Later that afternoon, she said, “Your CD is really very good.” She sounded almost surprised. “The Rachmaninoff sounds strong, like you mean it. And the Schubert is very poetic, very light. That’s your best piece, that Schubert.”

“Do you remember that day?” I asked. “I called you from the recording studio before I played. You were going in for a treatment.”

“Yes,” she said. “That was when they had me on Agent Orange. You sounded terribly tense; I didn’t think you’d play well that day. But I was wrong.”

• • •

On Saturday afternoon, my father set up the card table near the door to the terrace, as he often did, and my mother started a jigsaw puzzle of a painting by Monet. I stood behind her and watched her sorting the edge pieces from the center pieces for a little while, then came around the table and knelt at its far side. “I love Impressionism,” my mother said, “but Northern Renaissance is a lot easier in a jigsaw puzzle.” I made a mental note to try to find a good puzzle of a Northern Renaissance painting to give to her. For a while neither of us spoke. My father and Freddy were sitting on the terrace talking about a medical question raised in the paper, on which they strongly disagreed. “Your friend Nick came over and introduced himself to me,” my mother remarked casually.

I was instantly on the defensive. “Well, then, there he is. I guess you didn’t talk to him for long, but even so, you’ve got to admit that he’s charming and smart and very attractive,” I said.

“I’m sure he is,” said my mother, joining two sections of the edge of her puzzle. Her eyes were focused down, on some mostly blue pieces she had grouped together. “Harry. Charming and smart and attractive is all very well. But maybe you should look for nice for a change?”

I snapped back. “I’m pretty nice,” I said. I don’t know why I said that.

My mother looked at me, and she reached out her hand and put it on mine, on the edge of the table. Her voice took on that softness again. “Oh, yes, Harry,” she said. “You are. You’re one of the nicest people I’ve ever known.” And she looked straight at me, as though it were she who needed to hold on to what she was saying, to help her remember me.

I stood up then, because I was determined not to cry in front of my mother. I went out onto the terrace. Perhaps it seemed brusque. Freddy and my father were still debating. “You’ll never win with Dad,” I said. “You’re in a losing battle.” My mother called out her agreement from inside.

• • •