"He seemed satisfied," Dr. Johnson says.

Almost Home I STOP AND BUY a succulent plant. Don't know why exactly, it seems like a manly plant. I had choices. Green gra.s.s in a wooden crate. An orchid. Or this succulent plant. Anything but funeral flowers.

The doorman looks at me without a hint of recognition. Why should there be? We didn't spend much time at Sam's. We didn't spend much time at all. We were planning to. Still, if he'd looked at me with any familiarity, I could have relaxed. I could have felt almost home.

"I'm here to see Sam in 12A," I say.

"Name?" the doorman asks.

"Emily," I say.

He speaks into a phone. Nods his head. "Go on up," the doorman says.

"Oh, I don't want to go up, I wanted to go for a walk," I say.

"Oh. Well, you have to take the plant up, right?" the doorman says.

"Right," I say. The plant was the excuse to get through his front door. My shopping subconscious knew this. The doorman knew this. Yet, I am gleefully oblivious-without actually being gleeful.

Sam opens the door. He's wearing jeans and an old b.u.t.ton-down.

"Hey," Sam says.

I hand him the plant, as if it explains everything.

"What's this?" Sam says.

"A plant," I say.

"Yes, I see. For what?" Sam says.

"For you," I say.

"Why?" Sam says.

"I don't know. Because it's easier than just asking if I can come in," I say. "Can't you just take the plant and stop asking the questions?"

"Okay," Sam says.

"Should we go for a walk?" I ask.

"You just got here. Why are we running out the door?" Sam says. "Would you like something?"

"Sure, the ability to be comforted by another human being without living in terror would be nice. Or, if you have water, I'd take that, too," I say.

"I'm not sure I should make this easy for you," Sam says.

Science WE ARE LYING IN BED.

"Run while you still can," I say.

"What now?" Sam says.

"Sometimes-I practice being blind," I say.

"That's normal," Sam a.s.sures me. "Everyone does that. Just don't do it while you're driving."

"Does everyone know it takes twenty-one steps to get from my apartment door to my elevator? Fifty-two steps from lobby to curb? That to correctly push the b.u.t.ton for the twenty-third floor, one can measure two hand lengths, plus the tip of my pinky, just to the first knuckle? Sometimes I panic because I realize I haven't measured every scenario I will encounter."

"So you'll need some help," Sam says, "if you ever do go blind."

"Yes," I say. "That's what makes me panic."

"That would make anyone panic," Sam says. "Even if she were prepared."

"That's one of my favorite things about you," I say.

"What?" Sam says.

"The way you entertain my hypotheticals...but not too much," I say.

When he falls asleep, I perform experiments on him. Nothing too invasive. No amateur angioplasty. I try to avoid actions that will get me apprehended.

He breathes heavily, until his breathing becomes snoring...I lightly, barely even touching him, put one finger on his arm. He stops snoring. His breathing slows. I wait a minute. I remove my finger. Slowly, his breathing turns into snoring again. I do this over and over again, each time touching him for a different length of time. Each time, my touching stops his snoring-it calms him down-even though he's not conscious of being touched. That kind of trickery would never work on me.

I actually have started to cry several times, sitting cross-legged next to him as he sleeps. I've started to cry thinking about his death. It's disturbing for all sorts of reasons: mainly, because he's perfectly healthy albeit an impressive snorer. I remind myself that Sam has never left me. I left Sam.

I review the data. I touch his arm lightly, his snoring stops. I lift my hand from his skin, and he snores again. In repeated trials I get the same result. The study reveals that he is consistent, and that I am troubled.

He Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken I'M IN PERRY'S KITCHEN talking about Christmas shopping. I recognize it's a real breakthrough that I am looking forward to celebrating Christmas again. That because of Sam this holiday will be an unspoiled one. At the same time, this realization is at odds with my sudden urge to run out on Perry.

"I'm swimming in debt," he's saying hysterically. "It's not even my debt. He used my credit cards. He paid half of our mortgage. I'm stuck with all of this. On top of that, he's been dead for seventeen months, and I'm still paying off his hospital bills."

"Cancer isn't cheap," I say.

"Roger didn't have cancer," Perry snaps. "He had HIV. It's just such a cliche. I hate it. And I hate it that I'm embarra.s.sed by how he died. Why couldn't he have died of a heart attack like your dad? That's so American it's patriotic."

I'd love to ask Perry what combo of drugs he's on. But I have a feeling that he's not on any medication, that he's finally dealing with the stuff he didn't deal with when Roger died. Instead he kept us all at arm's length, even lying about the diagnosis, I'm stunned to find out, and started opening more T-shirt shops.

"I'm proud of you for getting to the stuff about Roger. Not that you need me to be proud of you or anything," I say.

He was always hiding behind the mythical combination of drugs that would cure loss. His pharmacologist had become Oz.

I don't remember much fighting. Except for one fight. It happened on Christmas Eve. I was probably four.

My father had come home from work late. My mother called his office. She called his friends. She couldn't track him down. She snapped at me. I remember thinking, at that young age, that my mother wasn't worried-she was mad.

Just before I went to bed, he arrived home. My mother met him at the apartment door. He greeted her with a huge smile and said he'd been out shopping all day-looking for the perfect gift, for the perfect wife.

She opened a small box and pulled out a pearl and gold bracelet. She didn't swoon, or melt. She looked at the bracelet, then looked at my father. She handed him the bracelet and said: "Take it back to whomever it belongs to."

He tried to convince her this bracelet was for her. She pointed to some dents in the gold.

"I don't know where you got this. I don't know if I want to know where you got this. But this is not my bracelet!" she yelled.

My mother was not a yeller. Not really, anyway. She could scream as good as the next mom. But mostly she bottled it up, and it came out at inappropriate times. This time, though, she couldn't.

I was afraid of Christmas after that. Worried what my father might drag home. Worried my mother wouldn't save up her anger. That was the last Christmas we had as a family.

The Heart UNTIL PERRY MENTIONED my father's heart attack, I hadn't given the specifics of it much thought. I was busy absorbing the shock that he was dead. It felt good at the funeral finally to have everyone's pity and prayers. At last I was getting the sympathy I deserved when I was five years old and he left. I'll admit, the condolences I received only left me wanting more.

For months after he died I reread the sympathy cards. Printed proof of my loss, and that the world knew something had been taken from me.

I have an urgent need to understand what actually happened inside of him, to him. Is the heart as unforgiving as a human? Does it turn on its master?

It's just a muscle the size of your fist, but it runs the whole show. It can pump a gallon and a half of blood per minute, while resting. The production requires the complete effort of the whole team. The atria, the aorta, the superior vena cava, the valves, the ventricles, the arteries-they're all there, plugging away every day, all the time. No loafing. No time for hobbies. Or families. A thankless job. And it takes only one of them to go on strike to shut down the whole factory. Which one of them gave up, I wondered, on my dad? What part of me might quit first? Who would feel my loss the most?

Christmas Tree Lights WE BUY THE TREE on the corner of Seventy-ninth and Madison. Some Boy Scouts are selling them. For five dollars they haul it home and into the apartment. It's a very Norman Rockwell way to get a tree in New York City. Who delivers anything for five dollars?

We have a large bread knife that we are using to shave the trunk of the tree so that it will fit into the stand. We take turns doing the sawing. Then hoist the tree into the stand, and slide it into the corner.

"I know what you can get me for Christmas," Sam says, breathing heavily.

"What?" I ask.

"You can get me someone to put the Christmas lights on the tree," Sam says.

"Ch.o.r.es? You want someone to do your ch.o.r.es for Christmas?" I ask. "And you want your gift before Christmas. That's just not right." Besides, I was envisioning something that could be wrapped up very nicely.

"But it's what I want," Sam says. "What do you want?"

"I don't know," I say.

"Gotta be something," Sam says.

Well, sure. There's always something. It's just a question of whether you have the courage to say the something.

"So, what do you want?" Sam asks.

"A baby," I say.

"A baby?" Sam says. "I thought you were going to say jewelry."

Leather Coat Christmas I SPEND VERY LITTLE time thinking about the perfect gift for Sam. Instead, I believe the perfect gift will appear, and by doing so will obviously present itself as the right choice. By December 23, that does not happen. I experience some panic. Should I have planned something weeks ago while planning was still a possibility?

I go to Bergdorf's to find something overpriced to prove my love. What is the perfect gift for the person who makes me believe, really believe, that it's possible to work through things? That leaving is the last resort, not the first? I want to give him something big and unnecessary to properly thank him. So I buy him, of all things, a leather coat.

On Christmas Eve, he opens some champagne. Builds a fire. We're opening some gifts. He's more of a suede coat guy-but I don't realize this until he's about to open the leather coat. And then, too late, it seems so obviously wrong for him.

He unwraps the box. Opens it and holds up the coat. He's stumped.

"A leather coat?" Sam says.

"I'm taking it back," I say.

"I'll be a tough guy in this, huh?" Sam says.

"Put it back in the box," I say.

"No, I'm a tough guy. I'm getting a tattoo. I'm a tough guy," Sam says, walking around in the leather coat. "Look at me, I'm tough, I wear black leather. That can mean only one thing...."

"You're a tough guy?" I say.

What is the right gift to properly thank someone for not running away, for not letting me run away? A gift certificate didn't seem right, either.

"I'm so sorry," I say. "I really did want to get you something you'd like." I start to cry.

"You're such a baby," Sam says, hugging me.

Mainly, I'm crying out of embarra.s.sment. The coat has epaulets! What was I thinking?

"What do you say we go work on your gift, now?" Sam says.

The Test I INTENTIONALLY WAIT until after Christmas to get my mammogram. Specifically, I wait until after Christmas-but before December 31. I've only canceled three appointments.

I wait until after Christmas because I really love Christmas. And if I have breast cancer, Christmas will be ruined. I reason that if I have breast cancer, I want to learn this after Christmas, but before New Year's. Because if I learn this before New Year's, my resolution will be to kick cancer's a.s.s. I will have a plan. A plan equals success. If I learn this after New Year's, it will seem too late, somehow. I will sink into a deep depression and have to wait a year to start my plan of attack.

Waiting for a ghost that may never come is exhausting, and has taken more of a toll on me than I realized.

The doctor, recommended months ago by Mom's oncologist, has a way of making me feel that things are fine. More than fine. A-OK. He seems to know how fearful I am in spite of the fact that I've claimed not to be scared, says I should come to his office after I'm dressed. He wants to talk to me.

He's older than my father was. That's how I think of men now. Older than my father, or younger than my father.

"So, what are your plans?" Dr. A-OK asks.

"I'm going to get lunch, and then head back to work," I say. "On the other hand, I could have a complete mental breakdown. Do you have the results?"

"Yes. You're one hundred percent fine. But I thought now seemed like a good time to talk about your concerns," Dr. A-OK says.

"Yes, well, my mother had cancer, my grandmother had cancer-guess who's next?" I ask.

"Well, it's important to be aware of that history. It's no guarantee you'll get cancer, though. It means you're at an increased risk. Both your mother and your grandmother are still living, right? And that's good news. Even if they weren't living, I'd just encourage you to test when you're younger instead of waiting until you're thirty-eight or forty-and you've done that," he says.

"Right," I say.

"Are you planning to have children?" Dr. A-OK asks.

"Yes," I say.