Another You by Ann Beattie

books; straight hall runners; pots and pans in the proper place. He knew that now he had become disorganized. Most days he lost his keys, forgot to put money in his wallet, wrote notes about errands that needed doing that he then left behind. Sonja would shake her head in disbelief when he attempted to make the bed, the sheet hanging low on one side and the blanket hanging almost to the floor on the other, the bedspread with its design off-center, both pillows mashed together, half under the bedspread, half-exposed. He knew that Sonja and Evie laughed about his ineptitude, though now that he thought about it, that, too, might be rooted in an unconscious protest against having to straighten up the mess after a night’s chaotic tossing and turning, or—though it had become less frequent—lovemaking. What a thought: lovemaking. So very long ago: his father and Evie. The night sounds. The wordless activity he had drowned out, when necessary, by whispering made-up stories to frighten his brother. How anxious he had once been for silence, wanting both to hear them, and then to hear them become silent.
    There was a Time magazine with Bill Clinton on the cover. A coloring book left behind by some child, called Coloring China . He opened the coloring book and saw a Chinese man in a straw hat, running along pulling a rickshaw in which was seated an American family: Dad’s face was blue; mother’s orange, beneath a pale-pink pillbox hat; the children’s faces were uncolored, except for a mustache and goatee that had been added to the little girl. The Chinese man had not been colored in, either, but whoever had been working on the picture had added a few Keith Haring-like bursts around his figure to indicate movement. Marshall stared at it, enjoying the brief, imaginary transport of this travesty depicting a visit to China. It was better than thinking about Evie, whose face was also blue—though such a pale blue it seemed frighteningly translucent.
    Chère Martine ,
    I write with bad news. At the end of a lovely evening dining with old friends from Boston days, Alice experienced dizziness and had to be taken to the emergency room at Lenox Hill. She is fine now. It was an ear infection that caused her no pain but that disturbed her sense of balance. After EKG’s and other tests, the unusual but rather simple problem was diagnosed, and we were able to return to our hotel with a prescription for antibiotics and a prescription for a sedative, as she was extremely upset—more from the embarrassment of not being able to sit upright in the restaurant and having to be supported on the way out than from any physical distress, I’m convinced. Back in the hotel we were both fine—she’d had a pill and seemed sleepy—when suddenly she began to pace the room, again holding her hand to her heart and trying to breathe steadily. At this point I must stop and assure you that everything is in fact perfectly fine now. Several times I led her to the chair or to the bed, though when it was clear that walking provided her some ease I simply walked with her. Eventually we opened the door and walked in the corridor, because there was no way to pace comfortably in the room. At one point I made a joke, stealing a rosebud from a vase on a room-service tray outside someone’s door, and I thought as she paused to laugh that she would momentarily be fine. Yet she held the rose to her side with the bud pointing downward like a dowsing rod. She said aloud, to a perfect stranger who passed us on his way to his room, that she was ill, and he stopped to see if he could be of assistance. To my chagrin, she told him about the tragedy, as if it had just happened, and he was of course at a loss for what to do, looking at me for some cue which I dared not give because she can become terribly angry if she thinks I’m giving any look behind her back. Fortunately the man was quite a nice fellow—he also had a suite that had been booked by his company, and he asked