Another tear plops onto my seatmate's page. I look up to the ceiling, hoping that the plane has sprung a leak, but no such luck. I'm a New Yorker, I don't get involved, I remind myself, but then I hear Allie's voice-always the voice of reason-pointing out that I haven't lived in New York for over two decades. And besides, New Yorker or not, I hate to think of myself as the type of person who can ignore a woman around my mother's age sitting on an airplane, quietly weeping.

I wait until a flight attendant offering headphones for the in-flight movie pa.s.ses by and then, resigned, I reach down for my purse and pull it onto my lap. "Here," I say to the woman on my right as I dig out a packet of tissues. "Would you like one of these?"

"Oh, thank you," the woman says. "That's very sweet of you, honey." And with that one word, I'm caught, hook, line, and sinker. Whenever a woman of a certain age uses an endearment to address me, the hard casing around my heart melts away and I become putty in her hands.

The woman dabs at her runny eyes and I root inside my pocketbook again to offer her a mirror. Having just spent the better part of my Chicago layover reapplying my makeup in the crowded airport bathroom, I have enormous sympathy for my new friend. When she is satisfied with her appearance, she crumples the tissue, tucks it inside the sleeve of her sweater, and closes her Bible softly. I take this as a signal to begin our heart-to-heart.

"I'm Lydia," I say, holding out my hand.

"Very nice to meet you, dear. My name is Edith. Edith Donavon." Edith takes my extended hand but instead of shaking it, she grasps it firmly and lowers it onto her lap.

"Do you want to tell me what's troubling you?" I ask, finding that I'm actually curious to know.

Tears well up in Edith's eyes again. "It's my husband," she says, her voice cracking on the word. "He was supposed to be on this flight."

"Where is he?" I ask, though I think I can guess the answer.

"He died last week." Edith sadly confirms what I suspect.

"I'm so sorry to hear that," I say, using my free hand to get Edith another tissue. She is crying freely now, her lips trembling and her breath coming out in short whispery gasps.

"I'm sorry." Edith squeezes my hand and then releases it to blow her nose.

"No need to apologize," I tell her, bending down to put my purse back on the floor in front of my feet. "It's all right to cry."

"That's just what my doctor says. He told me to cry whenever I want to, for however long I need to. He told me I can't keep all this bottled up inside me or I'll burst wide open."

"That's exactly right," I say, in what I hope is a soothing voice. Then a thought occurs to me. "Your husband was supposed to be on this plane? Then I must be sitting in his seat."

This brings unexpected fresh sobs from Edith. "No." She hiccups the word. "That wasn't his seat. He was supposed to be underneath."

"Underneath?" Now I'm totally confused.

"Yes." Edith plucks the tissue packet out of my lap and helps herself. "We were flying him home to bury him."

"And he's not on the plane?"

"They lost him," Edith wails, losing it herself. Her face crumples and loud sobs escape from deep inside her. I am tempted to gather her up into a hug but we are both buckled up tight, and there is the hard armrest between us besides.

"Don't worry, they're going to find him." A woman in the aisle seat two rows ahead of us turns around and states this with confidence in a loud, bra.s.sy voice. "And if they don't, we're going to sue the pants right off them, aren't we, Mama?"

Mama? My mouth drops open and I stare at the woman who is still pivoted toward us in her seat. Though her style looks young-red hair hanging halfway down her back, gold hoop earrings large enough for small birds to perch upon, and a low-cut yellow sweater-the lines on her face lead me to believe her age is close to mine.

"Is this your mother?" I ask, incredulous.

"Yep, that's my mama all right," the woman answers in a jovial tone.

"Here, let me change places with you." I am already bent in half, gathering up my things from in front of me on the floor.

"Thanks but no thanks. I'm fine right where I am."

"What?" I glance around to see if anyone else has heard what I've just heard, but all the pa.s.sengers within earshot are either absorbed in the movie on the screens over our heads, playing video games on their laptops, or hunched over fast asleep.

"Your mother is very upset," I hiss to Edith's daughter. "Don't you want to sit with her?" I can't believe I'm speaking about Edith as if she isn't right beside me.

"No way." The woman dismisses my question with the wave of one hand. "I've taken care of her my entire life. Now somebody else can have a turn."

I fall back in my seat, stunned. My feelings are hurt on Edith's behalf, but she doesn't seem fazed by her daughter's comments in the least.

"That's my Iris, named for the flower," Edith says, with unmistakable pride in her voice. "Isn't she a riot?"

"She's a riot all right," I murmur as Iris, satisfied that I am once again engaged with her mother, nods and then swivels around to face front.

"Something to drink?" A flight attendant whose eyes and eye shadow are both as blue as the sky we are zooming across hands Edith and me plastic cups and soda cans. She hesitates for a moment, then pushes her cart forward, deciding not to disturb the teenager on my left, who has propped her backpack against the window to use as a pillow and fallen fast asleep. After we have sipped our drinks, I ask Edith to tell me about her husband and her eyes light up as she sings his praises. How handsome her Walter was. How kind her Walter was. How breathtaking he looked in his uniform the day he came home from the war.

"We were married for close to sixty years, and the entire time, Walter spoiled me rotten," Edith says proudly. "Just look at all this jewelry." She extends her arms so that I can admire her treasures, turning one of the many bracelets on her wrist full circle to show off its design.

"It's beautiful," I tell Edith, not only because that's what she wants to hear, but because it really is.

Edith nods in agreement. "Every birthday, every anniversary, every Christmas, Walter gave me something lovely he picked out all by himself. Except for Valentine's Day. He never gave me anything on Valentine's Day."

"Why not?" I ask. "He seems like such a romantic."

"That's just the point," Edith says as if this should be obvious. "According to Walter, at our house every day was Valentine's Day."

"That's so sweet," I say, genuinely touched. "You're very lucky to have been so well loved."

"I know." Edith blinks rapidly, tears forming in her eyes once more. But before they fall, she smiles and leans forward with one hand on my arm. "Look at my Iris. Isn't she a hoot?" she asks as Iris stands and reaches up, revealing a tan swath of belly between the bottom of her sweater and the waistband of her skintight black leather jeans. She opens the overhead compartment above her seat and pulls down some kind of hard case, big as the extra-large cat carrier Allie and I force Mishmosh into once a year when he has to go see the vet.

"She's going to do her face now," Edith says in a stage whisper, her voice full of excitement, as if a show is about to begin. And Iris does indeed put on a show as she sits down with her makeup case on her lap, props open a mirror the size of a dinner plate, and unpacks brushes, puffs, sponges, cotton b.a.l.l.s, and a makeup palette with enough colors on it to make any artist green with envy. Then with a whisk of something here and a dab of something there, Iris creates cheekbones that were nowhere near her face a moment ago, lips that are suddenly pouty instead of thin, and eyes wide and mesmerizing as those of a young, startled, and mascara-laden Liza Minnelli .

"Anybody else want her face done?" Iris asks, looking around at our fellow travelers, who are either still engrossed in their various activities or pretending to be. "How about hair? Step right up, I'm open for business."

"She's good, too," Edith says, squeezing my arm. "Why, look at me. I have a face only a daughter could love." Edith laughs at her own joke. "If it weren't for my Iris and her bag of tricks there, they probably wouldn't have even let me on the plane."

"No takers? Last call," Iris announces loudly. When no one responds, she shrugs and puts her things away.

"Too bad," Edith says. "You all don't know what you're missing." She removes her hand from my arm to cover a yawn. "What time is it, honey?"

I glance at the two watches on my wrist. "Half past two on the West Coast, half past five back east. We have about an hour and a half to go."

"Isn't that clever?" Edith studies my arm for a minute, then shuts her eyes. "I think I'll take a little rest now, if you don't mind, dear."

"Go right ahead," I say, relieved to have a little peace and quiet myself. Edith takes my hand again, intertwining my fingers with her own, and lets her head fall against the back of her seat. Almost immediately she begins to snore.

Why is it always so easy for me to be kind to other people's mothers, and so impossible for me to be kind to my own, I wonder as I too shut my eyes. I'll find out soon enough, I remind myself, and then my eyes fly open as a startling thought crosses my mind: it is entirely possible that while I've been up in the air comforting Edith like a daughter, my own mother has taken her very last breath.

Foolish as a child, I lean forward to stare out the window, as if I might catch a glimpse of my mother in a billowy white nightgown, her hair streaming behind her as she floats past us on her way up to heaven. All I see is an endless bed of puffy clouds below us, and two planes off in the bright blue distance, looking small as a pair of birds soaring across the sky. I lean back and shut my eyes again, keenly aware of Edith's hand grasped firmly in mine, the hardness of her rings digging into the s.p.a.ce between my fingers, her warm papery flesh rubbing softly against my palm. If my mother has indeed left us for the great beyond, I hope she did so with somebody else's daughter holding tightly to her hand and comforting her in all the ways that I never could.

IF YOU CAN'T stand the heat, get out of the kitchen is the cliche that springs to mind as I step out of the air-conditioned airport and drag my suitcase over to the taxi line. Even though it's late in the afternoon, the smoggy Los Angeles air is so warm, it feels like I am being blasted in the face with a blow-dryer turned to its highest, hottest setting. Drops of sweat trickle down my back even after I shrug my arms out of my winter coat and sling it over my shoulder.

The taxi line is long and moves slowly but no one seems to be in much of a hurry. Most of the people around me have put on sungla.s.ses and are standing with their faces raised toward the sky to get a head start on their tans as if they haven't got a care in the world. A young woman in front of me crouches down to let her toddler plunk a pair of Mickey Mouse ears onto her head, and laughs as her daughter claps her hands in glee. Their obvious joy in one another fills me with such sadness, I have to look away. But there's no escape: as soon as they vanish from my line of vision, another mother/daughter duo comes into view. This pair is older; the mother looks to be about my age and her daughter is a teenager. But not a surly, eye-rolling, impatient adolescent who spits out the word "mother" with all the disdain she can muster. No, this girl actually seems glad to be on vacation with her mom. She's dressed just like her, in white jeans and a rhinestone-studded T-shirt, and stands close beside her, with her arm across her shoulder. The two chatter away happily, their heads bent close together as they study a pleated map of movie-star homes that the mother is holding out stiffly in front of her like someone just learning to play the accordion.

I sigh a jealous little sigh that unfortunately reaches the ears of a balding man standing off to my left. He's right out of central casting, dressed in a bright Hawaiian shirt patterned with parrots, and a large, heavy-looking camera draped around his neck. "C'mon, now," he says as he catches my eye. "Cheer up. Let's see a little smile." He demonstrates, pointing to his own mouth which grins widely, showing off two rows of crooked yellow teeth. "You can do it, I know you can," he coaxes, as if his goal in life is to take away my sadness. "Say cheese." He lifts his camera and clicks his tongue as he pretends to snap my picture. "You're in L.A. now. You know, La La Land. City of Angels. California dreamin'. So whatever is bothering you, it can't be all that bad."

"How do you know?" I ask in what I think is a curious tone but must come off as hostile because the man's face quickly slams shut before he stalks off, throwing the word "b.i.t.c.h" at me over his shoulder.

Turning around to face front, I am more than relieved to see the taxi dispatcher frantically waving her arms in my direction. I hurry over to a waiting cab, stash my suitcase in the trunk, and then collapse in the backseat and give the driver the address of the hotel where I will be staying along with my father and Jack.

"Very far," the driver says in a thick accent that lets me know English is not his first language.

"How far?"

"Twenty minutes, thirty minutes," he says cheerfully, as though this is good news. Which for him I suppose it is. He steers away from the curb, merges onto the freeway, and before I can say another word, starts jabbering away on his cell phone in a foreign language that is musical and soothing to my ear. I vaguely remember Jack saying something about the hotel and hospital being outside the city limits, so after taking a twenty-dollar bill out of my wallet and folding it into my fist, I settle back and try to relax. Might as well enjoy these last few moments of peace and quiet before I am thrown into the family fray.

As I stare out the window at an endless stream of speeding cars, my eyelids begin to droop and I guess I must fall asleep, because the next thing I know the taxi is idling at the entrance of the Meridian Hotel, my door is being opened by a bellhop in a navy blue uniform, and I am wiping a spot of drool off my chin with the back of my hand.

"Welcome to California," the bellhop says with a wide smile. I force myself to smile back, though I imagine my expression is more of a grimace as I unfold my stiff legs and climb out of the car. After paying the driver, I follow the bellhop into the lobby and up to the registration desk, where he parks my suitcase and steps back with a little bow.

"Checking in?" A young girl who looks fresh out of high school raises her eyebrows and swings her waist-length blond hair at me. I stare at her and for a split second I am sixteen again and jealous that her hair is so shiny and straight while mine is so dull and frizzy. She's wearing a sleeveless white turtleneck tucked tightly into a short blue skirt and I can't help but stare at her stomach, which is as flat and hard as the countertop between us. Without even thinking, I try to hide my soft, round, inferior belly from her eyes by folding my coat over my arm and holding it in front of me like a shield. I know I am being ridiculous and that this teenager couldn't care less about my no-longer-girlish figure. It amazes me how just being in the vicinity of my nuclear family brings back all my insecurities, even the ones outdated by several decades. Don't be absurd, I berate myself. You can't compare yourself with someone who looks like that. For G.o.d's sake, you're old enough to be her mother, a thought that is instantly reinforced by the next word the girl utters to me. "Ma'am?"

"Oh, I'm sorry." I snap out of it. "Yes, I'm checking in. My name is Lydia Pinkowitz."

The clerk whose name tag says, "h.e.l.lo, my name is Melissa" with a daisy drawn over the "i" clicks her long French-manicured fingernails against her computer keys while I look around the lobby. A large urn filled with pink, white, and purple hyacinths sits upon a smooth marble table planted atop a thick Oriental rug. Several olive green couches are placed in front of the floral arrangement, positioned in a horseshoe around a long coffee table piled with newspapers and magazines. Off to the left are a gift shop, a concierge desk, and the entrance to a restaurant. The lobby is fairly deserted; I imagine everyone is out sightseeing or taking a dip in one of the hotel's three heated outdoor pools.

"Ma'am?"

I turn back around to sign my registration slip and receive the key to room 716. As I head toward the elevators, the smiling bellhop appears beside me, my suitcase in tow. He steers me in the right direction, chattering away about the various tours the hotel offers. Disneyland. Universal Studios. La Brea Tar Pits. Beverly Hills. The Getty Museum. I'd like to tell him to save his breath; I am not here to play tourist and he doesn't have to try so hard. I will still give him a good tip. But I bite my tongue and let him ramble on until we reach the seventh floor.

After hoisting my suitcase onto the luggage rack, opening the curtains, and turning on my air conditioner, the bellhop finally takes his tip and his leave and at long last I am alone. A nap would be nice, but unfortunately it's out of the question. The watches on my wrist tell me that it is quarter past five here in L.A., and quarter past eight back home, and since I have no idea what time visiting hours end at the hospital, I best be on my way. Then again, what difference would five minutes make? I need to call Allie to tell her I've arrived safely, plus, I wouldn't mind being fortified by the sound of her voice before I head to the hospital. But it is my own voice I hear on our answering machine, telling me that I, along with Allie, am not home.

"Hi, Allie, it's me," I say after the beep. "Are you there? What about you, Moisheleh?" The Yiddish nickname I've bestowed upon Mishmosh hangs in the air without eliciting a response. "Okay, Allie," I say, after a few seconds have pa.s.sed. "I guess you're not there. I just wanted to let you know that I got to the hotel okay and I'm leaving now to go to the hospital. I'll call you when I get back if it's not too late. Love you. Bye."

Disappointed, and annoyed again at Allie for refusing to carry a cell phone, I hang up and toss my cell phone back in my purse. Before going back downstairs, I stop in the bathroom to freshen up a bit. The mirror hanging over the sink is surrounded by bright lightbulbs and all lit up like a backstage Hollywood dressing room, and the reflection in it that stares back at me looks like a movie star who is several decades past her prime. My hair is all matted on one side from sleeping in the taxi, and most of my lipstick has been bitten off. I sure could use Iris and her oversized bag of tricks right about now, I think as I unwrap a bar of hotel soap and splash cold water on my face. Briefly I consider taking a shower, but even I know that would be stalling. Besides, for the first time in her life, I imagine my mother won't care about my appearance; after all, she's got a few other things on her mind. But still, just in case, I run a brush through my hair and reapply my makeup so she won't have anything to criticize before I take the elevator downstairs and ask the concierge to get me a taxi.

"Where are you off to, miss?" he asks, endearing himself to me forever by not calling me "ma'am" like his friend Melissa across the lobby.

"Holy Family Hospital," I say, the irony of the name not lost on me. "I've got the address." I unzip my pocketbook to get out the notebook in which I've written all my vital information. "I think it's pretty close by."

"Very close. Only two miles. Eduardo will take you." The concierge picks up the phone on his desk, speaks rapidly in Spanish, and hangs up. "He'll be outside in a minute. Compliments of the hotel."

"Thank you." I turn and walk through the lobby and sure enough, by the time I reach the exit, a gleaming white van is waiting for me right outside the door. The minute I step out into the sunshine, Eduardo the driver comes around to greet me. He is all Hollywood, sharply dressed, perfectly tanned, and wearing a stylish pair of dark gla.s.ses that hide his eyes and are completely unnecessary since the sun has already begun to set in the pink-streaked California sky.

"You are going to the hospital?" Eduardo asks, flashing me a dazzling movie-star smile. His studied English is as perfect as his even white teeth.

"Yes, please." I a.s.sume Eduardo has acting aspirations-doesn't everyone who lives this close to Hollywood?-but I don't have the energy to ask. Eduardo slides open the side door of the van and places a small stool in front of it. As I step up, he reaches for my elbow to help me inside. Normally I would protest; though I am pushing fifty, I don't think I'm anywhere near the little-old-lady-who-needs-help-crossing-the-street stage. Yet. But I'm actually grateful for Eduardo's help; his kindness almost moves me to tears.

"Someone is sick?" Eduardo shifts the van into reverse and glances at me over his shoulder as I buckle up. His tone is so sincere, either his acting lessons have already paid off, or he really does want to know.

"My mother." I give him the benefit of the doubt, relieved to finally unburden myself.

"Oh, I am sorry," Eduardo says as we pull away from the curb.

"Thank you." I study the back of his head as we turn a corner and start up a hill. "Do you know my father? Max Pinkowitz. He's been staying at the hotel and going to the hospital every day."

"Yes, yes, Mr. Pinkowitz." Eduardo nods with excitement. "He is here with the younger man with the long hair. Your brother, yes?"

"Sort of."

"He is a very handsome man, your father. A very nice man. I drive him every morning. He loves his wife very much."

"He does?" The two words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.

Eduardo takes a left at the top of the hill and slows for a stop sign. "I am sorry for your father. He is a very sad man. His heart is broken. Every day he hopes his wife will be better. And every day she is the same. But your mother will get well now that you are here. You are her best medicine. Mothers and daughters are like that, yes?"

Some mothers and daughters, I think, but don't say out loud.

All too soon we pull up in front of the main entrance of the hospital. "Here you are," Eduardo says, putting the van into park. He gets out and comes around to open my door with his step stool in hand.

"Your mother will be all right now," he says, helping me down. "I can feel it here." He touches his heart.

"I hope so," I say, handing him a five dollar bill from my wallet. He flashes me his trademark dizzying smile before going around to the driver's side of the van. Then he gets behind the wheel, waves, and pulls away, leaving me feeling more alone and abandoned than I've ever felt in my entire life.

A HOSPITAL IS no place to get well, I remember my mother telling me, which is odd, because as far as I know, the only time she's ever been in a hospital up until now was the day she gave birth to me. But that's my mother. Just because she hasn't had an experience doesn't mean she doesn't have an opinion about it. A strong opinion. But this place doesn't look so bad. In fact, the lobby doesn't look all that different than the hotel, though the decor isn't quite as fancy. There's a lumpy-looking brown couch in the corner beside two orange straight-back chairs that are facing each other as though deep in conversation. The windows behind the furniture reach from floor to ceiling, and dozens of plants hang in baskets in front of them. Most of them are spider plants, but there are also two wandering Jews in the lobby (actually three, including me). Out of the corner of my eye, I see the entrance to a gift shop with a sign taped to the door that reads, "Closed." Directly in front of me is a reception desk, which is being run by an elderly woman wearing a green smock with a red heart-shaped "Volunteer" badge pinned to the pocket.

"May I help you?" she asks as I step toward her.

"I'm looking for Doris Pinkowitz." I state my mother's name loudly and with great confidence, as though doing so ensures that she is alive and well, or at the very least alive.

"Doris Pinkowitz." The receptionist lifts the reading gla.s.ses dangling from a beaded chain around her neck and peers through them at the first page of a spiral notebook lying open on her desk. "Pinkowitz, Pinkowitz..." She runs down the list before her, then licks the tip of her index finger and uses it to turn the page. "Pinkowitz, Doris. Here she is. Intensive Care Unit. Fourth floor." The woman leans back against her seat, drops her gla.s.ses onto her ample bosom, and points. "The elevators are right behind you."

"Thanks." I cross the lobby and press the elevator b.u.t.ton. As I stand there waiting, a nun appears by my side. I don't hear her approach; it's as though she simply materializes out of thin air. The nun is dressed in a black habit and barely comes up to my shoulder. Her weathered face is wrinkled as the apple dolls they sell at fall festivals back home in Maine, and the blue eyes behind her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses look magnified and kind. She smiles at me and I smile back, the first real smile I've given anybody all day. Her presence seems like an omen or maybe it's just wishful thinking, but for the first time since I've left home, I entertain the remote possibility that everything might turn out fine.

When I was growing up, I had an enormous fascination with nuns. Since I never wanted to get married and have children, becoming a nun seemed like my only viable option. As a child, I imagined myself capering about with Sally Field, the flying nun, or Debbie Reynolds, the singing nun. Never mind that being a Jew disqualified me from the outset; I was never one to let a small detail like that stop me. Allie attended Catholic school when she was growing up, and over the years I've asked her endless questions about it. Were the nuns really as cruel as everybody says they were? Did they really make you kneel on cheese graters? What do they wear under those habits? Allie indulged my curiosity, though she didn't have very interesting stories to tell. She had once gotten her knuckles rapped by a nun wielding a wooden ruler, and she imagined that underneath their habits, nuns wore underwear and bras just like everybody else.

When the elevator arrives, the nun enters first and I follow behind her close as a shadow. As the doors close, we press the b.u.t.tons for our respective floors and then both step back and face forward. When we start to ascend, I have the strange feeling that I am in a confessional. Not that I've ever been in one. But standing beside this tiny nun makes me want to throw myself at her feet and unburden my heart. Sister, I long to tell her, in my worst moments, I've been so angry I've wished my mother dead, and now here she is, possibly dying. Is it all my fault? Will you forgive me? More importantly, do you think G.o.d will forgive me? And most important of all, do you think my mother will forgive me for being such a failure of a daughter? I let out a deep sigh and the sound completely fills the small enclosed s.p.a.ce the nun and I are sharing.

The elevator stops at the third floor and the nun steps forward as the doors slide open. "Good night," she says before floating away soundlessly as a ghost.

"Good night, Sister," I call, sorry to see her go.

The doors close and a few seconds later they open again, this time on the fourth floor, my final destination. A sign on the wall in front of me says "Intensive Care Unit" and points to the right. I turn a corner and walk quietly down a deserted corridor. When I come to a doorway on my left, I peek in to discover a lounge furnished with a stained navy blue couch, several worn leather armchairs, and a long, low coffee table scattered with magazines, crayons, coloring books, tissue boxes, half a hot dog, and several abandoned containers of greasy French fries. In the middle of the debris, a white Styrofoam cup whose rim is bitten down and stained with screaming red lipstick lies on its side like something that has just keeled over and died. A television set hanging from the ceiling looks down at this depressing scene, silently blaring the evening news. I keep walking until the hallway stops at two double doors. An intercom on the wall instructs me to press a b.u.t.ton, so I do.

"Yes?"