“Arches,” I said. Absentmindedly she obliged. “Ankles!” I barked when she made as if to return to her book. The pressure of her hands gave me the feeling that, for that moment at least, everything was all right. Everything was being held in place. It would have been a great unburdening to cry. For my tantrum on the way to church. For Brahms and the three musicians. For my mother’s strong grip and the pleasure passing through me as if my body were as good as anyone else’s. Instead I closed my eyes and vowed to the universe that I would be the kind of person who wished everyone well at all times, especially my mother, who didn’t deserve any of this.

When Robin wandered in, I told him it had been the A-Minor Trio.

“I know the one,” he said, seating himself a well-judged distance away from the two of us. “An unusual piece. Clarinet and cello. They say it sounds as if the instruments are in love with one another.”

“Well, I loved it.”

“Will you go again?” Mom wanted to know.

“Oh yes. I’ll probably be born again.”

“Not in that church you won’t.”

“Oh yeah? What if I’m planning to?”

“It’s not that kind of place. I bet your grandparents were pleased to have you there.”

“Thrilled,” I said. “Ecstatic. I’d like to hear more Brahms.”

“I’ve got the CDs,” said Robin. “HashtagJustSaytheWord.”

“Actually,” I told him, “I want to hear it live.”

•  •  •

After that, I went to church from time to time to confuse my mother and make my grandmother happy. I got used to the congregation and they got used to me, though I never grew to like the prayers. I closed my eyes and roamed around in my thoughts until the musical performance began. At home Robin and I organized our own concert series, for the good weeks between treatments. My requirement was that we had to be able to see the musicians up close. This ruled out the Kennedy Center and the other big concert halls, whose front-row seats were beyond our budget. Instead we opted for chamber music at museums and libraries. We heard Beethoven at the Phillips Collection, and fifteenth-century French at the Shakespeare Library; at the Kreeger Museum it was Mendelssohn, and at the Renwick, Haydn’s quartets.

Sometimes it was just Robin and me, sometimes the three of us went. Robin sat back with his arms folded, wearing this proud look. If my mother came along, she scanned the room to see if she knew anyone, and from time to time she squeezed my knee and whispered, “Isn’t this fun?”