“It was no big deal, Dad. He slept on the couch when we were there.” And when you're not, he wanted to ask. Then where does he sleep? But they all knew that. Even Sam had commented on it to Mel on the way back, wanting to know if she thought their mother was in love with him. And she had made him once again promise not to tell their father.

“That's nice,” he repeated again. “Is he a nice guy?”

“He's okay.” Sam seemed unimpressed. “He makes a big fuss over Mom. I guess that's what French guys do. He brought her flowers and stuff, and he made us eat 'croissants.' I like English muffins better, but they were okay. It was no big deal.” Except to Oliver, who felt as though there were smoke coming from his ears. He could hardly wait to put Sam to bed, and it seemed like hours when he was finally free of him, and Mel intercepted him then, suspecting how he felt about what Sam had said.

“He shouldn't have told you all that. I'm sorry, Dad. I think he's just a friend of Mom's. It was just a little weird with him staying there.”

“I'll bet it was.”

“He said his lease had run out, and Mom was letting him sleep on the couch until he found another place to live. He was nice to us. I don't think it means anything.” Her eyes were big and sad, and they both knew it meant a lot more than she was admitting to her father. It meant Sarah had moved on, and there was a man in her life, unlike Oliver, who still longed for her every night, and hadn't had a date since she left, and still didn't want to.

“Don't worry about it, Mel.” He tried to look more relaxed about it than he felt, for her sake if nothing else. “Your mother has a right to do whatever she wants now. She's a free agent. We both are, I guess.”

“But you never go out, do you, Dad?” As she looked at him, she seemed proud of him and he smiled at her. It was an odd thing to be proud of him for.

“I just never get around to it, I guess. I'm too busy worrying about all of you.”

“Maybe you should one of these days. Daphne says it would be good for you.”

“Oh she does, does she? Well, tell her to mind her own business, I have enough confusion in my life without adding that.”

And then, his daughter looked at him, knowing the truth. And she was sorry for him. “You're still in love with Mom, aren't you, Dad?”

He hesitated for a long moment, feeling foolish for saying it, but then he nodded as he spoke, “Yes, I $m, Mel. Sometimes I think I always will be. But there's no point in that now. It's all over for us.” It was time she knew, and he suspected they all did anyway. It was five months since she'd left and nothing had turned out as she'd promised. No weekends, no vacations, she hardly ever called now. And now he knew why, if she was living with a twenty-five-year-old boy from France named Jean-Pierre.

“I kind of thought it was.” Mel looked sad for him. “Are you going to get divorced?”

“One of these days, I guess. I'm in no rush. I'll see what your mom wants to do.” And after Mel went to bed, he called her that night, remembering what Sam had said, and he didn't beat around the bush with his wife. There was no point to that. It was long past the time to play games with her.

“Don't you think it's a little tasteless to have a man staying with you when the kids are there?” There was no rage in his voice this time, just disgust. She was no longer the woman he knew and loved. She was someone else. And she belonged to a boy named Jean-Pierre. But she was the mother of his children, too, and that concerned him more.

“Oh … that … he's just a friend, Ollie. And he slept on the couch. The kids slept in my room with me.”

“I don't think you fooled anyone. They both know what's going on. At least Mel does, I can promise you that, and I think Sam has a pretty fair idea too. Doesn't that bother you? Doesn't it embarrass you to have your lover staying there?” It was an accusation now, and what really burned him was the guy's age. “I feel like I don't know you anymore. And I'm not even sure I want to.”

“That's your business now, Oliver. And how I live my life, and with whom, is mine. It might do them good if your own life were a little more normal.”

“I see. What does that mean? I should drag in nineteen-year-old girls just to prove my manhood to them?”

“I'm not proving anything. We're good friends. Age is of no importance.”

“I don't give a damn. A certain decorum is, at least when my children are around. Just see that you maintain it.”

“Don't threaten me, Oliver. I'm not one of your children. I'm not your maid. I don't work for you anymore. And if that's what you mean when you say you don't know me, you're right. You never did. All I was was a hired hand to keep your kids in line, and do your laundry.”

“That's a rotten thing to say. We had a hell of a lot more than that, and you know it. We wouldn't have stayed together for damn near twenty years if all you were to me was a maid.”

“Maybe neither of us ever noticed.”

“And what's different now, other than the fact that you've deserted your children? What's so much better? Who cooks? Who cleans? Who takes the garbage out? Someone has to do it. I did my work. You did yours. And together we built something terrific, until you knocked it down, and walked all over it, and us, on the way out. It was a stinking thing to do, to all of us, and especially me. But at least I know what we had. We had something beautiful and worthwhile and decent. Don't denigrate it now just because you walked out.”

There was a long silence at her end, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if she was crying. “I'm sorry … maybe you're right … I just … I'm sorry, Ollie … I couldn't hack it….”

His voice was gentler again. “I'm sorry you couldn't.” His voice was sweet and gruff, “I loved you so damn much, Sarah, when you left I thought it would kill me.”

She smiled through her tears. “You're too good and too strong to ever let anything get you down for long. Ollie, you don't even know it, but you're a winner.”

“So what happened?” He grinned ruefully. “It doesn't look to me like I won. Last time I looked, you weren't hanging around my bedroom.”

“Maybe you did win. Maybe this time you'll get something better. Someone better suited to you, and what you want. You should have married some terrible, light-hearted bright girl who wanted to make you a beautiful home and give you lots of children.”

“That's what I had with you.”

“But it wasn't real. I only did it because I had to. That's what was wrong with it. I wanted to be doing this, leading a bohemian life with no responsibilities other than to myself. I don't want to own anyone or anything. I never did. I just wanted to be free. And I am now.”

“The bitch of it is I never knew … I never realized …”

“Neither did I for a long time. I guess that's why you didn't either.”

“Are you happy now?” He needed to know that, for his own peace of mind. She had turned their life upside down, but if she had found what she'd been looking for, maybe it was worth it. Just maybe.

“I think I am. Happier anyway. I'll be a lot more so when I accomplish something that I think is worthwhile.”

“You already did … you just don't know it. You gave me twenty great years, three beautiful kids. Maybe that's enough. Maybe you can't count on anything forever.”

“Some things you can. I'm sure of it. Next time you'll know what you're looking for, and what you don't want, and so will I.”

“And your French friend? Is he it?” He didn't see how he could be at twenty-five, but she was a strange woman. Maybe that was what she wanted now.

“He's all right for now. It's a very existential arrangement.”

Oliver smiled again. He had heard the words before, a long time since. “You sound just the way you did when you lived in SoHo. Just make sure you're going ahead and not back. You can't go back, Sarrie. It doesn't work.”

“I know. That's why I never came home.” He understood now. It still made him sad, but at least he understood it.

“Do you want me to file?” It was the first time he had ever asked her directly, and for the first time it didn't break his heart to say the words. Maybe he was finally ready.

“When you have time. I'm in no hurry.”

“I'm sorry, sweetheart …” He felt tears sting his eyes.

“Don't be.” And then she said good night, and he was left alone with his memories and his regrets, and his fantasies about Jean-Pierre … the lucky bastard …

Sam crept back into his father's bed that night, for the first time since he'd come to New York, and Oliver didn't mind. It was comforting to have him near him.

And that weekend they went to Purchase, but they didn't see Benjamin. The children were busy with their friends, and Sarah's garden was in full bloom, so Aggie had her hands full clipping things she wanted to take back to the city, and on Saturday morning, as Oliver lay in bed, quietly dreaming, the phone rang.

It was George, and as Oliver listened, he sat bolt upright in bed. His father wasn't making much sense, all he could understand was that his mother had been hit by a bus and was in a coma. She was back in the hospital again, and his father was crying, his voice jagged and broken.

“I'll be right there, Dad. When did it happen?” It had happened at eight o'clock that morning.

He was at the hospital in under an hour, his hair barely combed, in khaki pants and the shirt he'd worn the night before, and he found his father crying softly in the hall, and when he saw Oliver, he held out his arms like a lost child.

“God, Dad, what happened?”

“It's all my fault. She was better for a few days, and I insisted on bringing her home for the weekend.” But he missed her so much, he longed for her next to him in the bed they'd shared for almost half a century, and when she had seemed better to him, he had deluded himself that it would do her good to go home for a few days. The doctors had tried to discourage him, but he had insisted he could care for her as well as they could. “She must have gotten up before I woke up. When I did, I saw her there fully dressed. She looked a little confused, she said she was going to make breakfast. I thought it was good for her to do something familiar like that, so I let her. I got up and showered and shaved, and when I went into the kitchen she wasn't there. The front door was open, and I couldn't find her. I looked for her everywhere, in the garden, in the shed. I drove all over the neighborhood, and then …”He started to sob again, “I saw the ambulance … the bus driver said she had walked right into him. He hit the brakes as hard as he could and he couldn't stop in time. She was barely alive when they brought her in, and they just don't know … Oh, Ollie, it's as though I killed her. I wanted so badly to turn back the clock, to pretend to myself that she was all right again, and of course she wasn't, and now …” She was in intensive care, and when Ollie saw her, he was badly shaken. She had sustained tremendous head injuries, and broken most of her bones. But mercifully, they said she had been unconscious from the moment she'd been hit, if that was any comfort.

The two men waited in the hall, and at noon, Oliver insisted on taking his father to the cafeteria for lunch. They saw her every hour for a moment or two, but there was no change, and by midnight it was clear to both of them that their vigil was fruitless. The doctors held out no hope, and just before dawn she had a massive stroke. His father had gone home by then, while Oliver still waited. He had called home several times and reported to Aggie on the situation. He didn't want her to tell the children yet. She had told them he'd gone back to the city for an emergency at work. He didn't want to upset them for the moment.

The doctor came to speak to him at six o'clock as he dozed in the hall. He had seen his mother for the last time two hours before. In the intensive care unit there was neither night nor day, there were only bright lights and the humming of machines, the pumping of respirators and the occasional whine of a computer, and a few sad, lonely groans. But his mother hadn't even stirred when he saw her.

The doctor touched his arm and he woke instantly. “Yes?”

“Mr. Watson … your mother has had a massive cerebral hemorrhage.”

“Is she? … has she? …” It was terrifying to say the words even now. At forty-four, he still wanted his mother. Alive. Forever.

“Her heart is still pumping, and we have her on the respirator. But there are no brain waves. I'm afraid the fight is over.” She was legally dead, but technically, with their help, she was still breathing. “We can keep her on the machines as long as you like, but there's really no point. It's up to you now.” He wondered if his father would want him to make the decision for him, and then suddenly he knew he wouldn't. “What would you like us to do? We can wait, if you'd like to consult your father.” Oliver nodded, feeling a sharp pain of loneliness knife through him. His wife had left him five months before, and now he was about to lose his mother. But he couldn't think of it selfishly now. He had to think of George and what it would mean to him to lose his wife of forty-seven years. It was going to be brutal. But in truth she had left him months before, when she began fading. Often, she even forgot who he was. And she would have grown rapidly worse over the next year. Maybe, in a terrible way, this was better.