Helen and I finally found an apartment for me. It was a loft downtown, full of quirky architectural details and dramatic vistas. It had windows the size of front doors, and no doors at all, and it was big enough for the piano. It was not to my taste, nor was it to my mother’s taste, and I don’t think Helen liked it much, either; but it was at least a far cry from anything in London. I moved my things in, with Helen’s help, and the place gleamed with the supernal cleanliness of Helen’s own apartment. I took very little from my parents’ house, because I did not want to destroy the eternal space that I had occupied since childhood. I moved out of my parents’ apartment on a Wednesday, and when I had put the last bag into the elevator, my mother looked at me and I thought for a second that she was going to cry. But in fact, she laughed instead, and as the elevator door closed, I realized that I was the one who was sick with the sense of loss.

Everyone agreed that my new space downtown was spectacular, and I spoke of starting a new life, my new New York life. My mother came down the day after I’d moved in and brought me salt “so that life will have flavor to it,” flour “for growth and health,” sugar “for the great sweetness of life,” and marmalade “because I know you like it.”

• • •

My father had ceased to love me when my mother became ill. I cannot blame him for that; one man can manage only so much love, and my father had turned all his immense powers of affection toward my mother. Still, it was a disappointment, and I felt it to the core of my being. In fact, I thought that my father, who had always been able to deal with any situation, should have been able to make my mother well; and I think that he, too, thought that. He kept applying himself to her health, believing that enough money and enough willpower and enough intelligence and enough love could solve all the problems of the world.

He and I had lunch often, because Freddy and I were the only people with whom he could discuss my mother’s terrible plan. He kept reworking the details, with me, then with Freddy, then with me again, then with Freddy again.

“I have a booklet,” he told me, “with instructions in it. It’s a booklet for people who want to end their own lives. It says when to take the pills and so on. I’ve been studying it.”

I said that I had not realized that these matters required much technical expertise.

“You have to do it right,” said my father. “For legal and medical reasons. So it works.”

The booklet was only about thirty pages long. “How much time have you spent studying that?” I asked. It looked dog-eared.