Dreams Are Not Enough by Jacqueline Briskin Page A

were glossed with a light sweat, his eyes were shining.
    “I’ve promised you’d make your burritos.”
    His excitement was a welcome change from the previous week, when he had been sunk in a misery that he refused to share. Alicia hugged him and said, “Sure.”
    Beth arrived first, handing Alicia her hostess gift, a pound box of See’s chocolates. She was followed almost immediately by Maxim and PD, who drove together. Alicia, acutely conscious of the absent cousin, returned to the stove. Barry, who had chilled a bottle of California champagne in the refrigerator, opened it with a loud pop. Pouring the bubbly liquid into their mismatched glasses, he raised his own small tumbler.
    “This is a celebration,” he announced.
    “You’re looking at a man who’s just sold a story to Southwest Review.”
    The stove top sizzled as a few drops of Alicia’s wine spilled. The others were all shouting at once. Beth cried, “I’m so proud, Barry!”
    “Hey-hey-hey Barry-boy!” Maxim laughed. And PD asked, “How much did you get?”
    “The pay’s in copies, not cash,” Barry replied rapidly.
    “Who said writing’s like prostitution?” Maxim asked.
    “At first you do it because you love it, then you do it for a few friends—that’s Southwest Review—and in the end you do it for money.”
    Laughter.
    Alicia stirred the mixture of lamb, retried beans, chilis and tomato.
    A sentiment that resembled betrayal curled painfully in her throat.
    Why didn’t he tell me first?
    They were at the table when the phone rang. At the loud, seldom-heard jangle, Barry and Alicia exchanged questioning glances over half-eaten burritos.
    It was Alicia who went to the phone.
    “Hello?”
    “Is this the Cordiner place?” inquired a vaguely familiar masculine voice.
    “Yes.”
    “Give me Barry, will you?”
    She looked at Barry.
    “For you,” she said.
    He got up.
    “Dad?” he whispered. He listened silently, blinking, his face going white.
    “Where is she?” Pause.
    “We’ll be there right away.”
    Hanging up, he stared at Beth.
    “It’s Mom,” he said.
    “She’s at Cedars.
    It’s her heart. “
    Beth, her lips trembling, was already opening her purse for her keys.
    “No,” PD said, gripping her arm.
    “Let’s not risk an accident here.
    I’ll drive. “
    “We’re in my car, cousin,” Maxim pointed out.
    They were at the doorway. Alicia ran to turn off the stove, reaching for her blue cashmere.
    “Hon,” Barry said.
    “It’ll be best if you stayed home.”
    Beth added in a politely placating tone, “They won’t let anyone see her except the immediate family anyway.”
    The door closed on the four of them.
    Odors of champagne and Mexican food surrounding her, Alicia didn’t move for a full minute. Abruptly she yanked off the soft wool sweater and began clearing the table.
    Maxim and PD dropped the twins off at the bottom of the long flight of steps that fronted Cedars of Lebanon Hospital. It was after visiting hours. Alone in the elevator, Barry gripped Beth’s hand and was still holding it when they emerged.
    Footsteps sounded heavily in the empty corridor. Their father came toward them, a tall, thickset man whose burly shoulders were slumped beneath a shabby car coat.
    Barry couldn’t speak.
    It was Beth who whispered, “How’s Mom?”
    He peered at them with bloodshot, frightened eyes; the once handsome, fleshy face seemed collapsed.
    “Not too good, but she’s resting.”
    Beth, who had been fearing to find her mother dead, murmured.
    “Thank you, God. Shima Ysroel….” Unlike Barry, Beth knew the prayers and could read and speak Hebrew—not only to please her mother but also because her mixed heritage disturbed her and she needed the structure of the sternly traditional religion.
    Tim reached out hesitantly to Barry and they hugged with masculine awkwardness.
    “It’s good to see you. Dad,” Barry said, choking back his desire to weep.
    “Uncle Desmond’s arranged for Doctor Prinzmetal