stopped the drug. Her last dose was two months ago. These tears would outlive her.
“I’ll tell Bernard we don’t have time,” Enrique said, too drained to make fun of his pompous request.
“No, no. Bernard can come,” Margaret said. “Just for fifteen minutes. It’ll be amusing.”
“Why? Because he’s famous?” Like most New York hostesses, Margaret liked to add a celebrity to her gatherings. Enrique had supplied a few of the famous, the odd movie star or director, for her parties over the years. Evidently Bernard had made such a shiny object of himself that now his pale slab of flesh was believed to brighten a room.
Margaret wasn’t offended. She knew that Bernard’s great success was an irritation to her husband, a man disappointed in his own career. That made Bernard’s celebrity a joke of fate, as if God had stuck out his leg and was laughing at Enrique sprawled on the floor. “He introduced us,” she said, shrugged, and blew her dripping nose delicately. “I don’t know. Just seems…like…it makes sense, right, baby?” she appealed to Enrique, her chin quivering with memory. “He brought me to you.”
There were times, this was one of them, when Enrique would not breathe or speak for a moment, afraid that he would shake with the sobs he sometimes indulged when he was alone. Overpowering sadness rose and crashed within him, a wave that thundered and drowned him, and soon disappeared without a trace on the flattened sand. He said in a voice that warbled from the troubled sea inside, “ I made him bring you to me,” he corrected. “If it were up to Bernard, I never would have seen you again.”
“I know, baby,” she said, attempted a soothing smile that came out slanted. “But if there’s time, let him and Gertie come. Just for fifteen minutes. Okay?”
So Bernard was granted a precious fifteen minutes from the short supply that remained for Enrique. The schedule had been set the previous night, when Dr. Ko presented alternatives to the method and timing of Margaret’s death.
“I’ll give you steroids and full hydration, you know, potassium, all the basic nutrients, for as long as you feel you need to say your good-byes,” the hospice doctor had explained. Dr. Natalie Ko was a nice Queens girl like Margaret, only her successful immigrant grandparents were Chinese. At least both had escaped the borough. Ko lived in Brooklyn Heights now. She arrived at their apartment at the end of a long day, wearing a brown suit over a plain white blouse. She was Margaret’s age and, like Margaret, had a high school senior at home. They had several friends in common and had met socially once or twice in healthy days. Enrique noticed her glancing at the art books on the shelf above Margaret’s desk, and then down to the photos of the boys. Several times during her examination of Margaret, she peered up at the large painting above the bed that Margaret had done of Gregory and Max: a seven-year-old boy and his three-year-old brother hugging each other in Superman pajamas. When she finished, she draped her stethoscope around her neck, adjusting the collar of her suit so it would cover the black rubber, and sat on the side of the bed, one hand gently resting on Margaret’s leg through the thin white cotton blanket they used in summer. But for the stethoscope necklace, she could have been a friend from college days come to say farewell.
“A week,” Margaret said, looking at Enrique. “A week is enough,” she repeated in a tone that was nearly, but not quite, a question.
“Two weeks?” Enrique suggested. “A lot of people want to say good-bye.” He averted his eyes from the doctor. Over the past two years and eight months, they had discussed everything about Margaret’s body with medical personnel, including reconstructive surgery on her vagina. Her tumor had grown so large as to abut it, and routine precaution against metastasis had demanded that half of it go. Resection would make
“I’ll tell Bernard we don’t have time,” Enrique said, too drained to make fun of his pompous request.
“No, no. Bernard can come,” Margaret said. “Just for fifteen minutes. It’ll be amusing.”
“Why? Because he’s famous?” Like most New York hostesses, Margaret liked to add a celebrity to her gatherings. Enrique had supplied a few of the famous, the odd movie star or director, for her parties over the years. Evidently Bernard had made such a shiny object of himself that now his pale slab of flesh was believed to brighten a room.
Margaret wasn’t offended. She knew that Bernard’s great success was an irritation to her husband, a man disappointed in his own career. That made Bernard’s celebrity a joke of fate, as if God had stuck out his leg and was laughing at Enrique sprawled on the floor. “He introduced us,” she said, shrugged, and blew her dripping nose delicately. “I don’t know. Just seems…like…it makes sense, right, baby?” she appealed to Enrique, her chin quivering with memory. “He brought me to you.”
There were times, this was one of them, when Enrique would not breathe or speak for a moment, afraid that he would shake with the sobs he sometimes indulged when he was alone. Overpowering sadness rose and crashed within him, a wave that thundered and drowned him, and soon disappeared without a trace on the flattened sand. He said in a voice that warbled from the troubled sea inside, “ I made him bring you to me,” he corrected. “If it were up to Bernard, I never would have seen you again.”
“I know, baby,” she said, attempted a soothing smile that came out slanted. “But if there’s time, let him and Gertie come. Just for fifteen minutes. Okay?”
So Bernard was granted a precious fifteen minutes from the short supply that remained for Enrique. The schedule had been set the previous night, when Dr. Ko presented alternatives to the method and timing of Margaret’s death.
“I’ll give you steroids and full hydration, you know, potassium, all the basic nutrients, for as long as you feel you need to say your good-byes,” the hospice doctor had explained. Dr. Natalie Ko was a nice Queens girl like Margaret, only her successful immigrant grandparents were Chinese. At least both had escaped the borough. Ko lived in Brooklyn Heights now. She arrived at their apartment at the end of a long day, wearing a brown suit over a plain white blouse. She was Margaret’s age and, like Margaret, had a high school senior at home. They had several friends in common and had met socially once or twice in healthy days. Enrique noticed her glancing at the art books on the shelf above Margaret’s desk, and then down to the photos of the boys. Several times during her examination of Margaret, she peered up at the large painting above the bed that Margaret had done of Gregory and Max: a seven-year-old boy and his three-year-old brother hugging each other in Superman pajamas. When she finished, she draped her stethoscope around her neck, adjusting the collar of her suit so it would cover the black rubber, and sat on the side of the bed, one hand gently resting on Margaret’s leg through the thin white cotton blanket they used in summer. But for the stethoscope necklace, she could have been a friend from college days come to say farewell.
“A week,” Margaret said, looking at Enrique. “A week is enough,” she repeated in a tone that was nearly, but not quite, a question.
“Two weeks?” Enrique suggested. “A lot of people want to say good-bye.” He averted his eyes from the doctor. Over the past two years and eight months, they had discussed everything about Margaret’s body with medical personnel, including reconstructive surgery on her vagina. Her tumor had grown so large as to abut it, and routine precaution against metastasis had demanded that half of it go. Resection would make
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