He avoided my gaze, choosing instead to face my brother. "This really threw me for a loop. I thought he was getting better. He hadn't been sick in over a year."

"He went to St. Anthony's last fall for a broken collarbonea"after he had a seizure on the street in front of his house."

"Was that when it happened? I thought it was longer ago than that."

As he spoke, the similarity between his slow, monotone speaking style and David's struck me. "No. It was the last week in October, right after my birthday."

"You're right! Well, at least he hasn't been in for depression. That's what he can't seem to shake. What do you suppose causes it?"

"I doubt you want to hear what I think."

"Try me."

I looked at him, incredulous. Did he really want the answers? I needed a list to keep track of them all. Let's see, potential causes of David's depression: Epilepsy and/or the brain-deadening drugs he took to counter it.

Heredity. My mother had spent more time in bed than out of it.

Emotional neglect. Neither of my parents had bonded with him, or with me or my sisters, for that matter.

Diet. He had no cooking skills and lived off frozen, fast, or junk food.

Exercise. Or rather, absence of it. He never moved, indoors or outdoors.

Lack of focus. He had never held a job and had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Disability money from the government paid his bills, but it couldn't offer him a reason to get up every day.

Isolation and loneliness. He lived by himself and hadn't had a friend since elementary school.

Given the cumulative effect of his upbringing and lifestyle, frankly, it was a miracle something drastic hadn't happened sooner.

To my father, I said, "It would take too long to list all the reasons."

He looked at me peculiarly. "Maybe you girls were too hard on him. Maybe he couldn't live up to your accomplishments."

"Like that was our fault, that we did well in school and excelled at sports," I sputtered, touching my neck, trying to rub out the oncoming pain.

"I'm not placing blame," he said blandly. "Merely making a statement of fact."

If I'd had a sturdy instrument, I would have bashed him over the head.

I punished him with silence, but that didn't faze him. "You just missed Grandma. She came by earlier with her Bible study group," he said amiably.

"Too bad."

"She had a replica of Christ's cross, and she rubbed it over David."

My eyebrows shot up. "Think it worked?" I asked, fighting to keep my tone even.

He shrugged. "It couldn't hurt, and it makes her feel better."

"I hope David didn't get any splinters."

My father didn't smile. "She told me you found some medicine in David's apartment."

"Mom did, and how did Grandma know?"

"Ann told her. Is it true?"

I nodded. "Thirty bottles. I guess he stopped taking it."

"He never could keep track of his pills." My father rose and pulled his chair around. "Let's not shout over the poor bugger."

I felt trapped. He now sat between me and the door. "I think it's a little bigger than that," I said tersely.

"What are you saying?"

"Has it ever occurred to you he might not want to live?"

"You believe he did this intentionally?"

"I think he deliberately chose not to take his medicine. Whether he understood it would lead to thisa"or deatha"I don't know."

"He's had a tough go of it, but he's always been a fighter."

"As a kid he was, but he hasn't been for a long time."

"What makes you think that?"

"Remember seven years ago, his drive to McDonald's, when he totaled his car?"

"That was an accident," my father said firmly.

"He hit the side of a building at forty miles an hour. It was a suicide run."

"I can't accept that."

Of course not, I thought. You were the one who broke his heart.

After high school, David had lived with my father in a two-bedroom apartment in the suburbs. My parents had divorced, and my brother conveniently had become my dad's "buddy." Emotionally, they lived more like husband and wife than father and son.

David led a sheltered life, protected by my father who seemed determined to keep him dependent and immature, until the day my dad decided to remarry.

His new wife, Martha, wasn't about to have a twenty-five-year-old man live with them, regardless of his condition, so my father left him behind. Overnight, he abandoned him. He continued to pay for the apartment and David's bills, but he left him without any structure. David had no job, friends, life skillsa"or prospect of getting any in the future.

A week after my father moved out, my brother had the car accident. While he wasn't seriously injured, the episode was the first in a long run of decline, an extended, unheeded cry for my father to come back.

David spent three months of the next year in a psychiatric hospital, and his healtha"both mental and physicala"had deteriorated every year since. And now this.

He lay between us, his most fervent wish granted. My father was there, but where was David? Suspended between life and death.

I looked at my brother's face, which on this day exhibited a deep sadness, and I said curtly, "What was he doing driving that day? He didn't know how, and he didn't have a license."

"He'd taken three driver's ed courses."

"And failed. The instructors told you he couldn't be taught."

"I didn't buy that, and neither did you. You took him out on a lesson."

"One! And he almost killed us. Just because he'd gone a year without seizures didn't mean he should have been driving. He didn't have the reflexes or the ability to process everything going on around him. He was a danger to himself and everyone on the road."

"Listen to what you're saying: It was an accident!" My father hollered, the jovial veneer dissolving.

"I saw him at the hospital after it," I said deliberately. "I'd never seen him like that. He didn't care, Dad. Not about anything, not about living."

"I was there, too, if you'll recall. I didn't notice anything unusual."

"You wouldn't," I mumbled.

"Pardon?" He glared at me.

"Nothing."

"I know my son better than you think," he retorted.

"How, if you haven't seen him in six months?"

"That was his choice, not mine," my father said coldly. "You may not like what I do, and your mother certainly doesn't, but I don't give a damn. What's between David and me is between us. It's no one else's business."

"Good, Dad," I said, sarcasm dripping from the words.

"David knows what kind of father I am!" he shouted as I left.

Funny he should chose those words, I mused, as I headed toward the elevator.

The week before David went into a coma, I had asked him what he thought of my father when we were growing up.

I had queried, "What kind of father was Dad?"

After careful consideration, David answered, "He sort of wasn't there. Like those kids who lose their fathers or their fathers die."

He paused for a long time before he asked, "Is that how you feel, too, Kris?"

"Yeah," I said, even though my father had spent every day of our lives with us until he and my mother divorced when I was eighteen and David was fifteen.

As I flopped into my car, I wondered if David was aware of my father's presence now, and if so, whether it soothed him or frightened him.

The day continued as it had started, overcast and tiring.

Right after I left the hospital, I tried to reach Nicole. Paige informed me she'd be out of the office all morning and would return my call at her convenience.

When I hadn't heard from her by the end of the day, I pressed again.

She came to the phone, exasperated. "What now?" was her unwelcome opening.

"I called to tell you Lauren wasn't having an affair with Dr. W"

"Oh, reallya"what a relief. One woman in Denver Lauren wasn't fucking," she said with evident satisfaction.

I continued calmly, "Dr. W was an abbreviation for Dr. Wendy Henderson. She's a PhD specialist at the school Ashley attends."

"I suppose you're going to tell me their relationship was innocent and platonic?"

"Trust me, if you met this woman, you'd know. I seriously doubt she's a lesbian. Plus, her explanation about their meetings is plausible. She told me she and Lauren were planning for Ashley's future."

"Isn't that sweet." she said tartly. "My lover seemed quite concerned with taking care of everyone except me."

"What do you mean?"

"Remember when I told you Lauren had no life insurance?"

"Actually, you told me she had a small policy through work."

"Yes, yes, but no extra coverage," Nicole said impatiently. "Did I mention how I paid for the cremation? I neglected to add I had to grovel to Patrice and Stephen for money and borrow from my parents. After all this, take a guess who's a goddamn millionaire!"

"What are you talking about?"

Her voice took on an ominous tone. "Money, you idiot. Cold hard cash. In the last three days, eight notices for insurance premiums have arrived in the mail, all addressed to Lauren, all for five hundred thousand dollar policies. God only knows how many more are on their way. I called every one of the companies, and guess, just guess, who gets it all."

I didn't dare. I remained silent while she continued her tirade.

"The first day, when two came, I thought it was a prank, but it wasn't. They're all legitimate. One final stab in the back from the woman I shared my life with for six years."

"These notices. You've never seen them before?"

"How could I?" she remarked airily. "Lauren brought in the mail every day. It was her favorite thing to do. She put hers in a drawer and mine on my desk. I never rifled through her stuff, and I certainly had better things to do than read her checkbook register in my spare time. I didn't realize there was a need to scrutinize every piece of paper that came into our house." She paused, and when she resumed talking, her voice had a downright cruel edge to it. "Humor me, Kris! Name a name, and I'll tell you if she's the lucky winner of the Lauren Fairchild suicide jackpot."

Knowing my guess, right or wrong, would raise her ire, I tried diplomacy. "Couldn't you just tell me?"

"What's the fun in that? That would be far too easy! How about if I give you clues? Clue number one: My precious life partner was fucking her. And in case you were wondering, their insignificant affair began long before mine."

"Nicole, really, I'm not comfortablea""

In words drenched in derision, she interrupted. "Clue number two: The recipient of this vast wealth has had a lifelong dream of opening a women's retreat in southern Colorado. The most peaceful, spiritual ground in the country. Down by Crestone, town of three hundred, in the heart of the San Luis Valley and the shadow of the Sangre de Cristo mountains. A convenient three and a half hours from Denver or Santa Fe and eight thousand feet above sea level. A haven for every mystic, healer, philosopher, and artisan. Our mystery woman and Lauren had big plans, very big plans. It made me sick to listen to them. They didn't have a hundred dollars between them, but they thought they could save the world."

"Is there any waya""

She hissed, "The two bitches probably caressed as they designed their pitiful village. High-desert land. Perfect climate. Good vibes. Glowing spiritual energy. Lesbians only. Build houses out of tires. New forms of agriculture. Solar-powered everything. No hierarchy or violence or meat or pesticides. Rituals and solstices. No men allowed, none whatsoever. No ageism, racism, or sexism. Hatred and homophobia not allowed. A place where all women could be safe. Blah, blah, blah."

"How about ifa""