The book. I had stopped at her apartment on my way home from the hospital because Mrs. Park
asked me to grab Bonnie's overnight things. I had grabbed pajamas, Walter, and her toothbrush. I hadn't grabbed the cephalopod book, which Mrs. Park had told me — twice in a call — was on the dresser by the window.
I winced. "I know, baby. I'm sorry. I went home for an hour to sleep."
"Did you sleep well?"
"Not really."
She thought about it. "Okay. You can be forgiven, but you have to bring it tomorrow."
"I'll bring it tomorrow."
Sabrina was listening, sitting in a chair in the corner.She hadn't intervened in the colored-pencil negotiation, which was its own kind of cosigning.
I kissed Bonnie on the forehead, then crouched by Sabrina’s chair and took her hand. I pressed my mouth to the back of it, and she squeezed my fingers.
Then I stood up, went to the doorway, leaned against the doorframe, and watched them.
They were talking about Schubert because Bonnie had a piece by Schubert she was going to be ready for at her recital,and she was concerned that the recital was now in the hospital window and not the home window. Sabrina was listening to Bonnie intently.
A thought arrived without my permission.I could move her up the list.
I was the chairman, and I had the controlling vote. The medical review committee answered to the board, and the board answered to me. One phone call. Two hours of paperwork. By tomorrow, she could be on the schedule.
I shut it down.
I shut it down because Sabrina had said no twice, because the no hadn't been about the money. But I would make the call anyway, without telling her. I would be the man who had decided for her.
Not yet, I thought.Not without thinking. Not without doing the right thing.
The harder question was what my father had handed me on cream paper before dawn.
If I don't fix it, what am I for?
I pushed off the doorframe and went to find coffee before my head did something dangerous.
The coffee was from a machine in a third-floor alcove. It brewed the way coffee machines do — nearly the right color and temperature, but faintly metallic on the tongue.
I drank it standing.
Simon Kessler walked past the end of the corridor.
He was with a woman I hadn't seen before. The small, dark-haired woman walked slowly, each step deliberate, as though it required thought. Her sleep had been gone for some long stretch of months, and the lack of it was on her shoulders. Simon was a step behind her. He had his hand at the back of her elbow.
I crossed to them.
Simon turned. "Mr. Cross."
"Simon."
He gestured at the woman beside him. "My wife. Marta."
I held out my hand.
She took it and shook my hand. She seemed to conserve herself for the parts of the day that required consciousness. I had seen this in the families on our list. I had seen it on Sabrina last night.
"Is your son here?"
