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his bathrobe making coffee when the phone rang. It was Lucy, calling from Concetta’s Marlborough
Street condo. She sounded like a woman who had nearly reached the end of her resources.
“If nothing changes for the worse—although I guess that’s the only way things can change now—
they’ll be releasing Momo from the hospital first thing next week. I talked with the two doctors on
her case last night.”
“Why didn’t you call me, sweetheart?”
“Too tired. And too depressed. I thought I’d feel better after a night’s sleep, but I didn’t get much.
Honey, this place is just so full of her. Not just her work, her vitality . . .”
Her voice wavered. David waited. They had been together for over fifteen years, and he knew that
when Lucy was upset, waiting was sometimes better than talking.
“I don’t know what we’re going to do with it all. Just looking at the books makes me tired. There
are thousands on the shelves and stacked in her study, and the super says there are thousands more in
storage.”
“We don’t have to decide right now.”
“He says there’s also a trunk marked Alessandra. That was my mother’s real name, you know,
although I guess she always called herself Sandra or Sandy. I never knew Momo had her stuff.”
“For someone who let it all hang out in her poetry, Chetta could be one closemouthed lady when
she wanted to.”
Lucy seemed not to hear him, only continued in the same dull, slightly nagging, tired-to-death
tone. “Everything’s arranged, although I’ll have to reschedule the private ambulance if they decide to
let her go Sunday. They said they might. Thank God she’s got good insurance. That goes back to her
teaching days at Tufts, you know. She never made a dime from poetry. Who in this fucked-up country
would pay a dime to read it anymore?”
“Lucy—”
“She’s got a good place in the main building at Rivington House—a little suite. I took the online
tour. Not that she’ll be using it long. I made friends with the head nurse on her floor here, and she
says Momo’s just about at the end of her—”
“Chia, I love you, honey.”
That—Concetta’s old nickname for her—finally stopped her.
“With all my admittedly non-Italian heart and soul.”
“I know, and thank God you do. This has been so hard, but it’s almost over. I’ll be there Monday at
the very latest.”
“We can’t wait to see you.”
“How are you? How’s Abra?”
“We’re both fine.” David would be allowed to go on believing this for another sixty seconds or so.
He heard Lucy yawn. “I might go back to bed for an hour or two. I think I can sleep now.”
“You do that. I’ve got to get Abs up for school.”
They said their goodbyes, and when Dave turned away from the kitchen wall phone, he saw that
Abra was already up. She was still in her pajamas. Her hair was every whichway, her eyes were red, and
her face was pale. She was clutching Hoppy, her old stuffed rabbit.
“Abba-Doo? Honey? Are you sick?”
Yes. No. I don’t know. But you will be, when you hear what I’m going to tell you.
“I need to talk to you, Daddy. And I don’t want to go to school today. Tomorrow, either. Maybe
not for awhile.” She hesitated. “I’m in trouble.”
The first thing that phrase brought to mind was so awful that he pushed it away at once, but not
before Abra caught it.
She smiled wanly. “No, I’m not pregnant.”