She turns around to look at me. Blinks. “I’m his wife. Who else should do for him? If I get sick like that, God forbid, it will be his turn to take care of me—not that he would do such a good job as I am, oh no, not by a long shot, let me tell you. This is marriage, Marilyn. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. For about ten minutes, you get the romance. Then you get the rest. Ah, so what. You know? What are you gonna do?” She gets two cups down from the cupboard. “Tea?”

“No thanks.”

From the bedroom down the hall, we hear Murray calling.

“Oy,” she says. “You see? A hundred times a day. Two hundred. Coming!” she yells.

“I’ll go, Ethel, and I’ll tell him you’re coming.”

“Ask him does he want his toasted bagel now, would you, darling?”

I enter Murray’s darkened bedroom, see him slowly sitting up. “I need to take a shit, Ethel.”

“It’s Myra.”

“Aw, Jesus. I’m sorry. Raise the blind, will you? She keeps it like a crypt in here. I never saw anyone so opposed to sunshine.”

“Do you need some help getting to the bathroom?”

“She can do it.”

“I can, too.”

“I’ll wait for her. Not that I don’t appreciate it, Myra, thank you anyway, thank you very much.”

“She wanted to know if you’d like your bagel now.”

He waves his arm in a gesture of futile dismissal. “If I say yes, she’ll complain because she has to make it. If I say no, she’ll complain because I’m not eating. So what should I say? I’ll say yes, and eat half.”

I sit on the bed, take his hand, and smile at him. “So. Murray. You’re happy to be home, huh?”

He smiles back at me. “What are you gonna do?”

Chapter 17

Later in the afternoon, I stop in at the agency to pick up supplies. Sandy, our receptionist, has a spectacular bouquet of flowers on her desk. It’s all white: roses, Casablanca lilies, lisianthus, freesia, orchids, phlox, sweet peas, delphinium. “Wow!” I say. “Who sent you that?”

“It’s not for me.” She pushes the vase toward me.

I laugh. “Are you kidding?”

“Take a look at the envelope. It says, ‘Miss Myra Lipinski, R.N.’”

At first I just stand there, taking in the extraordinary beauty of the flowers, allowing myself to luxuriate in speculation. Of course I imagine first that it’s Chip. But it couldn’t be. Could it? Then I think, No, it’s Mrs. Peters. She’s the only one who could afford this. But maybe, somehow, it’s Grace, could it be Grace? Diann?

I open the card and read, I surrender. No signature.

“Who sent them?” Sandy asks.