Martin did; Ethel shone the light into his mouth. "Lift your tongue for me."

He complied, Ethel nodded her head, clicked off the light, and started to walk away. Martin called her name and she turned around.

"Do you have to go?" he asked. "It'd be nice to . . . have someone to talk to."

"Martin, come this time tomorrow, if not sooner, you're gonna be looking back at this time by yourself as the good old days. Enjoy the quiet while it's yours to enjoy. If you're still hungry after you finish, they brought extra trays of food-they always bring extras; have some more if you want. What doesn't get eaten goes down the disposal." And with a bright and sincere smile, she went back into the nurses' station, closed the door, and took her seat at one of the desks; another nurse, this one much younger, with porcelain-doll skin and a head of l.u.s.trous red hair, was typing something into her computer while talking to Bernard, who caught sight of Martin through the gla.s.s and gave him a quick nod.

Martin looked down at the food remaining on his tray and wondered how many trays like this the hospital kitchen had to wash every day, and just as quickly remembered all the times he'd watched his mother standing at the sink washing dishes, her and Dad having never been able to afford a dishwasher, and as he stared at this remembered image of her arthritic hands slipping dirty dishes into hot soapy water (while she hummed Charley Pride's "Kiss An Angel Good Morning," her favorite song), he wondered how many hours of her life she'd spent like that, alone in the kitchen, after the meals, standing at the sink washing dishes; had she ever gotten tired of it? Did she wish she'd been able to afford a dishwasher so she didn't have to spend so much time on this ch.o.r.e that no one else really noticed or thought about unless it wasn't done? Did she ever want someone else in the kitchen with her, someone to talk to while she performed this thankless task in a day filled with thankless tasks? How much of her life had she spent washing . . . ?

Martin set down his plastic fork and knife, lowered his head, and wept into his hands. He could try thinking about Dad but odds were he'd just come up with some equally happy image alive with equally cheerful thoughts. Christ! Why was it that the bad memories were always broadcast in high-definition crystal clarity, while the good ones could only be found using an old set of rabbit-ears that obscured them in static and snow?

I'll do the dishes, Martin, don't you worry about me . . .

She'd said the same thing to him the last time he'd had dinner with her, the night before she had the ma.s.sive coronary from which she never awakened. Nine months since Dad had died, nine months with no one else but her son to cook nice meals for, and he couldn't be there every night, and when he did, by-G.o.d she did the dishes . . .

. . . you gotta stop this right now, Martin told himself; but, still, the tears kept coming.

And his food was getting cold.

"Oh, this is f.u.c.kin' great!"

Martin pulled his hands away from his face, then wiped his eyes to see a young woman of perhaps twenty-three standing there glowering at him.

"It ain't bad enough that I wind up in f.u.c.kin' Buzzland," she snarled. "No, I gotta have breakfast with some cry-baby, over-the-hill loser . . . well, f.u.c.k that!" She stormed over to the trays and grabbed one, piling on the milk and orange juice containers before heading back toward her room.

"Where you going, Wendy?" said Bernard, stepping into her path.

"I'm gonna eat in my f.u.c.kin' room, all right? I don't wanna be around no cry-baby."

Bernard shook his head. "You know the rules, Wendy; you eat out here with the other clients, or you don't eat."

"But I'm f.u.c.kin' hungry!"

Martin wondered if there was some rule requiring her to say either "f.u.c.k" or "f.u.c.kin'" in every sentence; would she perhaps be heavily fined otherwise? The thought should have made him smile, but he was still stuck back in his mother's kitchen, watching as she reached for yet another dirty dish, and so looked down at his food so he could cry without drawing too much attention to himself. Besides, he still had another sausage link and a fruit cup to finish.

"I ain't eating in here, Bernie. Not with that guy! No f.u.c.kin' way!"

"Then you're not eating, period."

"To h.e.l.l with you and your lousy G.o.dd.a.m.n food, then!" screamed Wendy- -Martin thought: don't you mean to say, f.u.c.k you and your lousy f.u.c.kin' food?- -then Wendy spun around and hurled her tray, drinks, and utensils into the wall over Martin's head. The tray hit with a loud bang!, its lid popping loose and splattering food all over the wall, the floor, and the back of Martin's shirt.

Bernard grabbed Wendy from behind, throwing both his ma.s.sive arms across her chest and pinning her arms, then lifted her off the floor, her legs kicking, her head thrashing side to side, a stream of curses and profanities spewing from her mouth that would have made a trucker blush, and before Bernard had even turned fully around, Ethel and the other nurse were there, the redhead pulling out and holding steady one of Wendy's arms while Ethel stuck a needle in and sank the plunger; Wendy was unconscious before Ethel pulled out the needle. Bernard and Ethel took Wendy to her room. The redhead turned around to make sure Martin was all right, saw that he was crying, and said, "This doesn't happen all that often."

"I didn't do anything," he said.

"No one has to, where Wendy is concerned," replied the redhead, then set about cleaning up the tray and food. Martin was confused about what the nurse had said; he hadn't been talking about Wendy at all.

He finished his breakfast in silence, stopping only once more, halfway through the fruit cup, when a particularly hard burst of tears got the better of him. Finally he was done with the food (and out of his mother's kitchen), showing the redhead his plastic utensils before tossing them in the trash, then being given a towel and a bar of soap for his shower.

"You doing all right?" asked the redhead, whose name tag identified her as Amber Fox; Martin wondered how much teasing she got about her last name, being as pretty as she was.

"I don't mean to sound rude or anything," he said, "but if I was doing all right, why would I be here?"

Amber nodded. "Good point."

"Will Wendy be okay?"

"That's sweet of you to ask. She'll be okay. We can't promise anything more than 'okay', but we can promise that."

Martin started toward the bathroom when something occurred to him: "Amber?"

She stopped, the nurses' station door halfway closed. "Yes?"

"What happened to my grocery bag?"

"You're not getting any of that stuff back, Martin, so don't bother asking again."

Being scolded by a girl maybe half his age; was his life working out, or what? "I wasn't asking about the drugs. There was a watercolor painting in the bag, and I don't remember-"

"Oh, that," said Amber. "I wondered where that came from. It's in here, safe and sound. Would you like me to take it to your room?"

"Yes, thank you."

He took his shower-feeling as if he hadn't bathed in a month-then cleaned off his shirt, dressed, towel-dried his hair, went back into the main area, plopped down in one of the surprisingly comfortable easy chairs, flipped around the channels until he saw what looked like a movie, and sat back to watch, fighting the effects of the medication every step of the way. Man did this stuff kick your a.s.s in a hurry.

This scene in the movie took place in a dim, shabby room. An actor who looked familiar was lying in a bed. Next to the bed, a large black man, balding, sporting a goatee, sat in a chair with an oversized, dusty, leather-covered book on his lap, its pages opened to reveal-as the camera cut to a close-up-an ill.u.s.tration of a creature that might have been the twin of the camera-thing Martin had seen on the roof of the building last night.

Now it had his full attention.

Next to the ill.u.s.tration, encased in a delicately etched square of trellised lilacs, was a large dark A scripted in the most eloquent calligraphy Martin had ever seen.

It was, he realized, an ancient book.

The camera cut to a medium shot of the room, showing the bed and the man sitting next to it; the large black man cleared his throat, smiled, took a drink from a silver chalice, and began reading from the ancient book: "'An old magic man wakes one morning to find that the magic in his mind has grown so heavy that his head sinks down into his shoulders from the weight of it all. Since only his forehead and eyes are now visible, he knows it's time to store some of his magic elsewhere, until such time as he needs it, or else he's going to attract some very odd stares when he goes out.

"'An old magic man rummages through his kitchen drawers until he finds the steel mallet he uses to soften up the tough but inexpensive meat he buys from the butcher. "Just a little hole," he says to himself. "Only big enough to drain off the excess magic."

"'But an old magic man's judgment isn't what it used to be-he hits himself far too hard, and the hole he punches into his head is much larger than he intended; magic pours from his skull like a waterfall. "Well, s.h.i.t-fire and save the matches!" he says, watching as his magic a.s.sumes various forms: an aviatrix with three rabbits' heads; oversized clown puppets with severe curvature of the spine; gargoyles in expensive three-piece pin-striped suits; a large wooden mask with onyx-dark eyes that looks like the head of a soldier wearing a crown . . . all of these forms and more ooze from an old magic man's skull as he searches frantically for something with which he can stuff up the hole.

"'Never being one who thinks clearly when in the grip of panic, an old magic man grabs the first thing he sees that looks like it might do the trick-the drain plug from his sink. It does very nicely, but now his room is overflowing with bits and pieces of his magic; bobbing in the air as it eats his cookies, scurrying on multiple legs as it looks through the books on his shelves, unfurling ma.s.sive rainbow wings as it smokes his cigarettes, dropping ashes onto the sofa. He asks it to stop behaving so inconsiderately, but it ignores him and eats all his groceries and makes rude noises and in general makes the morning quite unpleasant. An old magic man screams and shouts at the magic to sit down and for goodness' sake behave itself. It doesn't listen to him; it's been cooped up in his head for so long that all this extra room is just too tempting to resist.

"'Down in the street, a young boy hears an old magic man's cries and, fearing that the odd fellow might be in some sort of trouble, rushes into the building and up to an old magic man's cluttered room. He flings open the door with such force that all the escaped magic-except for the wooden soldier mask, which manages to hide beneath the sofa-is squashed into one enormous blob and bursts.

"'Hours later they are still trying to scrub it off the young boy, but to no avail; it has soaked into the boy's skin. "Well," says an old magic man, looking down at the young boy who is very short, "it appears we have a problem." "I've never felt magic before," says the young boy, looking up at an old magic man, who is a giant. "Is it supposed to itch like this?" "You'll get used to it," says an old magic man, scratching under one of his arms, then: "Say, you're not by chance looking for a job, are you?"

"'And that is how an old magic man found his apprentice.'"

The actor in the bed tried to sit up but found his body was too weak, and in a moment that knocked the breath from his lungs and the strength from his arms, Martin realized that it wasn't any well-known familiar actor, it was him. "Why are you reading this to me?" his on-screen self asked the large black man.

The large black man winked. "Patience never was one of your strong points, was it?"

Once again Martin-on-the-screen tried to move, but his limbs were useless. "I can't seem to . . . Jesus! Help me, will you?"

"That's the idea," said the large black man, wetting his thumb and turning the page. "By the way, Martin . . ."

. . . Martin . . .

". . . Martin . . ."

"Martin!"

He blinked his eyes and saw Dr. Hayes standing over him, her hand still on his shoulder from having shaken him.

"I see you took your morning medications," she said, smiling at him as she turned off the television, then sat down in the easy chair opposite his. "They pack a bit of a punch, don't they?"

"Uh . . . yeah . . . yeah, they do." He pulled himself up, stretched his back, and leaned forward. "Sorry about that. Was I asleep?"

"I couldn't tell, but after you didn't respond to me saying your name, I just a.s.sumed . . . ."

"I don't remember falling asleep . . . I mean, it feels like I was maybe asleep, but . . ." he sighed. "I'm babbling. Sorry."

"It's okay. The first day or two we have to go through a sort of trail-and-error with the medications, see which ones you best respond to. Most clients are fairly numb the first thirty-six hours or so. Some of the combinations do a real number on people. Are you okay now? You up for this?"

Martin shrugged. "I'd kill for a cup of real coffee right about now. That was a figure of speech, by the way, the 'kill for' part."

"I figured."

Martin stared at a large carry-out cup of coffee that Dr. Hayes had brought in with her.

"I see that you covet my cafe mocha."

He looked up at her. "If I got an empty cup, could I have just a little bit?"

"Caffeine is against the rules, Martin."

"Please? I promise you I'm not going to flip out or start bouncing off the walls or take hostages."

"Actually, Martin, I'm a fairly selfish person-comes from growing up as the youngest child with three older brothers who never left my stuff alone. I don't like sharing. However-" She reached behind her and picked up another cup of carry-out coffee. "-I'm also not inconsiderate." She handed the cup to Martin. "Anyone asks, that's decaffeinated, got it?"

"You're the boss. By the way, I love you and want to have your babies." He pulled back the tab on the plastic lid and took a slow, deep swallow. Nothing had ever tasted so wonderful. "Oh, yes . . . you know, I always suspected that the 'manna from Heaven' in the Bible was actually slow-brewed coffee. With whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles."

Dr. Hayes smiled. "I figured that you'd be a little wonky from the medications, and I'd prefer that you not conk out on me in the middle of this."

"Thank you." Already the dream-if that's what it had been-was fading away . . . just not completely.

Don't dwell on it, pal; dwelling on things is what put you here, remember?

"How are you getting along so far?" asked Dr. Hayes.

"Okay, I guess. I've already caused another client to blow a gasket and I didn't have to say a word."

"Yes . . . Ethel mentioned something about Wendy. Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, I don't think so. I guess we'll find out as we go along, huh?"

Dr. Hayes stared at him for a moment, then opened the file lying on her lap. "All right. I've spoken to your doctor, and he was good enough to fax me your records-you signed a form granting him permission to share them with any other doctor treating you-"

"I remember. I sign that same form every year."

"I am required to tell you that." She flipped through a couple of pages, then back again. "You've had trouble with depression for a very long time, haven't you? Even before your parents' deaths, you were being treated for it."

"One hundred milligrams of Zoloft twice a day-mornings and afternoons; thirty milligrams of Remeron at night."

"That's pretty hefty, putting Remeron on top of the Zoloft. I take it you have trouble falling asleep?"

"Staying asleep, actually."

"You wake up after a few hours, then toss and turn, go in and out for brief periods, maybe fall back asleep about an hour before the alarm goes off?"

Martin nodded. "Give that lady a cigar." He took another glorious swallow of the large cafe mocha.

Still flipping back and forth between the faxed pages and various forms, Dr. Hayes asked: "I see that the Zoloft dosage was increased right around the time your father completed his last round of radiation treatments."

"Things were . . . kind of tense. He had trouble controlling his bowels, and anytime he didn't make it to the bathroom in time, he'd lose his temper or start crying like a baby; Mom and I would switch around-one of us would take care of Dad, wipe him off, clean him up, calm him down; the other would mop up whatever kind of . . . trail he left along the way. It was bad, and I was getting more and more shaky, and I was the only person they had to depend on, so my doctor increased the dosage and that helped a little."

"Look, Martin," said Dr. Hayes, closing the folder on whose cover she would continuously write notes for the rest of the session. "I realize that a large part of your recent depression was centered around your parents' illnesses and deaths, that's only natural. But their dying wasn't what pushed you into planning your own death, was it?"

"It might have nudged things a little." He exhaled, shook his head, and wasn't surprised to feel a few stray tears dribble from his eyes and slide down his face. "One morning after Mom's funeral I woke up, showered, got dressed, had breakfast, and was starting out the door when it suddenly hit me that . . . I had nowhere to go. I wouldn't be taking Dad to and from his treatments or his doctor, I wouldn't be taking Mom to her cardiologist or running errands for her, I didn't need to separate their medications for the week and put everything in the dispensers, I didn't need to do anything around the house because n.o.body . . . n.o.body was home anymore . . . all I had to do was go into work at five p.m. and do my job until midnight. That was it. And it scared the s.h.i.t out of me."

Dr. Hayes nodded. "So much of your day-to-day life had been centered on helping to take care of them that maybe you forgot to take care of yourself."

Martin shook his head. "Don't make it sound so n.o.ble. I did what any kid should do for their parents."

"Did you resent it sometimes?"

"h.e.l.l, yes-why wouldn't I?"

"There's nothing wrong with that, it's a natural reaction."

"Thank you, but I'm not looking for . . . what's the word?-validation. I know there was nothing wrong with feeling that way, it didn't make me evil, it didn't make me a bad son or a rotten human being who should go straight to h.e.l.l and spend eternity bowling with Eichmann-I know this, okay? Most of the time, I was grateful for having so much to do. It kept the days pretty full."

"What did you do before all of that? How did you fill your days?"

"I read a lot. Watched movies. Listened to music. Went to work."

"You told me last night that you'd wanted to be a writer. Did you spend any time writing?"

"No."