room.
“How is he today?” Alice asked.
“He’s okay,” she said. There was a large tote bag at her feet, and she reached in and pulled out a pile of knitting. “Pretty much the same as yesterday.”
Alice turned back toward her dad. He looked yellow and pale under the fluorescent lights, with stubbled cheeks that were now more like a real beard than not. She touched his hand. “Hi, Dad,” Alice said quietly.
“How was the rest of your birthday? Kids make you something?” the woman asked.
“Good, yeah,” Alice said. She felt a poke in her back and whipped around, saw the woman holding an envelope.
“Your dad wrote you something. A birthday card, I guess.” It was a plain white envelope with Alice’s name written in Leonard’s jumpy, terrible handwriting. Alice took it gently and held it with both hands.
“When did he write this?”
“I’m not sure. But he gave it to me maybe a month ago. To give to you. Today.” Her eyes scrunched. “Oh, Alice.” The woman’s arms were around her waist. “He really wanted to be here for your birthday.”
“He is,” Alice said. She pulled away, though the woman resisted.
“I’ll give you two some time. Want anything from the cafeteria? Soggy lettuce sandwich?” Her eyes were kind. Alice shook her head. The woman dug into her bag for her wallet, took out a twenty-dollar bill, and then put the wallet back. “Be right back.”
As soon as she was gone, Alice opened the card from her father—his penmanship was nearly hieroglyphic, but Alice could make out what it said—Al, welcome back. You’ll get used to it. Happy birthday, again. Love, Dad. It wasn’t what she wanted it to say—maybe, Surprise! I’m awake! Just faking you out! Or There’s a secret key hidden under the bed; find it and you can turn me back on, like a wind-up toy. Alice shoved the note in its envelope and slid it into her back pocket. “Come on, Dad, a little help would have been nice,” she said to him.
Alice reached into the hugging woman’s bag, grabbed her wallet, and flipped it open. The name on the driver’s license was Deborah Fink—the photo was easily a decade old, and Deborah had been slimmer then, with hair that was still brown curling to her shoulders. The address listed was on West 89th Street, just a few blocks south of Pomander. Alice had probably walked past her a thousand times, maybe even sat next to her on the M104 going up or down Broadway.
* * *
? ? ?
A doctor knocked and poked her head in. Alice froze as if she’d been caught shoplifting. The doctor was a tall Black woman with a stethoscope. The stethoscope had a little toy koala clinging to it, which Alice thought made her look like a pediatrician. Everyone would like doctors more if they always looked like pediatricians. Alice wished for a box of stickers and small toys, prizes for having accomplished something scary or difficult.
“Oh, hi,” Alice said, stuffing the wallet back into Deborah’s bag, poking herself with a knitting needle in the process. “Ouch. I’m fine.” She held out her hand and shook the doctor’s freshly sanitized hand.
“I’m Dr. Harris, doing rounds today. You’re Leonard’s daughter?” Dr. Harris pumped more sanitizer out of the dispenser on the wall and rubbed her palms together as she talked.
Alice nodded.
The doctor slid into the room. It was amazing to watch how comfortable people could be with illness, with bodies that were failing to do what they were supposed to do. But of course this was what bodies were supposed to do—fail. It was Alice who had things wrong and was trying to swim against the current. “I spoke to your stepmother yesterday, and will check back in with her today. Your dad is stable, for now. But I do want to send the palliative care doctors in to talk to you two and to give you a sense of what’s coming, and how to just make sure he stays comfortable. I think that pretty soon we’ll talk about a move to the hospice floor.” Dr. Harris paused. “Are you okay?”