SEVENTY-TWO

SEVENTY-TWO

THREE HOURS LATER. THE kids need to get out of this room. They've weathered the initial shock, seeing their father in this state. They've talked to him, told him stories, stared at him. There is a limit, especially for children. They don't want to leave, and they claim they're not hungry, but they need a change of scenery.

I send a text message to Camille, who meets us downstairs in the hospital cafeteria. I get chicken nuggets for Lincoln and some buttered noodles for Grace and put them at a table. Camille is standing at a distance, waiting for me.

"Tough times," she says, nodding at the kids. "I can't imagine."

"You'll be imagining soon enough. Though I hope not under these circumstances."

"Oh, yeah." She puts a protective hand over her belly. "That's right. So how do you want to do this?"

"Stay with the kids at all times," I say. "They won't be going to school for the foreseeable future. Certainly not next week. I'd like them to stay at home or here at the hospital, but … I'm not sure kids can be cooped up like that 24-7."

"If they want to get out — like, to a park or something — I'll go with them."

"Good. I'll be around a lot, too."

She cocks her head. "A lot, but not all the time?"

I look back at the kids. "A lot, but not all the time," I say. "I can't completely give up my law practice. People are counting on me."

"You need protection, too, Marcie."

Maybe. But not the same kind of protection as the kids.

"David would want me to protect you, too," she says.

I pivot, looking directly at her. But this is not the place for a scene, so I take a breath and lean into her ear. "Don't ever tell me what David would or would not want, as if you know him better than I do. You don't. Got it?"

She draws back, chastened. "Okay. Sure; fine."

"David would want me to work through this as best I can. And that means I may have some things I have to do without the children. So promise me that when I'm not around, you'll protect the children."

"I promise. I swear."

"Good. Now come meet the kids. They'll like you."

"You think? Why?"

"Because you won't talk down to them. They hate that."

She seems to appreciate the comment. She's about forty and soon to be a first-time mother. I know from experience that she's wondering what kind of mom she'll be.

"And when does this going-off-and-doing-things-withoutthe-kids begin?" she asks me as we walk.

"This afternoon," I say. "I have to be gone for an hour or so."