A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

There they are buying lemonade from a little girl with a stand on the side of a rural road — "She had a box of Free Kittens, 10 weeks old, we wanted to take them all, instead we just played with them and took pictures. Logging a lot of hours behind the wheel — CD player is great. Accidentally left the cell phone in a diner — didn't realize until late at night — located it by calling the number. It was on the floor under the booth with all the fallen French fries, saltine wrappers, and old napkins. The waitress dropped it at FedEx and we picked it up the next morning at Mail Boxes Etc., in New Mexico. We're now in a Starbucks, it's all pretty great. I'm sending you this message from there. Have you ever had Mountain Dew? We love it and are drinking it round the clock — lots of caffeine. We're buzzed!"

Looking at the pictures of Ben, Richard is overwhelmed — it's incredible that he has a son. A boy, a man, just like him and not like him at all, except that some piece of his essential self has continued on, has a chance to get it right, to try again.

Looking at the pictures, he feels the weight of all those years, the enormity of his absence, and he begins to cry.

Cynthia sits next to him. She holds him and he cries harder.

"I missed so much," he says.

And when he is done, she leaves him, and as grateful as he was that she held him, he is glad to be alone with his grief.

HE RISES EARLY and meditates. There is a white velvet painting on the wall; at first he thinks it's an abstraction, then he realizes it's two women making love. He sits, noticing his breath, his back, his body, the sound of the water outside, the cool air blowing through. He practices, banging an imaginary gong, gently closing his eyes, finding his breath in his body, the morning sun flooding through, seeming to rise on him, in him.

He misses the sounds of other people breathing, throats clearing. He makes a note to himself — buy incense.

He sits, breathing, transforming the darkness into light, breathing, transforming anger into compassion, into forgiveness.

He sits for an hour, and by then the sun is fully risen, the room is bright, glowing, hot. Glancing out onto the ocean, he sees something — first he thinks it's a bit of debris, floating, and then realizes it's a yellow swimming cap. He watches the swimmer, stroking her way down the ocean, swimming towards Santa Monica. The fact that there is a swimmer out there, a mermaid, is incredibly uplifting — if there is a swimmer there is hope.

He tiptoes into the living room. She is on the sofa. "Are you awake?" she asks him.

"Yes," he says, wondering if and why she thinks he's sleepwalking.

"You're up early."

"Always."

"Do you want to go for a walk?" she asks. "I got in the habit of early-morning walks."

Together they go to the glass, they stand looking out over the Pacific.

"From the bedroom I saw a woman swimming. She was swimming like she was doing laps, swimming the ocean like it was a forty-foot pool, and at some point she'll get to the end, touch, and turn around and swim back. Look," he says, excited. "I just saw something else."

"Like what?"

"Dolphins."

And, sure enough, there is a school, a pack of dolphins crossing, leaping through the air, coming up out of the water, as if performing an athletic dance, as if waving good morning.

"I have to go down there," she says. "Are you coming?"

"I think I'm going to stay. I need to make a few calls."

CECELIA'S HIP has come in. "If it's OK with you, I'll go ahead and have them put it in. I won't be able to work for six to eight weeks."

"I'd like to send you a check," he says.

"Are you firing me?"

"Of course not; I imagine you'll have some expenses."

"Hold on to your money."

"Cecelia, when you check into the hospital, get a private room. I'll pick up the difference — you should have what you need."

"I'm fine with what they give me."

He calls the nutritionist. "Cecelia told me you were away," she says.

"I was on a retreat. They had spirulina and ground flax seed."

"Very good. So where is your new place?"

"Malibu."

"Oh, far. I have a route that I kind of stick to, but I could meet you somewhere along the way. Maybe Santa Monica?"

"Whatever works; I'm flexible."

"Meet me in the Fred Segal parking lot tomorrow at two-fifteen and I'll make you a bunch of things that will get you through the week."

"Good, and I'll need a double order — food for two."

"You're pregnant?"

"No, I have a friend staying here."

"A friend — congratulations."

He calls the trainer. "Malibu — wow, you're out of my service area. When will you be back?"

"A month, maybe two."

"There's got to be a gym or a Shanti out there — look in the phone book under 'exercise.' "

He does, and finds something called Malibu Gyrotonics.

"Have you ever done Pilates, gymnastics, or other dance-based exercise?" the woman answering the phone quizzes him.

"No."

"I can put you in with Sydney tomorrow at three."

"Perfect."

"It's eighty-five dollars a session."

"Perfect."

"Not covered by insurance, unless you have a physical-therapy prescription."

"Perfect."

He calls Lusardi's office.

"How was it?" the receptionist asks.

"Transforming," he says, laughing. "Everyone got diarrhea. I need to make a time to come in."

"How's today at one?"

"Perfect." Everything is suddenly perfect.

"If your stomach is still bothering you, bring a sample and we'll culture it."

He pretends he didn't hear that.

There's a knock on the front door. It's Billy, the real-estate agent. "Everything hunky-dory?"

Richard nods. "Why didn't you tell me whose house this was?"

"It seemed obvious."

"To everyone but me."

Billy shrugs.

"Last night my windows blew out," Richard says. "I need someone to take a look, but I've got no idea where to begin."

"Billy knows someone," Billy says, pulling a little black book out of his back pocket. He scans the minuscule but deeply neat handwriting — a list of names and numbers. "Billy's made a lot of friends over the years."

"Thanks, Billy."

Richard calls Billy's contractor friend. "I'm right around the corner. Are you home now? How soon can you be there?"

"Forty minutes — an hour?"

"Fine," the guy says. "Call me back when you're close."

Cynthia comes back from her walk. "I've arranged for us to get food," Richard says proudly. "I'm meeting the nutritionist in Santa Monica, and she's going to make us a package of good things."

"Great. I met someone on the beach, a woman who knew of a program started by a plastic surgeon — housewife rehab. He started it because he would do all this work on people and they were still miserable, which depressed him. They have a social worker, yoga and nutrition classes, and they help you get a job, and it's free. The doctor calls it his debt to society."

"Are you sure it's not a cult or a way he drums up business?"

"I'm so excited," she says, "I'm going to get a job. I haven't had a job in years."

"That's fantastic," he says, careful not to burst her bubble. "I've got to go," he says. "I'm meeting a contractor. I'm late."

"Go," she says. "I'll call and find out more about it."

RICHARD HURRIES out to the car. He's there again, the guy from last night. He's wearing Richard's old jean jacket and has a noise-canceling headset on.

Richard sees the guy and taps the side of his head. "I have those too," he says loudly.

The guy just looks at him and then pulls the headset off one ear.

"I have those too," Richard says again. "I love them."

"Are you the asshole?"

"Excuse me?"

"The asshole who bought that shit box to tear it down."