“Tommy, I’ll be fine.”
“Don’t patronize me. Were you tested?”
“I’ll go get the fucking test, Tommy, but don’t push me about it.”
“I understand if you’re afraid the news might not be good, but even if—”
“Astute of you! Who wouldn’t dread the ‘news’?”
“So you’re just going to assume the worst.”
He swept an arm to take in the room. “Where do you think you are, Happy Outlook Headquarters?”
Where did she think she was? She glanced at the computer screen, filled with lines of text: words telling a story about three children with cancer. She turned away.
“I’m sorry. I can only face so much drama at once.”
“Right,” she said. “So just go back to work. Your personal rabbit hole. No wonder you’re so crazy for Alice.”
He reached to take her arm, hold her in place. “Tommy, I have no significant secrets from you.”
“So do it. Please. Get tested.”
Three months later, Tommy returned from shopping to find a letter, on Morty’s doctor’s letterhead, tucked between the toaster and the blender. It told Morty that his second test had affirmed the results of the first: he was free of the virus. Morty had scrawled at the bottom, Lucky me, the sarcasm evident to anyone who knew him.
The year following Frieda’s death and Soren’s diagnosis was a hushed time—Soren often behaved as if he’d been tranquilized (perhaps he was)—and a diligent time. Morty told Tommy to turn down all speaking requests. He worked like a dervish to finish the first novel about the three teenagers whom he called the Inseparables, titling it, simply, Diagnosis. Sometimes, after dinner, he would read a chapter out loud to Tommy and Soren. Soren had finally learned to listen, or it looked that way. His silences felt ominous to Tommy; she almost missed his tempestuous outbursts.
For a couple of seasons, Morty insisted on cooking dinner. The parties dwindled to one every two months or so, and they were small—six dinner guests at most. Had she not known why the volume of their domestic life had been turned down again, Tommy would have found the change entirely pleasant.
But because she did know, she had the eerie sensation that they were waiting for something: for Soren—who now took a dozen different pills and tinctures, though Tommy knew this only through emptying the bathroom trash—to turn a corner one way or the other.
She started spending most weekends with her father, whose memory, like old leather, grew less and less supple, increasingly riddled with cracks and fissures. Dani had moved in with his latest girlfriend, out in Astoria, and worked as a bike messenger for a lofty Park Avenue bank.
Diagnosis came out in 1997. It claimed the covers of Publishers Weekly and Library Journal. The reviews were strewn with stars and superlatives. Suddenly, Tommy had little time for her father, even less to think (or not think) about Soren. Morty agreed to a major tour; Tommy, as usual, went along. Every night, from whatever suite they shared, Morty called home to speak with Soren. Their relationship had become more like that of a father and son, Morty’s voice ranging from tender to tendentious. Sometimes, just to escape the unavoidable eavesdropping, Tommy left the suite with a book and read in the lobby or drank a cup of tea at the bar.
Soren complained of being too lonely at the house, and seeking the company of friends was a trial, since venturing in and out of the city on his own exhausted him now. He said he felt strong enough to fly, however, so Morty decided to bring him along to a festival in Aspen. “We’ll stay on a few days after and give ourselves a little vacation,” Morty promised. He splurged on the largest suite in an old hotel with high ceilings, deep fireplaces, and imperious portraits of cattle barons. A collection of antique western saddles stood in for barstools at one of the hotel’s three restaurants.
But tucked away beneath four floors of faux-frontier decor was the sort of well-staffed spa that every expensive hotel in the civilized world was now obliged to provide for its guests. And this was precisely what Morty had in mind—that Soren would enjoy being lathered and massaged and pumiced while he and Tommy talked up the launch of his trilogy and mingled with authors of everything from diet manuals to biographies of presidents and kings.
For two days, Soren was happy—happy enough. He ate well, and the altitude, which gave Tommy a headache unless she drank vast quantities of water, didn’t bother him. On the third morning, over another early breakfast, Morty looked up from his eggs and said to Tommy, “Soren’s getting cabin fever. He needs to go out and do something. I’m not sure what.”
“I think most of the tourists here go on hikes,” Tommy said. “Or shop for chaps.”
“Hiking is not going to work for Soren. As for the chaps…” Morty, clearly envisioning his lover in chaps, briefly held his napkin over his face.
Tommy said quickly, “Then…”
“I thought there would be more culture here. Museums. Georgia O’Keeffe. Custer’s Last Stand. That sort of thing.”
“O’Keeffe is New Mexico. And Soren going out to contemplate Custer’s Last Stand? How cruel would…” She stopped midsentence.
Morty regarded her steadily, holding his toast midway to his mouth.
“Are you fishing?” she said.
“Fishing?”
“Morty. Come on. You want me to entertain him, don’t you.”
He sighed. “I don’t know. He’s neither well nor seriously unwell. I never imagined this. This long…limbo we’ve been in.”
Tommy knew what Morty was implying: that after they had learned the news, after he had sat beside Soren in several doctors’ offices (consultations about which Tommy had asked very little), Morty assumed Soren would either get better—that the brand-new “cocktails” would give him a second chance at normal life—or die. Instead, he had become a dependent, not just financially but physically, emotionally.
“There’s the gondola,” said Tommy. “To the top of the mountain.”
Morty’s response was an unspoken plea, just a look.
“Okay,” she said. “You don’t really need me with you today. You have two radio interviews, both by phone, and you’re signing stock for distributors.” She looked at her agenda. “Gold Rush Salon, anytime from noon to three.”
“Thank you,” said Morty. “We’ll try that nice Italian place for dinner. The one you saw on that side street.”
“If Soren’s up for it. He likes it better when we get room service.”
“He doesn’t always get what he wants. I think that’s pretty obvious.”
Was Morty scolding her? But it was true: she often felt toward Soren as one might feel toward a blatantly favored sibling.
So Morty put on the lanyard with his name tag, took Tommy’s copy of his schedule (annotated with names he ought to remember but always forgot), and made his way to the far reaches of the hotel, the conference and screening rooms. Tommy returned to their suite and waited for Soren to wake up.