Ninety-Eight

NINETY-EIGHT

I INVITE brIGID TO join Dr. Ben and me for dinner at Rowdy Hall, which had just moved to Amagansett from East Hampton and was within walking distance of my house.

"Two patients at dinner are one too many," my sister says. "I looked it up in the cancer rule book."

I'm feeling better now that I've put three or four days between me and the end of chemo. Having Brigid back, even in her own diminished state, makes me feel even better. And as close to her as I've felt in a long time.

Maybe ever.

Something else that's making me feel stronger, and more energized? I'm little more than a week out from jury selection. If this really is going to be my last trial—for a long time and, who knows, maybe forever—I'm determined to go out with a bang.

Figure of speech.

Ben is having a Rowdy Burger. I've gone with the best Fish & Chips on the entire East End. While we eat, we're talking again about Jimmy's visit to Thomas McKenzie, and what McKenzie said about people ending up dead in the water.

"Are you convinced they're both dead," Ben asks, "even though they haven't found the bodies?"

"I don't know how either of them could have survived unless they got into the water before the boat blew and could swim like Michael Phelps."

I tell him what McKenzie said, basically about us being in over our heads.

"You still could walk away, you know," Ben says.

" You know better than that."

"We've talked about this before," he says. He has the sweetest eyes, a perfect fit for this sweet, sweet man. "None of this is worth dying over, not when you're fighting this hard to live."

I feel myself squeezing his hand, harder than I meant. "I need to know."

It comes out far more fiercely than I had intended, surprising even me.

"Sorry for the outburst," I say.

"Don't be sorry on my account," Ben says, and smiles at me again with those eyes, before I tell him that we're done talking about bad guys tonight, I'm still out on a date with one of the good guys.

More likely the best guy.

We are about to look at the dessert menu when he gets a call. A golden retriever belonging to a tennis pal of his was hit by a car in the Springs. The dog is being rushed to Ben's office. Ben tells the person he's on his way.

I got lazy and drove us here. So I drive him to his office. He calls his nurse on the way.

"We never close," he says.

I remind him that's my line.

I'm on my way home from Ben's office, just turning onto my street, when Brigid calls. "Can you come over?" she asks.

She's not calling from the Meier Clinic this time with chemo news. She's only a few miles away, at the western end of Amagansett. But it's another time when I don't like the sound of her voice, not even a little bit.

"Are you okay?"

There's a pause.

"Just hurry," she says. "Please."