"I'm here to see Doris Pinkowitz," I say to the wall.

"Name?"

"Doris Pinkowitz," I repeat, louder.

" Your name," the faceless voice instructs me gruffly.

"Oh, sorry," I say, duly chastised. "Lydia Pinkowitz. I'm her daughter."

A loud buzz unlocks the entrance to the Intensive Care Unit and I burst through the swinging double doors like a sharpshooter entering a saloon.

"Lydia?" My father looks up, his face a mask of disbelief, and then rushes over to pull me into a hug with his skinny arms, which are surprisingly strong. I drop my pocketbook and lean against him, burying my face in his sharp, bony shoulder. He strokes my hair and I start to dissolve, my whole body shaking with soft, m.u.f.fled sobs. Immediately my father stiffens, pushes me away and raises one finger in the air. "No crying," he says in the stern voice he admonished me with when I was growing up. "I mean it, Lydia. I'm not letting you in there until you stop crying."

I instantly go into shock mode, which is how I spent my entire childhood. Emotions were not allowed then and clearly they're not allowed now. I can practically feel my grief, anger, fear, and sadness closing themselves off, in the same way a dying woman must feel her heart, lungs, kidneys, and liver shutting down.

"Where is she?" I ask my father.

"In there." He points his chin toward a doorway.

"Alone? Why aren't you in there with her?"

"She's not alone, Lydia. A nurse is with her, getting her ready for the night."

"I'm going in." As I take a step toward my mother, my father grabs my arm right below the shoulder and squeezes it. Tightly. His fingers dig into my flesh and I am rendered immobile. "Hold it, Lydia. For G.o.d's sake, pull yourself together." He keeps a firm grasp on my arm for a few seconds-presumably so I can pull myself together-and then releases me. "And let's wait for Jack."

Jack. I forgot all about him. "Where is he?" I ask, rubbing my upper arm briskly, like I am trying to erase my father's fingerprints from my sleeve.

"He went down to get a soda. Now listen. I didn't tell your mother you were coming-"

"What?" I stare at my father, unblinking and unbelieving. "Why not?"

"I didn't want to upset her."

"You didn't want to upset her?" I study my father intently, trying to comprehend the way his mind works. It is a complete and utter mystery to me. "Dad, don't you think she's already upset? She's in the hospital and she-"

"I know exactly where she is, Lydia. Now get a hold of yourself. Here." He leans down and hands me my purse. "I don't want your mother to see you crying, all right? I mean it. I'm warning you..."

What does he think he's going to do, send me to bed without any supper? I shut my eyes and lift both hands to my temples, pressing my fingertips against my skull and moving them in small circles trying to stave off the headache I feel coming on. I am already regretting my decision to fly to California and it's still only the first day.

My father clasps his hands behind his back and leans against the wall, positioning himself between me and the rest of the Intensive Care Unit. As usual, he is impeccably dressed. His brown and gold striped shirt is not wrinkled in the least and perfectly matches his brown pants and shoes. Except for the tired look in his eyes, he seems no worse for the wear. He probably looks better than I do in my road-weary, jet-lagged state. I still have on the outfit I spent the day traveling in and now I realize I should have taken the time to change. My pants are all bagged out and my top is full of lint. Plus, I am dressed in black, which my mother finds depressing.

"So what's new, Lydia?" my father asks, trying to make conversation.

"What's new? Let's see." I pretend to ponder. Well, for one thing, my mother's in the hospital, and for another thing...

Before I can think of how to answer my father's question, the double doors fly open and Jack bangs through them. "Here's your soda, Uncle Max," he says, and then following my father's eyes, notices me. "Oh, look who's finally here."

"Hi, Jack," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Can we go in now?" I ask my father.

He steps aside to make room for a nurse pushing a wheeled hamper full of sheets in front of her. "Your wife is all set," she says to my father, who nods and then leads the way into the first room on the left, directly across from the nurse's station. It isn't a room, really; it's more like a cubicle, with no door at the entryway, just a door-shaped opening surrounded on either side by gla.s.s. The area inside is largely filled with a hospital bed that is largely filled with my mother. Her eyes are closed and she is attached to all kinds of medical paraphernalia. A thick blue pleated tube disappears inside her mouth, a clear narrow tube vanishes up her nose, a shunt of some kind is taped to her neck, a white clip is fastened onto her left middle finger, and a blood pressure cuff encircles her right upper arm. Worst of all, strips of white cloth tie both of her swollen hands to the railings of her hospital bed.

"Doris." My father puts his drink down on the counter near a sink in the corner and steps up to my mother. "Doris," he says again, bending over and speaking softly into her ear. "Lydia's here."

My mother's eyes fly open to glance at my father, a look of intense anger on her face, as if she's furious that he would say such a ridiculous thing to her. When he points across the room, my mother's gaze follows his finger, and the second she catches sight of me actually standing there, her eyes widen with shock. Watching her, it becomes very clear to me why my father didn't tell her I was coming; he was trying to protect her from disappointment in case I didn't show. This realization cuts me to the quick, but I squelch my feelings, for now anyway, and try to act normal, whatever that means. "Hi, Mom," I say, trying to sound casual, ludicrous as that is. "I'm here. I just got in." I clutch the straps of my shoulder bag tightly, as though I'd fall if I let go of them, and walk up the other side of the bed, staring at my mother. She stares back. Her eyes fill with tears and so do mine.

"Ahem." My father clears his throat. Translation: no crying . "Doris, I spoke to Selma. She sends her love and she's taking in the mail for us. And everyone in the office sends their love, too."

My mother wrenches her eyes away from me to study my father. "All right," he says. "C'mon now. Everything's going to be fine." My mother glares fiercely, giving him her famous Evil Eye, and he takes a step back, as though she has physically wounded him. "Don't be mad at me," he says. "This isn't my fault."

"You're going to be fine, Aunt Doris," Jack echoes in support of my father. "We're going to take you home soon," he says loudly, as though my mother has suddenly gone completely deaf. "Don't worry, Aunt Doris. Everything's fine."

My mother shoots Jack a look of frustration, shakes her head almost imperceptibly, and brings her eyes back to me. It's hard to interpret her expression, and she can't speak because her mouth is full of what I now realize is a respirator tube. The machine the blue tube is attached to breathes for her, jarring her body every time it forces air into her lungs with a wheeze and a click. Why didn't anybody tell me things were this bad? She can't breathe on her own-how much worse can it get?

"Mom," I say. "You're tired, aren't you? You need to rest." My mother closes her eyes for a split second and then opens them again. I take this as an expression of agreement. She looks entirely worn out, yet I know she'll do her best to stay awake as long as the three of us are keeping her company. "Listen, Mom, I'm tired, too," I say, letting her see me yawn. "I've been traveling since six o'clock this morning and I'm exhausted. Would you mind if I went back to the hotel and got a good night's sleep?" My mother closes her eyes and opens them again, and again I take this as a yes . "I'll come back first thing tomorrow and spend the whole day with you. Okay? So you just rest. Try and get a good night's sleep and I'll be here first thing in the morning. I promise."

Am I imagining things, or do the creases lining my mother's forehead relax just a little bit? I reach over and smooth back her hair, which feels coa.r.s.e and greasy, like matted straw upon which a large wet animal has slept. "As soon as you feel better, I'll wash your hair, okay, Mom?" Upon hearing my words, my mother gives me a look of grat.i.tude that speaks volumes. Then she shuts her eyes and does not open them again.

"Good night, Mom. I'll see you in the morning. Gey schlufen ." I softly murmur the Yiddish words my grandmother used to say when she tucked me in during her visits, and which I now realize she must have also said to my mother when she was a child. Leaning down, I plant a kiss on my mother's forehead and rest my cheek for a minute on her knotted hair. I am so rooted to the spot with sorrow, I fear I may stay here forever, but then my father clears his throat, which I know is a signal for me to straighten up and "pull myself together," so somehow I do.

"See you tomorrow, Mom," I whisper, stroking her hair again. Then tiptoeing backward, I glance at my father and tilt my head toward the hallway, indicating that I'm going out there and I want him to follow. He starts walking and so does Jack. "Stay," I tell my cousin, as if I am commanding a bad dog. Miraculously he obeys.

"How long has she been like this?" I ask my father in a hushed tone.

"Let's see, what's today, Tuesday? She came in early Friday morning, so today is the fifth day."

I know it's useless to chastise my father now for waiting three whole days before he called me, so I file this information away in the section of my brain labeled "things to deal with later." It's like trying to stuff a thick bulky sweater into a suitcase that is already so full, the zipper's busted.

"What does the doctor say about her condition?" I ask him now. "And please don't just tell me she's going to be fine."

"Lydia, you can talk to her doctor tomorrow. He makes his rounds twice a day. And her nurse, Angelina, is very nice. She'll be here in the morning. You can speak to her night nurse if you want." He nods toward a large desk where several staff members mill about, consulting charts, talking on the phone, measuring out doses of medication. "She's over there somewhere, but Angelina is really the one who knows what's what."

"Why is she hooked up to all those tubes?" I ask my father.

He glances in the direction of my mother and then motions for me to follow him out the double doors of the Intensive Care Unit and further down the hall so we can speak freely without being overheard. My mother's hearing is more than sharp; it's legendary. When I was growing up, whenever I wanted to arrange a secret rendezvous with Colleen to sneak off someplace I wasn't allowed to go, I'd tiptoe upstairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and whisper our plans as softly as I could into the pink receiver of my rotary Princess phone. It didn't matter. As soon as I opened the door and sauntered downstairs into the kitchen, my mother, without even looking up from the magazine she was reading or the crossword puzzle she was solving, said, "Call Colleen back. You're not going anywhere."

My father stops outside the doorway of the visitor's lounge and leans his shoulder against the light blue hospital wall. I've heard the color blue is supposed to be soothing so I lean against the wall too, as if I could absorb its calming essence through my clothes into my skin. "So what are all the tubes for?" I repeat, folding my arms and continuing our disrupted conversation.

"The tube in her mouth is a respirator to help her breathe," my father says softly, though we both know there's really no need for him to keep his voice down. "The tube in her nose is to feed her so she won't starve to death. The port in her neck is for all her medication. And the catheter is for..." My father looks down, embarra.s.sed. "Well, you know what a catheter is for."

I didn't even notice the catheter. This is even worse than I had imagined. "Dad," I say, quietly, not because my mother might hear, but because what I have to say is difficult. "Do the doctors think she's going to pull out of this? Have they told you what her chances are?"

My father keeps looking at his shoes, so I look at them, too. "Fifty-fifty," he says in a voice so low I have to lean toward him to catch his words. "Those are the odds."

"Fifty-fifty?" I ask, making sure I heard him correctly. When he nods, I shut my eyes for a minute in order to digest this new information. Then I open them and take a step closer to him. "Dad, do you think this is what Mom wants?"

"This? What do you mean, this?"

This fate worse than death, I think, but do not dare say aloud. "All this," I wave my hand in the air.

"Lydia, there was no choice," my father says, his voice defensive. "She collapsed and couldn't catch her breath. The doctor said that it hurt her so much to breathe that she would simply stop if we didn't do anything. I had to let them put her on a respirator. I had no choice."

"But do you think she wants to be on it? She seems really mad at you."

My father sighs deeply and a pained expression crosses his face. "I know why she's mad at me, Lydia. She never wanted to come on this trip in the first place. She didn't say a word but she knew she wasn't well enough to go. I wanted to go so she did it for me." My father's voice cracks and his whole body sags against the wall. "We never should have come and now it's too late."

"It's not too late." I give my father empty words to hang his hopes on. "She could get better. She's a fighter. She might make it."

"What are you talking about, Lydia? She might make it? Of course she's going to make it." Jack has tracked us down in the hallway, and now draws near, staring at me with a scowl on his face and a glare in his eye. "Don't listen to her, Uncle Max. Aunt Doris is going to be fine. We'll take her home in a day or two. You'll see."

I study Jack, whom I haven't seen since last May. He looks the way he always looks, hastily put together and itching for a fight. His stringy gray ponytail is longer than ever, and he wears jeans that could use a washing, scuffed-up sneakers that have come untied, and a T-shirt that says, "We're all here because we're not all there."

"Jack, I'd like to finish this conversation with my father in private, if you don't mind. Can't you stay inside for a minute so my mother isn't left alone?"

"Lydia, I've been in that room for hours and I just needed some air, all right?" Jack asks though I'm sure he isn't really seeking my approval. "I've been sitting in there all day, not to mention yesterday too, and the day before that and the day before that-"

"Jack, the reason I didn't get here sooner is because no one told me to come." I defend myself from his unspoken but very clear accusation.

"Lydia, the reason no one told you to come is because no one wanted you to-"

"Never mind." I hold up one hand to stop any further words from coming out of Jack's mouth. It is definitely time to take my leave. I feel almost dizzy from the strain of the day, and if I stay much longer, I'm sure to say something I'll live to regret. "I'm going back to the hotel. What are you going to do?" I ask my father.

"We'll stay for a little while," he says, glancing at his watch.

"We usually stick around until eight, then take a cab back and eat dinner in the hotel's restaurant." Jack fills me in on what has already become their daily routine.

"Do you want to eat with us, Lydia?" my father asks.

"I'm really tired, Dad." I beg off, knowing my limits. Dinner with my father and Jack after the day I've had would definitely send me right over the top.

"Take a cab back, Lydia." My father waves some money at me, which I ignore. "Meet us in the hotel lobby tomorrow morning at half past seven. We'll take the van over together and have breakfast in the cafeteria. Okay?"

"Okay." I take a step toward the exit and my father stops me by pulling me into a vise-like hug. "Thanks for coming," he says, his voice thick with emotion.

"She's going to be fine," I respond, giving my father the words he needs to hear and which all of us-including me-so desperately want to believe.

I'M TOO HUNGRY to eat, too tired to sleep, and too freaked out to think. When I get back to the hotel, I barely make it up to the seventh floor before my chin starts trembling and tears begin to flow. I hurry out of the elevator and fly down the hallway, afraid I might break down into a sobbing, wailing mess right out there in the open for all the world to see. All I want to do is collapse onto my king-sized bed and bawl like a baby, but my hands are shaking so badly, I can't unlock the door to my room. Over and over I insert my plastic key card into its intended slot, pull it out quickly as instructed, and push down on the door handle. But it won't move. Instead, a blinking red light appears on the panel above it, letting me know that I can't go inside.

"Shoot," I mutter, which is what my mother always says instead of "s.h.i.t." Stubbornly, I keep pushing on the door handle, which just as stubbornly refuses to budge. Did Melissa give me the wrong key, or forget to activate it? I hope not, because I really don't feel like trudging back down to the lobby and dealing with her or anyone else right now.

I stare at the card in my hand, turn it over, and try again. Nothing. What on earth was I thinking when I told Allie not to come with me to California? What an idiot I am. If Allie were here, she'd know what to do. I'm sure she'd be able to figure out how to work this lock with no problem at all. Or if for some reason she couldn't, she'd simply yank the entire door off its hinges in true butch fashion and fling it aside over her shoulder. I should have begged her to come, I think as I slump against the wall outside my room, finally giving in to the self-pity that's been threatening to engulf me all afternoon. Where in the world did I get the silly idea that I had the strength to do this all alone? Though I hate to admit it to anyone, especially myself, the truth is that right now without Allie by my side, I'm nothing but a hopeless, helpless femme.

As I slip further down the wall, and contemplate collapsing onto the worn green carpet at my feet, I hear my father's voice inside my head. Oh for G.o.d's sake, Lydia, pull yourself together. And that patronizing command is all it takes to transform me from a damsel in distress into Wonder Woman. "I'll open this d.a.m.n door if it's the last thing I do," I vow, straightening up and jamming the plastic card into its waiting slot like I'm stabbing a Bad Guy in the gut. Miraculously, a green light starts to blink, the door handle gives under my hand, and I stumble inside the cold, dark room.

"It's freezing in here," I tell no one as I switch on all the lights and check out my home away from home. It's your basic hotel room, nothing fancy but it will do. It has everything I need: a boat-sized bed covered with an ugly flowered bedspread, two night tables, one of which I'm sure contains a Bible in its top drawer, a wooden bureau that I don't intend on using since I'm not planning on being here long enough to unpack, a TV, a couch, a desk, and several telephones, including one mounted on the wall behind the toilet in the bathroom. Above the bed hangs a painting of a clown wearing a costume patterned with orange and purple diamonds, grinning from ear to ear, and stepping down a cobblestone street with a monkey on his shoulder. I suppose it was put there to make the room cheerful, but it doesn't. I hate clowns.

I also hate air-conditioning, so I cross the room to shut it off and let some fresh air into the room by opening a sliding gla.s.s door that I see leads to my own private little balcony. Then I fall back onto the bed and stare up at the ceiling.

Projected on the white s.p.a.ckled plaster above me as though it were a movie screen is the image of my mother's weary face wrapped around her breathing tube. I blink several times, but the image does not fade. Nor does it blur as I begin to cry, sniffling softly at first and then sobbing more and more loudly. The depth and power of my grief surprises me; the sounds escaping my throat are raw and jagged, and my whole body is shaking and chilled to the bone. I turn onto my side and gather the bedspread tightly around me, hoping for some comfort or at least a bit of warmth. Wrapped in the coverlet, I sob a while longer and then slowly, of its own accord, my body quiets down. I wipe my wet eyes on the pillowcase beneath my head and turn the pillow over. G.o.d, I miss Allie and wish she were here to take care of me. I know she would help me change out of the smelly clothes I've been wearing all day into fresh, clean pajamas, and call room service to send up something soothing to eat. I also know I can do these things for myself but even the thought of making such an effort is too overwhelming. I'll just close my eyes and rest for a few minutes, I decide, and then I'll get up and take care of business. But exhaustion trumps the best laid plans and soon I drift off to sleep.

When a loud ringing jars me awake, I call out, "Five minutes, people," which is the first thing Allie says every morning as she slaps our alarm clock into silence. But Allie is not here and it's not an alarm clock that's ringing; it's a telephone, which I fumble for on the nightstand.

"Lydia?"

"Allie?" For a delicious second I don't remember where I am, but the smiling clown hanging above the bed quickly reminds me. "I must have fallen asleep. What time is it?"

"It's a little after midnight here. How are you?"

"I'm a total mess," I say, sitting up in bed and rubbing my eyes. "How are you? How's Mishmosh? Where were you when I called?"

"I was in the bas.e.m.e.nt."

"What were you doing down there?"

"Working on something."

Instantly I am fully awake and on top of that, suspicious. Allie never goes down to her workshop during the week after putting in a full day at the lumberyard. "What were you working on?" I ask her.

"Um..." She hesitates and immediately gives herself away.

"Allie? What are you up to?" Usually I find Allie's inability to keep a secret from me endearing, as more often than not it involves a present she's bought for me or a mystery date she's been planning on the sly. But I can tell that whatever Allie's hiding from me right now is not good news from her tone of voice and the way my stomach clutches with worry. "Allie, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Lydia, I wasn't going to tell you this because I didn't want to upset you. But since you asked...our pipes froze."

"Oh no," I groan. Not frozen pipes, the bane of our New England existence. Here in balmy California with the AC turned off, I'm actually in a bit of a sweat and it's hard to imagine such a thing. "What happened?" I ask, kicking the bedspread off my feet.

I hear one of our kitchen chairs squeak against the linoleum as Allie pulls it out to sit at the table. "As soon as you left, the temperature plunged about twenty degrees," she tells me. "It's some kind of arctic blast coming in from Canada. I had turned the heat way down because you weren't going to be home all day. And I didn't know it was going to get this cold, so I didn't leave the kitchen faucet dripping. And then when I got home and turned on the water, nothing came out and I knew we were in trouble."

"Poor you," I say, in a voice that I hope conveys sympathy. Even though I did ask, it's hard for me to care very much about frozen pipes right now. "So what did you do?"

"I put my coat back on and got into the car and drove downtown to buy a blow-dryer because I couldn't find yours-"

"That's because I brought it with me."

"Yeah, well I finally figured that out. Lydia, why did you bother taking it when I told you not to? All hotels have hair dryers in their rooms nowadays."

"I know, but I always take mine just in case."

"Well your just-in-case almost cost us a burst pipe," Allie says, her voice full of frustration. "And then we would have had another flood like we did last year and it would have been a real mess."

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry, Allie." I hug one of the seven pillows on the bed to my chest and apologize. "You're right. I should have left it home."

"Lydia, why don't you ever listen to me?" Allie punctuates her question with a long huff of exasperation. "I had to go to two drugstores before I found one that had some in stock, and then by the time I got back, it was almost too late. I've been standing up on a stepladder in the bas.e.m.e.nt for over an hour thawing out the pipes with this tiny little travel dryer because it was the only one I could find."

"All right, all right, I said I was sorry. My G.o.d, you're acting like I did it on purpose." As a rule, talking to Allie always cheers me up, but this conversation is making me feel worse than I did before I got on the phone. And considering my circ.u.mstances, that's no easy task. "It's not my fault that it got so cold and our pipes froze, Allie. I had no idea-"

"I didn't say it was your fault." Allie interrupts me to defend herself. "I just-"