62
It was before dawn when Alice opened her eyes. She was still on Pomander—in the living room, on the couch, with Ursula purring next to her face. Alice tried to sit up without disturbing the cat. The kitchen light was on, which made it look like a stage set, with Alice the only audience member. Ursula hopped up into the window and flattened one side against the glass. Debbie entered from stage left, dressed in sweatpants and an ancient Dawn of Time crew sweatshirt, which made Alice realize that for the first time, she had woken up in the same place she’d fallen asleep, albeit in a different room. She watched Debbie toddle into the kitchen, open a cabinet, and then pour herself a glass of water from the tap. It was still dark outside, and the air was windy, knocking small branches against the window. October was a good month to confront death—this was why Halloween worked. The trees were mostly bare and the air was warm enough that you hadn’t yet pulled out a heavy coat. It was a month on the cusp, nature shifting from one mode to another. In transition. Alice sat up.
“Honey!” Debbie said, blinking into the dark. “What on earth are you doing here now? I don’t have my contacts in yet.” Alice looked around Pomander, as if she would see something that made sense—full daylight, a yellow brick road, anything.
“I guess I was asleep,” Alice said. She swallowed, not wanting to ask the question. She had on sweatpants, too—ancient regulation Belvedere gym class attire. They were the Belvedere Knights, as if teenagers on the Upper West Side needed any help thinking of themselves as exceptional and brave.
“Of course. Glad you’re here.” Debbie pinched the air in front of her until Alice moved into the space and Debbie could wrap her arms around her in a tight hug. Ursula rubbed her body against Alice’s ankles. Debbie finally let go, and Alice bent down to pick up the cat.
“I’ll just be on the couch. Go back to bed, I didn’t want to bug you.” Alice kissed Debbie on the cheek and turned around, heading back to the couch.
“I’m sure your dad would want to say hi, Al,” Debbie said, her voice now playful. “You don’t want to poke your head in?”
Alice turned back around. Ursula climbed up to her shoulders and bumped her wet nose against Alice’s ear. “He’s here?”
Debbie cocked her head to the side. “Course he is. The good nurse is in there, too. Mary. He likes her best. Her family’s from Trinidad and when she comes she brings these amazing little chickpea sandwich things, doubles, they’re called. So delicious.”
“Is he awake?” Alice asked. The hallway leading to the bedroom was dark.
“Here and there,” Debbie said. She gave a sort of half smile. “Mary thinks we’re close. The doctors said so, too, of course, but what do they know. Once he shifted over to hospice, they sort of washed their hands of him. I don’t think doctors like to lose. It’s not good for their stats.” Alice thought of the giant banner stretched across Fort Washington Avenue, proclaiming the hospital one of the best in the country, and imagined if instead it kept a tally of everyone who died, and all the babies born. This many in, this many out.
“Okay,” Alice said. She set Ursula back down on the floor. The hall was dark, and when she pushed open the door to her father’s bedroom, a nice-looking woman with glasses and a small book with a reading light was sitting in the corner. The regular bed was shoved all the way against the far wall, and Leonard was in an adjustable hospital bed right next to it, which made the small room feel even smaller. There was only a tiny strip of floor to walk on, no more than a foot wide.
“Leonard, you have a visitor,” Mary said. She closed her book and put it behind her on the chair. Leonard moved slightly, rolling his head from one side to the other.
“Oh yeah?” he said. Leonard was always better with company—alone, like most writers, he was prone to grumbling, but he turned on the charm when he wanted to, especially with strangers, especially with young people, and women, and bartenders. With most people, really. He was curious and always asked questions—that was why all her friends had always loved him. He wasn’t like most dads, who would mansplain about the grill or the Rolling Stones and then vanish after their soliloquy. Leonard was interested.
“It’s me, Dad,” Alice said. She took a few steps along the wall, until she reached his hands.
“Al-pal, I was hoping you’d come over today,” Leonard said. He turned his palm up, and she put her hand in his. “Happy birthday.”