My mother lifts her left arm, which is the color of an eggplant from her wrist to her elbow. "When will those purple marks go away?" I ask Margarita as she pries apart the Velcro and slides away the cuff.

"In a week or two. Don't worry, Mrs. Pinkowitz. When you get out of here, you'll be as good as new." She switches the dreaded blood pressure cuff to my mother's other arm and then holds up a pair of white plastic boots with Velcro straps attached to them. "These are for your feet," Margarita explains, already reaching for my mother's right foot. "To help with your circulation. To prevent blood clots."

My mother pulls back her leg, as if she is about to give Margarita a good, swift kick in the belly. "No," she says, thrusting her foot under the blankets.

"They don't hurt, Mrs. Pinkowitz." Margarita, against her better judgment, reaches for my mother's leg again. "They just might make you a little warm."

"Don't," my mother says, raising one finger in the air. "I mean it."

"Does she have to wear them?" I ask, running interference.

"It's a good idea," Margarita advises. "You don't want her to get blood clots."

"Mom?"

"No, Lydia," my mother says, in a voice that lets me know her word is final.

"Her feet get really hot," I explain to Margarita, though this has not always been the case. When I was growing up, my mother constantly complained that her feet were freezing cold. Jack and I even got her battery-operated electric socks for her birthday the year he moved in with us, a gift we were sure would please my hard-to-buy-for mother, but by that time her body temperature had risen-with menopause, I now realize-and her feet have been hot ever since. Come to think of it, just like mine.

Margarita looks at my mother, looks at me, and then shrugs as if to say, hey, it's your funeral, before tucking the boots under her arm and taking her leave. My mother closes her eyes, exhausted. I don't see how she's going to handle her various therapies any time soon and I decide to go find Dr. Harte and tell him so. After listening to me plead my case, he nods thoughtfully and says he'll give her a break and start everything tomorrow. Maybe I should have been a lawyer, I think as I return to my mother's room to give her an update. She is fast asleep in her bed, with Jack and my father draped across their chairs, snoring close beside her.

The sight of the three of them snoozing away rivets me to the spot. I lean my back against the doorway, struck by the vulnerability of my small, fragile family. A feeling of tenderness washes over me as I look at each of them in turn, my mother, my father, even Jack. There's one empty chair in the room and I try to picture Allie sitting in it, but it's an image that eludes me. I just can't envision her here, and this makes my stomach grip with worry. The empty chair is for me and me alone, and I tiptoe over to it and sit down as quietly as possible. There doesn't seem to be a place for Allie here, and not only because there isn't enough s.p.a.ce to squeeze one more chair between the window and the bed. I've replaced the family I've come from with the family I've created for so long, it's hard to imagine being part of them both. Now that I have my old family back, will I have to sacrifice my new one? When Allie and I first became a couple, one of the things we bonded over was being all alone in the world: Allie's biological family was dead and I was barely speaking to mine. Will Allie be able to understand and adjust to everything that's changed since I've been away? Will I? Or might I have to choose? These are questions I don't have the answers to and would rather not think about, so when my eyelids grow heavy, I slump down in my seat and like the rest of my family, gratefully give myself over to sleep.

NO REST FOR the weary, I think as my six a.m. wake-up call shatters the silence of my hotel room. It's Sat.u.r.day morning and if I were home that would mean sleeping in all snuggled up next to Allie under a nice warm quilt, both of us curled on our left sides, her arm tucked under mine and wrapped around my stomach. Even Mishmosh knows the difference between a weekend and a weekday morning and is kind enough not to meow in my face on Sat.u.r.days and Sundays before nine o'clock. But that's irrelevant in L.A. Here in my new life, one day is like any other, which means I better rise and shine and get my b.u.t.t moving. Even though my father's parting words to me last night were "See you in the lobby at seven-thirty," I know he really meant seven o'clock, since he has been going downstairs earlier and earlier every morning. When I arrive at six-fifty-five, he's already there, standing at the front desk in perfectly pressed gray slacks and a short-sleeved maroon shirt, a thick folded newspaper clamped under his arm. I, on the other hand, have run out of clean clothes and have resorted to mixing and matching, pairing the black slacks I wore on the flight out here five days ago with my lavender camisole and yellow cardigan. Not one of my better outfits, but today it will have to do.

"Hi, Dad," I call as I approach, but he lifts one hand in my direction, warning me to stay back. I stop where I am, wondering what's wrong. My father's face is red with anger and Melissa, who is working alone behind the front desk this morning, looks a bit sh.e.l.l-shocked and like she's just about to cry.

"Now you listen to me," my father says, wagging a finger in her face. He is keeping his voice low but I can tell it's an effort for him to control it. "My wife is sick, you understand? She's in the hospital. I don't know how long we'll be here. I told you that before. We're in room 523 and room 716. We've been here all week."

"Yes, Mr. Pinkowitz. I know," Melissa says, keeping her eyes transfixed upon the computer screen in front of her instead of looking up at him. Today Melissa has pulled her hair back in some sort of elaborate French twist, which she probably thinks makes her look older. But the sophisticated hairdo along with her heavy makeup does just the opposite; she reminds me of a little girl dressed up in her mother's fancy clothes and high heel shoes. She clicks her nails halfheartedly on her keyboard and then speaks again to my father. "We have a wedding coming in today. All the rooms in the hotel are booked. I'd do something if I could, but we're completely full, Mr. Pinkowitz. I'm sorry."

"What the h.e.l.l is wrong with you people?" My father roars as I knew he would. "What the h.e.l.l do you want me to do? My wife is sick. She's sick, I'm telling you. We don't know when she'll be able to get on an airplane and fly across the entire country. What do you want us to do? Sleep out on the G.o.dd.a.m.n street? Fine." He slams his hand down on the counter, unleashing the fury he's been holding in check for more than a week. I know my father has been oozing with anger for days now: he's mad at the hospital for not making my mother better fast enough; he's mad at himself for dragging my mother on a trip he knows he should never have taken her on; and who knows, he may even be mad at my mother herself, for getting sick in the first place. Mostly he's mad because he isn't in control of the situation, a feeling I can certainly sympathize with. But still, that's no reason to take out all his frustrations on poor little Melissa, who is only an eager to please, wide-eyed, gum-cracking teenage girl trying to do her job.

"Dad." I touch his arm, which he lifts abruptly, flinging me aside like an annoying fly. When I was a child, my father's anger terrified me, but as I've learned in the past few days, I may still be his child, but I'm not a child any longer. "Stop it," I say, coming back up to him like a novice boxer who has been knocked back against the ropes by the reigning champ but doesn't know enough to get out of the ring.

"Lydia, be quiet." My father shakes me off again. "Now you listen carefully, Melissa. I am not leaving my room and my daughter is not leaving her room. Case closed. Is that clear?" my father thunders. "You got that?" If Melissa was a guy, I'm sure he would grab her by the collar with both hands and shake her until her teeth rattled, lifting her clear off her feet in the process.

Stick to your guns, I think, trying to meet Melissa's gaze and send a silent message to her. Don't let him intimidate you. Kick us out . Go ahead. Not that I have any desire to sleep on the streets of L.A. this evening; I just don't want my father to win. But he gets his way, of course. It's a man's world after all, and young Melissa is no match for the mighty Max Pinkowitz. Visibly rattled, she disappears through a doorway and returns a few minutes later with an apologetic manager who rewards my father's temper tantrum by moving some incoming guests around and allowing us to remain in our rooms. Satisfied, my father becomes Prince Charming again, shaking hands with the manager and smiling warmly at Melissa. "Enjoy your day," he has the nerve to say to her. "Thank you, sweetheart. Thank you very much."

Invigorated from winning his battle, my father pivots on his heel and briskly crosses the lobby to the concierge's desk, just as the elevator doors open and spit out Jack. I could swear he's wearing the same jeans he wore yesterday and the day before that and the day before that as well. Today his T-shirt asks the world, "If I got smart with you, how would you know?" A question to which I don't have the answer.

This morning Eduardo is off duty, and our new driver is the strong, silent type. We arrive at the hospital without a word, eat Malika's breakfast, listen to Father O'Connor's prayer of the day, and make our way up to my mother's room, arriving at eight o'clock sharp. She smiles at the sight of us, and points to her breakfast tray. "I waited for you to feed me," she says with effort, her voice still weak and gravelly. She looks tired, and the sight of the nasal cannula inserted into her nose unsettles me. Two clear plastic tubes stretch from my mother's nostrils across her cheekbones and are tucked behind her ears to hold them in place. Then they meet under her chin and merge into one long tube, the end of which is connected to her oxygen supply, which comes out of the wall. She has a fresh IV inserted into her arm, and the white clip that measures her oxygen level remains pinched to her finger. She still looks like a patient and I realize now that I didn't expect this. I expected her to look simply like my mother.

"What do you have there?" I ask, turning from her face to the plate on her tray, which boasts three lumpy mounds of unidentifiable food, one pale yellow, one grayish-white, and one a muddy brown.

"Eggs. Toast. Potatoes. It's all pureed," my mother explains in a scratchy whisper. "My throat is still sore." She fumbles with the controls lying on top of the sheets, tossing aside the red nurse's call b.u.t.ton, which I notice is the same shade as her nail polish, and finds another panel, which moves her bed up and down. She raises herself into a sitting position and says, "Lydia, you look very nice this morning."

I glance down at my less-than-clean, hastily slapped together outfit, hardly the height of fashion by anybody's standards. "I do?"

"Your hair looks pretty today. Have you cut it recently?"

"No." My hand automatically travels upward to feel my freshly washed, still damp curls. I can't ever remember the last time my mother has complimented me on my appearance. What are they feeding her through the IV in her arm? Ground-up happy pills?

"My hair is such a mess," my mother sighs.

"I'll see if I can wash it for you today," I tell her.

"I don't know, Lydia. How will I make it over there?" I look across the room, my mother's simple question breaking my heart. There's no way she'll be able to walk to the sink, much less bend her head down under the faucet, and we both know this. She hasn't even gotten out of bed yet.

"Aunt Doris, they probably have dry shampoo," Jack says, opening a cabinet and poking around. "You know, it comes in a can like hair spray and you just comb it through. We use it on wigs all the time. In the industry."

"What a good idea." My mother beams at Jack as if he has just invented the product himself. "Maybe later."

"Let's try some of this, Mom," I say, wheeling her breakfast table closer to the bed. Her meal looks like baby food and after two bites she turns up her nose and shakes her head: no more . I don't blame her; this breakfast is about as appetizing as the soggy canned food I serve Mishmosh back home every morning.

Margarita buzzes into the room and then stops short, as if she is surprised to see that my mother has company. "Oh," she says, quickly recovering. "Good morning."

" Buenos dias, Rita," my father says from his chair, in a lame attempt to be friendly.

The nurse snaps her head in his direction and looks at him sharply. "Mar-gar-i-ta," she says, pausing briefly between each syllable. "Are you Spanish?"

"No." My father shakes his head sheepishly. "Only by a.s.sociation." Margarita keeps staring at him, her fiery eyes demanding an explanation. "My daughter-in-law is Spanish," he tells her.

"Crystal is Spanish?" I ask Jack. "I never knew that."

"Crystal?" my father says, looking at me as though I've lost my mind. "I'm not talking about Crystal. I'm talking about Allie. That's short for Alicia," he tells Margarita.

"Where is Alicia from?" Margarita asks. My father nods his chin at me, confirming my suspicion that despite knowing her for seventeen years, he has absolutely no idea.

"Puerto Rico," I remind my father and inform the nurse.

"Ah, she is Latina like me," Margarita says, a note of pride in her voice. Then she turns her back on us, signaling that the discussion is over. Which is fine with me because I need a minute here to absorb my father's words. I can't believe he just referred to Allie as his daughter-in-law. I try to digest this amazing fact as I watch Margarita whirl into action, checking my mother's IV tubes, blood pressure cuff, nasal cannula, and oxygen clip.

"Mrs. Pinkowitz," Margarita says, satisfied that all is in order. "You need to eat some breakfast."

" Feh, " my mother says, raising one hand and giving the air two backhanded slaps as if she's pushing aside something she finds extremely distasteful. It's one of her trademark gestures and I know it well. It means, Please. Just leave me alone.

"You've got to eat, and you've got to drink." Margarita looks down at the bag of urine hanging at the foot of the bed. "More input and more output, Mrs. Pinkowitz. Otherwise you won't be able to go home."

"Any idea when she will be able to go home?" I ask.

"That's up to the doctor. He calls the shots around here. He's in charge."

"I thought you were in charge," I say to Margarita.

She responds with a sound that is halfway between a snort and a chuckle. "I should be," she says and then turns to address my mother. "Mrs. Pinkowitz, your physical therapist and your respiratory therapist will be in soon. We're going to get you up today."

My mother does not look thrilled at this prospect. Margarita tells us again that my mother needs to eat more and then exits the room. I watch my father keep his eyes focused on her shapely retreating figure and wait for his appraisal of it. But he makes no comment, which I believe is a first.

"Dad." I can't help myself. "Don't you think Margarita is pretty?"

"I wouldn't say pretty, exactly," my father responds. "But she's one tough cookie, that's for sure."

I guess you can't be pretty and tough at the same time, I think, turning toward my mother's breakfast to resume feeding her. But Jack beats me to it.

"Here, Aunt Doris." He picks up the spoon I've discarded on the tray and scoops up a small mound of egg, which in addition to being pureed is now ice cold and thus even less appealing. "Open wide, Aunt Doris. Here comes the airplane." Jack zigzags the food through the air and presses it against my mother's closed mouth. "Knock, knock, anybody home? Open up," Jack persists. "Abra cadabra. Hocus pocus. Open sesame."

"Jack, leave her alone," I say, feeling a great need to protect my mother. "She doesn't want it."

"Lydia, didn't you hear the nurse? She needs to eat," he says, sc.r.a.ping up a little more food with the edge of the spoon. "C'mon now, Aunt Doris. Eat up. Eat it 'cause it's good for you," he singsongs in a mocking voice.

"Jack, your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired," I tell him, folding my arms.

"This is how she used to feed Bethany when she was a baby, right, Aunt Doris?" Jack asks, the spoonful of food still hovering in the air.

"How is Bethany?" I wonder out loud. My mother perks up and looks at Jack with interest.

"Ah, Bethany...and I use the word loosely...Joy." Jack rolls his eyes in perfect imitation of his teenage daughter, who has elevated the gesture into a form of high art. "How should I know how she is? I'm only her father. I'd be the last person on earth to know. Except maybe her mother. Ask the manager of The Gap. Or Macy's. Or Jennifer's Nail Salon. That's where she spends all her time. At least according to my credit cards."

"Home," my mother rasps out the word with one finger pointing skyward like Spielberg's famous bug-eyed alien, E.T.

"I know, Doris. You want to go home. Soon," my father says absently from behind the pages of his newspaper.

My mother shakes her head and points her raised finger at Jack. "Home," she repeats. Jack and I look at her and then lock eyes with each other, still uncomprehending. A few seconds pa.s.s and then we blink in unison as we both figure out what my mother means, the realization filling both our hearts with gladness.

"You want me to go home?" Jack asks, not bothering to hide the thrill in his voice at the thought of being dismissed.

"Bethany," my mother whispers.

"Here, Mom, drink some apple juice. That'll soothe your throat and make your voice better," I tell her. My mother refuses the drink but accepts some ice chips, which I slide into her mouth with a clean plastic spoon.

"Crystal is home with Bethany. She can hold down the fort," Jack says. I imagine he feels he has to put up a good front and protest at least a little, pretending that he wants to stay.

My mother shakes her head and holds up two fingers in the shape of the letter V .

"Peace, brother," Jack says, holding up his own fingers like the hippie he once was and would still like to be.

My mother shakes her head again, lowers her hand, and then raises first one finger and then another. One, two.

"Two?" I ask. My mother nods. I know what she's trying to say. My mother is nothing if not traditional. "Two parents, is that what you mean, Mom?" She nods once more and I translate for Jack. "She's saying that you should go home because Bethany needs both a mother and a father to take care of her."

"Right," my mother whispers. Her voice seems to be getting weaker, not stronger.

"Are you sure, Aunt Doris?" Jack asks. "What do you think, Uncle Max?"

No response from the peanut gallery. "Dad?" I say loudly.

"What?" asks my father, who clearly has not been paying attention to the discussion going on around him. He lowers his newspaper and looks at us.

"Jack's considering going home. To be with Crystal and Bethany. What do you think?"

My father ponders this. "What about you, Lydia. Can you stay?"

I don't even hesitate. "I'll stay until you can go home. Okay, Mom?" She nods, not surprised in the least by my answer. I, on the other hand, am stunned. As I'm sure Allie will be, but I just can't think about that right now.

"Great. Let me run downstairs and see when I can catch a flight." Jack practically flies out of the room, so great is his joy. In a little while he comes back and tells us he's booked on a plane leaving later that afternoon, and has to head back to the hotel to gather up his things and grab a cab to the airport.

"Bye, Aunt Doris." Jack bends down to kiss her, and she cups his face with one hand in a loving gesture. "Be good, tateleh, " she whispers, calling him by the Yiddish endearment she used when he was a boy.

"Bye, Uncle Max." Jack holds out his hand, but my father gets up and pulls him into a tight embrace. "Take care of yourself," he says, and I can hear by his voice that he's struggling not to cry. "Thanks for everything, Jack."

My turn. I wonder how Jack is going to bid me farewell, and to my surprise, he gestures for me to follow him out into the hallway. "Listen, Lydia," he says, once we are out of ear shot. "I want you to keep in touch and let me know what's going on. You can call collect if you need to. Okay?"

I ignore his snotty reference to the enormous difference in our income brackets and simply say, "Sure, Jack, thanks for coming," as if I am a hostess escorting a party guest I've been dying to get rid of all evening out the door.

"Let me know if you need anything. I'll check on their house when I get back, make sure everything's kosher."

"All right. Thanks, Jack." We stand there for another minute in an awkward silence, like two teenagers on a first date who aren't sure if we should shake hands, hug each other, or risk a good-night kiss. "You better go," I finally tell him. "You've got a plane to catch."

"Lydia," he says, looking down at his untied sneakers. "Listen, I know I can be kind of gruff. Crystal tells me so all the time. But it's just an act. Underneath it all, I'm not such a bad person, really. Actually, I'm a pretty decent person. You should know that."

"How, Jack?" I ask, dipping my head to try and catch his eye. "How would I know that? All I see is the act. We don't really know each other."

"No, we don't. Well, you'll have to take my word for it, I guess. Tell Allie I said h.e.l.lo," he says, and then extends his hand. "Friends?"

"Relatives," I say, and he laughs.

"Whatever."

We shake on it and then he turns, gives a little wave, and with his hands jammed into his pockets, heads down the hallway, leaving me in his wake. I watch him strut down the corridor, his hair switching back and forth like a straggly horse's tail, until he gets to the elevator bank. He pushes the b.u.t.ton and stands there, whistling. When the elevator arrives, he steps into it and a second later, sticks his head out to check that I'm watching. Then with the rest of his body hidden from sight, Jack reaches up with one hand and grabs his own neck as if he is choking himself. With a terrified look on his face, he gasps, bugs out his eyes and gags as he pulls his own head into the elevator. It's something we used to do as teenagers to make each other laugh: stand partially behind a door or a wall and pretend to be a victim in a horror movie being strangled by a gruesome stranger. Jack leans out of the elevator one last time, smiling, and I smile back, wiggling my fingers at him in a final farewell. Believe it or not, I'm actually going to miss the guy.

MY MOTHER IS sharing her bed with a stranger and my father doesn't seem to care or even notice. But I do and I don't like it one bit. "h.e.l.lo," I call out, announcing my arrival loudly as I come back into her room after saying good-bye to Jack. "Who are you?"

"I'm Alec. The respiratory therapist," the young man sitting by my mother's feet answers. He is extremely good-looking and strikes me as the kind of person who knows this about himself. He is tall and lanky and perfectly at ease with his body, which is now taking up a good portion of my mother's bed. His dark hair is a ma.s.s of curls that just begs to be affectionately tousled, and his big brown eyes have a perpetual wink in them. He can't be more than twenty-five.

"I'm Lydia. Her daughter," I tell him, and then gesture toward the open newspaper being held up in the corner of the room. "And that's my father. Hey, Dad?"

"What, Lydia?" he asks, closing the business section, but keeping his place with one finger. "Good G.o.d, Doris." My father points toward Alec with the paper, his voice full of indignation and shock. "Why is that handsome young gentleman sitting on your bed?"

"Why not?" my mother asks in her new, deep s.e.xy voice, punctuating her question with a coy shrug that makes her johnny slip halfway off one shoulder.

I laugh as Alec makes himself even more comfortable, pushing himself back on the bed and stretching his long legs out in front of him. "I'm here to teach you how to breathe," he tells my mother. "Okay?" he asks, putting one hand on her bare shin. She nods, staring at him intently. She is all ears.

"Let's see. Your oxygen is set at six liters per minute. We're going to give you less in a little while but there's nothing to worry about. If your monitor registers that your oxygen level falls below ninety percent, it'll beep and we'll increase it again. It's measured by this white clip on your middle finger, they told you that, right?"