cuisine of romance.”
“We could do the slow-food angle, Rosie. Look at the ratings chef shows pull in.”
“Gourmet deli … food … for the soul.”
“Sublime
“Satisfaction for body,
“Encompassing the entire realm of the senses.”
Milo said, “How about nourishing some curiosity?”
“Tell you what,” said Suki. “We’ll check with Brian.”
“Fine, we’ll wait.”
“Oh, no, sorry,” said Rosalynn. “These kinds of decisions can’t be made impulsively.”
Her sister said, “Brian’s the last person you’d call impulsive.”
“Aw c’mon, girls,” said Milo.
“You’re so sweet,” said Suki. “But I’m so, so sorry, we can’t. In the end it’s in your best interests, as well. Well-organized decisions work out better for all concerned.”
“Infinitely better,” said her sister.
She followed us out of the suite.
Milo said, “Call as soon as you’ve talked to Brian.”
“You bet. And if you know someone who’d profit from our services, be sure to clue them in. We really are the best.”
had Stengel said, “Mommy’s going to die.”
It was four p.m. and he’d been home from school long enough to have a snack and watch a couple of videos.
We were in his room, a sky-blue alternate universe filled with books, toys, costumes, art supplies. When I arrived he was sitting next to Gretchen in the living room, pretending not to notice as she introduced us. Before she finished, he left.
She said, “Has a mind of his own.” Smile. Cough. “I know what you’re thinking, big mystery where that came from.”
I smiled back. But she was right.
When I entered the room, he was lying on his back in bed, staring at the ceiling.
I said, “Hi.”
“Hi.”
I sat down cross-legged on the floor. He blinked. “You’ll get dirty.”
“Should I sit somewhere else?”
He pointed to a chair lettered
“Do you know who I am, Chad?”
“A doctor.”
“I’m a psychologist, the kind of doctor who doesn’t give shots—”
“We s’posed to talk about feelings.”
“Mommy told you that?”
“Aunt Bunny.”
“What else did Aunt Bunny tell you?”
“Mommy’s afraid to talk.”
“About what?”
“She’s going to die.”
He crossed husky arms over his chest. His face was a soft white sphere dotted with freckles. A grave little boy, broad and solid with a low center of gravity. His oversized yellow Lakers T-shirt was spotless. Same for baggy knee-length skater’s pants and red-and-black Nikes. Dark hair styled meticulously hung to his shoulders. Eighties hair-band coif on a six-year-old.
His eyes were a tone shy of black and active. Looking anywhere but at me.
“Aunt Bunny told you Mommy was going to die.”
The arms clenched tighter. “She’s sick. It doesn’t stop.”
“Mommy’s sickness doesn’t stop.”
“Aunt Bunny said.”
Instead of completing the sentence, he snatched up an action figure from a collection of dozens. One space ranger in an army of miniature centurions posed to do battle, green-scaled, fanged, plated with steroid muscles.
“Aunt Bunny said—”
“I didn’t give it to her.”
“That’s true.”
Silence. His mouth tightened into a sour little knot.
“Aunt Bunny told you the truth, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy her sickness.”
A low, gravelly noise rose from his tiny torso. The sound an old man might make when grumpy or congested or waking up tired.
“You’re not sure?”
“The teachers are always saying stay home if you’re sick. So you don’t give it.” Tossing the action figure to the side, the way you’d fling lint. It hit the wall, dropped silently to the bed. “She stays home.”
“There are different types of sickness,” I said.
Silence.
“The sicknesses your teachers talk about are colds. The sickness Mommy has you can’t get from anyone else. Ever.”
He retrieved the green warrior, tried to pull off the head. Failed and discarded it again.
“Do you know what Mommy’s sickness is called?”
“I gave her a cold.”
“Colds are different. You can catch colds from someone else if they sneeze on you.”
“One time I was real sick.” Touching his abdomen. He tossed the green figure across the room. It hit the wall, fell to the floor.
I said, “One time your tummy hurt?”
“Before.”
“Before Mommy got sick.”
Grunt. “I was coughing.”
“Mommy coughs.”
“Yeah.”
“There are different kinds of coughs, Chad. You didn’t give Mommy’s sickness to her. I promise.”
Rocking on stubby feet, he got off the bed, dropped to his knees as if praying, searched underneath the frame, and pulled out a drawing tablet.
Professional-quality Bristol board. A handwritten note on the cover said
Chad let go of the pad. It slapped carpet. He touched his belly again. “I throwed up.”
“When your tummy was—”
“Mommy throws up. All the time.”
“People throw up for all kinds of reasons, Chad.”
He kicked the drawing tablet. Did it again, harder.
“Even though everyone keeps saying you didn’t give Mommy her sickness, you’re worried you did.”
His toe nudged the pad.
“You don’t believe anyone.”
