A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Anhil mentioned a brother, but he didn't say you were twins."

George laughs. "He likes to pretend he is the only one, but then I pop up to remind him he is not alone. Even my mother didn't know. She was at the hospital. She had my Anhil, and was trying to get up out of bed, when they said, Wait, there's more. It wasn't like it is today, where they can look ahead and take inventory. I have heard about your car."

"Anhil is out with it now."

"You permitted him to drive in the rain?"

Richard nods.

"Brave man. In our country it never rains, I don't think he's ever driven on water."

"How many more of you are there?"

"Two more brothers and three sisters. Anhil and I drive the same kind of car, Toyota Corolla; we got them used, two for one. Do you have brothers?" One.

George smiles. "Do you like the name George? It was the first thing I learned about America. George Washington, his face is on every one-dollar bill. And he had wooden teeth — every time one gave out, they put a new one in. When I came to America, I changed my name."

A customer comes in and Richard gets the man a half-dozen donuts to go.

"I bet that man eats all the donuts, one after another," George says. "If one donut is good, why not have two? If two are good, four are even better. I love America. It will make everybody rich."

Anhil returns. He puts his arms around his brother; they are mirror images of each other. "I hope he didn't scare you. He is my secret weapon," Anhil says. "When we make our movie, Super Donut Man, he will be the cruller ball in the end."

"The curve ball?"

"The cruller, the twist."

SYLVIA and Cecelia are sitting at the dining-room table, waiting. "What a surprise. I just want to put these shirts in the bedroom," he says as he ducks into the bedroom, hiding his box of donuts. "I'm sorry about yesterday," he says, "I was zonked out."

They're looking at him like it's something serious. His dinner from last night is still in the fridge, and he's sure that Cecelia has seen it.

"I was on my way to another appointment, but I wanted to stop in and see how you were doing," Sylvia says.

"Did you eat anything last night?" Cecelia asks.

He shakes his head.

"And this morning?"

"A cup of coffee."

"Real coffee?" Sylvia asks.

He nods.

"With regular milk?"

Sylvia is stricken. "All the good work we do and you drank that? Couldn't you have at least asked for soy milk? Even Starbucks has soy milk."

He's staring at Cecelia, who obviously knows about the donuts but also knows enough not to say anything. "I was with a friend."

"I know it's difficult for you right now — I'm not really sure why — but try and stay with the program. You're adding stress to your body at a time when it's already stressed. If you're bored, just tell me and we'll give you a few new things. What would you like that you're not getting?"

"What do you eat?" he asks her.

"Almost nothing."

"Steamed vegetables, brown rice?"

"I take a lot of supplements."

"Seaweed? A little bit of protein?"

"I'm not a good example. This is all I do — my life is about my food."

At the moment, he's starving. His regular breakfast is on the table in front of him.

"I put some dried organic berries on top," Sylvia says, "and I think you need a little of this."

She pulls a plastic bag from her pocket, opens it, and sprinkles some sort of powder onto his cereal.

"What is it, fairy dust?"

"Flax. I buy flax seed and grind it."

He begins to eat.

Sylvia watches him carefully, reaching out to touch the skin on his face. "Maybe we should add an egg? How about two mornings a week we give you some eggs? Do you like them poached on a bed of spinach? With maybe a broiled tomato?"

"The man needs to eat," Cecelia says. "He's starving himself. That might be what brought this on."

"It's an anti-aging diet," says Sylvia.

"He can't live on seafood, all that salmon. He's going to start growing gills or get a goiter or something."

"What if I stopped eating this way, what if I just ate like a regular person?" He pushes his cereal bowl away.

"You would die," Sylvia says.

"Do you want some eggs now?" Cecelia asks.

He shakes his head. "Quickly, would I die quickly?"

"Over time."

"But I am already dying."

"Exactly — and the purpose of eating the antioxidants, the good oils, is to help you stay healthy as long as possible. Do you want to die a good death of old age, or do you want to die of rotting disease?"

"How about I make you some nice sunny-side-up eggs or an omelet?"

"I'm OK for now," he says.

Who did he get Sylvia from? You get to people from other people, but who gave him Sylvia? A woman he dated? She was beautiful and blonde and blank. He dated her for two weeks — wanting to stop after the second date, but not wanting to hurt her feelings. And then she dumped him. Sylvia was her nutritionist?

"By the way," he asks, "do you still see — what's-her-name?"

"Who?" Sylvia asks.

"You know who, the woman who recommended me to you, you to me? What's her name?"

Sylvia shakes her head. "I don't remember who that was."

Richard shrugs, changes the subject: "What does food mean to you?"

"Everything. It means everything — love, sustenance, comfort, good care. Maybe the question is, what does it mean to you?

"When we started, it was about running an efficient, lean, clean machine. And now it's habit, regime, structure."

"Not just eggs," Cecelia says. "But bacon and eggs — I could get that nice turkey bacon, and maybe some cinnamon-raisin toast?"

"Have you ever thought of marketing your cereal?" Richard asks. "A friend of mine has a store downtown, he really likes it."

"Oh, really? I could make a batch for him."

"That would be great."

Sylvia gets up to go. "See you next week at the regular time. Meanwhile, if there's something you're craving, have it, treat yourself. This is not the military, it's not supposed to make you miserable; you have to live."

"Are you sure I can't make you some eggs or some French toast?" Cecelia asks. "Tomorrow," he says. "Tomorrow is fine."

While he's been having breakfast, there's been movement below. The pillar holding up the corner of the carport of the house next door has snapped, the carport is down, the broken pillar jutting out like a bent knee.

HE CALLS Lusardi's office. "I need to come back sooner than expected."

"You got validated last time, right?" the receptionist asks.

"Yes."

"And you're still hurting?"

"Yes."

"How about two-thirty?"

HE CALLS his insurance company — "Something is about to happen, a kind of a sinking situation, I thought I ought to ask how these things go, what the procedure is…"

"Before I say anything, let's make sure your policy is up to date — name, address, Social?"

There is the clicking of keys and then a pause and what Richard is pretty sure is the flick of a lighter, the suck of a cigarette.

"Should you really be doing that — an insurance agent and all?"

"I'm addicted," the agent says. "Can't live without it."

"Don't you worry about lung cancer?"

"Oh," he says. "It's not tobacco, it's marijuana, homegrown. Looking at your policy — you're a lucky man, you have very little to worry about."

Richard can't tell if the man is reading his insurance policy or telling his fortune. "How can you be addicted? Marijuana is not addictive."

"Trust me, I am. You must have really hit it off with the insurance agent."

"It was a very long time ago," Richard says. "They let you smoke in the office?"

"I'm the only one here until noon. My name is Paul. Well, she sold you the store, and at a very good price; we don't even sell this kind of policy now — too expensive for us."