Dr. Harte frowns at us both and continues. "Here's the name and number of the oxygen company." He scribbles the information across the top sheet of a prescription pad, rips it off, and hands it to me. "But call the airlines first." He turns his attention back to the chart on the desk in front of him, signaling that we are dismissed.

"Dr. Harte," I say, lingering at his desk though Margarita has walked away. Just because the doctor is through with me does not mean that I am through with him. "What exactly is my mother's prognosis?" I ask. "Will she recover from this?"

The doctor keeps writing as if I have not spoken, but I stand my ground. He takes his own sweet time, but eventually finishes with his notes, closes the chart, and swivels his seat around to face me.

"Her lungs aren't as damaged as I thought they were at first. She will recover from the bronchitis, but the emphysema will remain," he tells me, his voice a dull, flat monotone. "She may need to stay on the oxygen, or over time she may be able to dispense with it, or just use it when she's sleeping, or as needed. She has a strong const.i.tution and she seems very motivated, which is due largely in part to you and your dad." The doctor gives me just the faintest hint of a smile. "Not many patients have such a loving family willing to devote so much time to their care. Your mother is very lucky to have a daughter like you."

"Thank you, Dr. Harte," I say, truly humbled even though I'm sure the doctor has no idea how much his words mean to me.

I return to my mother's room to tell my parents what's going on, just as Alec and Cathy are on their way inside. They collide in the doorway, b.u.mping their hips together, and then step back and laugh.

"You go first," Alec says.

"No you." Cathy stares up at him and giggles.

"No, you. I insist," Alec looks down at her and smiles. They hold each other's gaze for just a split second longer than necessary, letting me know that the two of them are definitely an item and a fairly new one at that.

"After you," Cathy says.

"No, after you," argues Alec, draping his arm across his stomach and bowing from the waist like a perfect English gentleman.

"How about after me? Age before beauty," I say, nudging them both out of the way with a phrase that was said to me by an elderly lady not that long ago. I enter the room with the two lovebirds twittering behind me to tell my father about my conversation with Dr. Harte. "Dad, I have to call the airlines and the oxygen company to make some arrangements. I think I might need your credit card." He hands it over without argument (unlike the many times I begged him for it when I was a teenager en route to the mall) and then returns to his newspaper. A moment later, as I stand in front of the elevator bank, he joins me in the hallway.

"Lydia, I'm concerned," he begins, just as he did many times when I was growing up and had done something that displeased him.

"About what?" I reply just as I did back then.

"About flying home," he says, "and what will happen once we get there."

"What do you mean?" I ask as the elevator arrives. The doors slide open but I don't step inside and a few seconds later they slide back shut.

"I mean what if something happens on the way to the airport? Or on the plane? Or once we get off the plane? And no one's been home for a month. There's no food in the house, the heat hasn't been turned on..." My father's voice fades and he avoids my eye. We are so alike in so many ways that I know immediately what is going on here. Indirectly, my father is asking for help, something he finds incredibly difficult to do. Especially from his daughter.

"Dad." I study him and decide to put the poor man out of his misery. "Do you want me to fly home with you and Mom?"

"Would you, Lydia?" He looks at me, relief and grat.i.tude written all over his face. "That would be great. I'm sure we could use a pair of extra hands. It would only be for a few days. Until I get your mother settled."

"All right. Let me go call the airlines." And Allie, I think as I push the elevator b.u.t.ton again. Who I'm sure will be less than thrilled at this news. But really, what choice do I have?

I go downstairs to use the pay phone rather than do my business in my mother's crowded room. As expected, I am put on hold for a long time, first with the travel agent, who it turns out cannot help me; then with a representative from the airlines who informs me that with forty-eight hours' notice they can provide my mother with up to eight liters of oxygen a minute during the flight; and then with someone from the oxygen company, who gives me a list of the facts they require in order to provide my mother with everything she needs. I write everything down in my notebook, tromp back upstairs, speak to the doctor again, ride the elevator back down, and make yet more phone calls. I keep my mother informed every step of the way and she listens closely and watches me carefully, admiration streaming from her eyes. "You could be a nurse," she tells me. "Or a social worker. You're very well organized."

"Thanks, Mom, but I like my job," I say, unable to keep a note of defensiveness out of my voice. My parents have never supported my choice of occupation, my father having no interest in "women's lib," as he still calls it, and my mother seeing no need for it. "I don't have to be liberated," she told me once. "Your father lets me do whatever I want."

After Dr. Harte gives me the okay, I set up a flight for the three of us that leaves early Friday morning, and arrange for the airline to fax all the information we need to the front desk of our hotel. We have to be at the airport four hours before the flight from Los Angeles to New York because of my mother's special needs, and the oxygen company promises to deliver the necessary tanks the evening before we leave. I explain all this to my father; my mother is fast asleep.

That evening back in my hotel room, I eat a light supper, take a hot bath, change into my pajamas, and watch a bit of the evening news, knowing that what I'm really doing is avoiding the inevitable: calling Allie and telling her my new plans. As I take my cell phone out onto the little terrace to dial our number, I find myself hoping she won't be home so I can just leave a message, and of course I feel horribly guilty about that. I'm just rehearsing a little speech in my head when Allie picks up the phone.

"Hi, Lydia."

"Hi, Allie." I make sure no trace of disappointment is evident in my voice. "How are you?"

"Okay. What's going on?"

"Not much. Except I'm flying home on Friday."

"You are?" Allie's tone instantly lightens with the news. "Mishmosh, do you hear that?" Allie calls out to our cat, her voice bursting with happiness. "Your mamacita is coming home. What time does your plane get in, Lyddie? What time should I pick you up?"

Oops. Of course home means our home to Allie. "Um, Allie? I'm not flying home-home. I'm going home with my parents. To help them out. Just for a few days."

"You are?" Allie asks glumly. Then her voice perks up. "I'll just meet you there," she says, brightening. "I can come down Sat.u.r.day morning and take a few days off work next week. Then when you're ready we'll drive home together."

"Let me think about that," I say, my eyes searching the sky as I stall for time. For some reason, I feel hesitant about integrating Allie into my new family life. My parents are like brand new toys that I've barely taken out of the box, and I'm not ready to share them with anybody just yet.

"What's the matter, Lydia?" Allie asks. "Don't you want me to come?"

"Of course I want you to come. It's not me, it's my parents," I tell her, thinking fast. "I'm not sure that my mother will want to see anyone right away. She's very weak and she isn't herself. Plus she looks terrible. Her hair is a mess, her arms are all black and blue, and her face is puffed up to twice its size. You know how vain my mother is. I think she'd feel too embarra.s.sed to let anyone she knows see her looking like that."

"I suppose so," Allie says, with a sigh of defeat. "Well, just do what you want," she adds, as if she doesn't really care when she gets to see me again. Which makes me suddenly miss her.

"Allie, maybe I should just fly home," I say. "Or maybe I'll just stay one night with my parents and then you can come get me. What do you think?"

"Whatever," she says, unwilling to commit herself. "It's your decision, Lydia."

We talk a bit longer with Allie filling me in on which bills she's paid, and reading me some of my more important email before we say good-bye and hang up. As soon as we do so, my fingers immediately dial Vera's number. And thank G.o.d, she's there. After I bring her up to date on my mother, I start in on what I really need to talk about: what's going on with me and Allie.

"When I ask her how she is, she says, 'okay,'" I tell Vera. "When I ask her how Mishmosh is, she says, 'fine.' She reminds me of me when I was a teenager and gave my mother snotty one-word answers. 'Where are you going?' 'Out.' 'Who are you going with?' 'People.'" I collapse into a metal chair and rest my feet up on the balcony railing. "It's so weird, Vera. My mother used to feel like a stranger, and now Allie's the one who does."

"Why does anyone have to feel like a stranger?" Vera asks pointedly. "Lydia, with everything you're going through, it doesn't surprise me that you feel distant from Allie."

"She doesn't even believe that my mother and I are okay now," I say, sinking down lower in my chair with dejection. "She thinks this is just a pa.s.sing phase." As I say this aloud a new thought occurs to me. "Is that what you think, Vera?"

"Time will tell, Lydia," Vera says, in her usual rational way. "I think you've made some major progress here, and there also might be some backsliding. You know, two steps forward and three steps back. Or is it three steps forward and two steps back?"

I walk two fingers up and down my thigh as if they are miniature legs doing a little dance and then give up. "I don't know, Vera. I can never remember."

"Me neither. Well, never mind. You'll just have to wait and see. And Lydia?"

"Yes, Vera?"

"Don't be so hard on Allie. I don't think it's that she doesn't believe you. I think it's that she loves you and she's trying to protect you. After all, Allie more than anyone has seen firsthand how much your mother has hurt you over the years."

As usual, Vera is right. "I suppose so."

"And forgive me for saying this, but most people your age are more mature than you are-"

"Hey, thanks a lot."

"And what I mean by that," Vera ignores my sarcasm, "is most people in their forties have already learned how to integrate the various roles they play: being someone's spouse, being someone's child. You haven't developed that skill because your parents haven't really been a part of your life. So when you're with them, you're still a little girl emotionally. And it's hard for you to feel like an adult at the same time. Besides, you and Allie have never been good at being apart."

"That's true." I take my feet down from the railing and stare out into the distance, remembering back to the time when Allie and I started seeing each other and the difficulties we had during that period of time (eleven months and seventeen days, to be exact) before we moved in together. At the end of each workday, Allie wanted to go home to her apartment, I wanted to go home to mine, but being newly and madly in love, we couldn't stand spending even one night away from each other. What to do? Finally we compromised on a rotating schedule: Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays at Allie's house and Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Sat.u.r.days at mine (we'd flip a coin for Sundays). This pleased neither of us, though we both had to admit that it was fair. If we had such a hard time negotiating the measly half a dozen blocks between our living s.p.a.ces back then, it's no wonder that we're having such a hard time figuring out how to manage being three thousand miles apart.

"Plus you're used to having conflict in your life between you and your biological family," Vera continues, in full-fledged therapist mode. "Now that that's not happening, you're creating conflict in your chosen family. Without that conflict, you probably feel out of balance. You're a textbook case, Lydia," Vera proclaims. "But don't worry. You and Allie have a very strong foundation and a lot of love between you. I predict everything is going to turn out just fine."

"You really think so, Vera?" I ask, hardly convinced.

"Lydia, try not to worry so much. Trust me. This will all be over soon and you and Allie will be your old romantic selves again," Vera says and then before we get off the phone, she tries to lighten my mood by warning me that if I keep calling her for support and advice, she's going to have to start charging me for long-distance therapy. "And believe me, Lydia," Vera chuckles. "I may be good, but I'm certainly not cheap."

The next morning, back at the hospital, I fill my mother in on our plans, since she fell asleep yesterday before we had a chance to do so. "Good news, Mom," I announce, waltzing into her room behind my father. "We're getting out of here two days from now, on Friday. Your plane leaves at eight o'clock."

My mother is sitting up in bed, holding a cup of tea in both hands. "Are you coming with us to the airport, Lydia? What time does your flight leave?"

"I'm flying to New York with you," I tell her, sitting down in my customary seat next to her bed. "To help out. Until you get back on your feet."

"Isn't that great, Doris?" my father asks, sinking down beside me and leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Lydia can go to the store for us, do some shopping-"

"No." My mother silences him with one word then turns to me. "You're not coming home with us."

"I'm not?" I thought she'd be thrilled at the idea. "Why not?"

"Because," she says flatly.

"Because why?" I ask, reverting to my adolescent behavior.

"Because I said so," my mother answers, also falling back to the answers she gave me when I was a child. "It's not necessary, Lydia. Your father and I will be fine. We don't need your help."

I look at my father and by the expression on his face I can tell he's not so sure but doesn't dare argue. "I know it's not necessary, Mom," I say, since like me, my mother hates to feel helpless. "I know I don't need to come. But what if I want to come?"

"No, Lydia."

"What if I just get on the plane?" I try a different approach. "I have a ticket. What if I follow you back to the house in a cab? What are you going to do, leave me out there in the cold?"

My mother lifts one finger and points it at me with a scowl. "Don't give me a hard time, Lydia. I mean it. You have your own life and you need to get back to it. I've bothered you enough."

"It hasn't been a bother."

"Stop." My mother holds one hand up, as if she's halting oncoming traffic. "I don't need your help. Your father and I are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves. I want you to pick up the phone and change your flight, Lydia. Now."

"But-"

"No buts." My mother's voice is firm and when she gets like this, I know from experience that the conversation is over.

After glancing at my father, whose look tells me to do as I am told, I pick up the phone and call the airlines. There are two flights going from Los Angeles to Maine on Friday; the first one leaves an hour after my parents take off, and the second one departs three hours after that. I decide I better take the later flight, just in case something happens and my parents get delayed. After everything is arranged, I hang up the phone and turn to my mother. "I'm going downstairs to call Allie," I tell her. "I'll be back very soon."

"Take your time." My mother waves me off. "I'm not going anywhere."

Outside the hospital, I sit on my bench and dial Allie's work number. According to her watch, it's half past eleven at home, which means she hasn't left on her lunch break yet. When the lumberyard's receptionist answers the phone and tells me that Allie is busy, I tell her it's an emergency and five seconds later Allie picks up the phone.

"What is it?" she pants, a little out of breath.

"I'm coming home. To you. For real," I say, suddenly happy at the prospect. "I changed my flight. I'll be home Friday night."

"Oh my G.o.d. Finally," Allie says, her voice full of joy. "What time?"

"I get in at eleven-eleven." I scan the itinerary I scrawled on a sc.r.a.p of paper and give her my flight number. "If that's too late for you to pick me up, I can take a cab."

Allie is quiet for a long moment. "Lydia, do you want to take a cab home?" she asks, all the happiness gone from her voice.

"No, Allie, I just didn't want to bother you."

"Bother me?" I can tell by her tone that Allie is shaking her head. "Lydia, what's come over you? Don't you know it's me, Alicia Maria Taraza, the butch of your dreams? Don't you know I'd come get you even if your plane landed at four in the morning in the middle of a blizzard with whiteout conditions and all the roads closed? Don't you know I'd walk through the snow barefoot and carry you home on my back if I had to? Lyddie, Lyddie, Lyddie, what's gotten into you?"

Allie's declaration of undying love melts the frozen tundra of my heart and I smile in spite of myself. "I don't know, Allie," I say, my voice starting to quiver. "I just feel so far away from you."

"That's because you are far away from me, silly girl. But you're coming home soon. And I can't wait to see you."

"I can't wait to see you either," I say, hoping Allie can tell by my voice that I mean it. "And Mishmosh, too. Do you think he missed me? Do you think he even remembers me?"

"Remember you? Are you kidding? Every day when I come home from work, I find him curled up on the couch in your study, and he sleeps on your pillow every night."

"He does?" All at once I wish I could beam myself home like a Star Trek character. "I'll see you soon, Allie. Okay?"

"Okay," Allie says, happily. " Te quiero mucho. Hasta la vista, baby."

The rest of the day flies by with my mother's "staff" keeping her constantly occupied with all her various therapies. Thursday pa.s.ses quickly as well, and in the evening, right after my mother finishes her supper, a delivery man appears in her doorway with several bulky green oxygen tanks and a small metal dolly.

"This is what you'll need to take to the airport," the man from the oxygen company tells us, pointing. "The dolly can hold two tanks side by side, and the third one that she's using can rest between her legs in her wheelchair," he explains. Like everyone else I have met on this trip, he is young, definitely not more than thirty, and seems to be in a big hurry. "Let's see, you've got the tanks, the nasal cannula, the gauge, the wrench. You're all set."

"Wait a minute," I stop him by grabbing his sleeve. "What wrench?"

"This wrench, see?" He holds up a black plastic tool. "You turn this counterclockwise like so, to open up the tank. The needle on the gauge will tell you when you're almost out of oxygen and here's where you set how many liters per minute you need. See?" He demonstrates quickly and then says again, "Okay. You're all set."

"Oh no," I say, putting both hands on either side of the doorjamb to block his exit in case he tries to make a quick getaway. "Let me explain something to you. These are oxygen tanks," I say, which of course he already knows. "My mother's oxygen tanks. That means her life depends on my father knowing how to use them correctly. You can't just spit out three sentences in two seconds and then be on your merry way. You're talking to a man," I nod toward my father, "whose entire tool kit consists of a bobby pin and a b.u.t.ter knife."

"Lydia, I beg your pardon." My father throws out a feeble protest, but I can tell he is intimidated by the task that lies ahead of him. If he goofs this up, my mother will not be able to breathe.

"How long does each tank last?" I ask.

"Let's see. On her dosage," he does a quick mental calculation, "each tank will last for three hours."

I do my math out loud. "It's an hour to the airport, and we have to get there four hours early. So that's five hours right there. Dad, you're going to have to change tanks at least once. So you need to learn how to do this."

My father hangs on every word like a model student while the delivery fellow, under my watchful eye, shows him how to read the gauge, how to transfer it from one tank to the next, how to attach the bottom end of the nasal cannula tube to the oxygen supply, how to set the correct dosage, and how to check that the oxygen is flowing. I make him try it a few times without any help, hoping he will catch on and build his confidence. He's still a little shaky after doing it several times, but I see that my mother, who is somewhat mechanically inclined, is paying close attention. I am very tempted to suggest that I change my flight reservations back again, but I bite my tongue because I know my mother will not allow that. Between the two of them I'm going to have to trust that they'll be able to figure out the oxygen and be fine.

As visiting hours draw to an end, Margarita enters the room to say good night. And good-bye, since she won't be seeing us in the morning. After she bids farewell to my parents, I ask her to step out into the hall with me to have a little talk.

Margarita takes me over to the nurse's station and finds two chairs for us. She has a huge leopard print tote bag hanging over her shoulder and a black sweater slung across her arm. I know it's the end of her shift and I feel bad about detaining her, but I have a few things that I need to say.

"I just wanted to let you know that I can't thank you enough for everything you've done for my mother," I start out in a trembling voice as two tears slide down my cheeks.