A. Homes: This Book Will Save Your Life

He is trying to put it behind him, and yet it plays in his head — the lights, the people, the pickling disinfectant smell, the God boy coming down.

He pictures the nurse getting home in the morning, glad to have missed a long night alone. "As long as my knees hold out," she'd said, "I'll keep doing it." She was a good nurse, a damned good nurse. He pictures her house, the kitchen filled with crocheted pot-holders, knitted afghans, hens and chicks on the windowsill. She was a nice lady who had loved her husband. He pictures her making herself a cup of tea and then, without taking her nurse's scrubs off, lying down on the sofa. She can't go into the bedroom, can't put her nightgown on. She can't pretend.

Dressing, he can't help glancing at the ticker tape going by. The night in the ER didn't cost him so much; in fact, he might even be up a little bit. Footage of the actress's crashed car comes up on CNN, they report that the eighty-seven-year-old actress is in serious but stable condition. Could she really be eighty-seven? He thinks he might call her, she'd remember him, they had an official moment. Hi, it's me. How's your head — is it on straight, is it a good fit?

GLANCING at the clock, he sees he's off schedule. He hates it when the day unfolds other than as expected. He picks up the phone. It's still morning in NYC. What is he going to say? Hi, Ben, is this a good time? I didn't catch you in the middle of something, did I? I thought we could talk. Ben, this is your father. Ben, I think it would be nice if we had some sort of relationship. Ben, is your mother home? Is she still sleeping with her trainer? Is your mother just mean to me or is she like that with everyone? Have you noticed? Ben, can I call you that, can I call you Ben?

A groggy voice picks up. "Hello?"

"Ben." He pauses. "Ben, it's your father."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong."

"What happened?"

"Did your mother mention anything?"

"I haven't seen her; I'm in my room. I slept late. She might have left a note, she leaves notes in the kitchen."

"I tried calling her last night. I didn't feel well, I was in pain, knotted up like a pretzel. I went to the hospital, and while I was there I realized that the last time I'd been in the hospital was when you were born."

"That's weird. Pain from what?"

"I don't know — it may have been there for a long time. I was remembering, when you were born your mother was calm. I stood next to her — sweating profusely."

"I was born during a heat wave, broke all the records, it's never been as hot."

"Who told you that? I don't remember the heat."

"Your brother — Uncle Ted. He gave me the New York Times from the day I was born. Record heat, stopped everything on the East Coast; there was almost a blackout in New York."

"Well, I don't want to keep you."

"You're not going to die, are you?"

"No, not now, not today."

HIS BREAKFAST is waiting. The newspapers are laid out on the table the way he likes them, one atop another: Financial Times, Wall Street Journal, New York Times, Los Angeles Times. He should cancel one and see how it goes. Maybe he should cancel two; what does anyone do with four papers?

Cecelia makes his special shake — frozen organic blueberries; two powders, one muscle-building, one protein; half a banana; a half-cup yogurt — whipped into a frenzy. And then there's his special bowl of cereal and the Lactaid milk. And his drink, a hot herbal infusion that tastes like Lemon Pledge. He has taught himself to drink it, to like the waxy aftertaste, the chemical tinge.

He eats breakfast, not telling Cecelia that he has already eaten. He does what he always does, because it's easier.

Sitting at the dining-room table, trying to seem casual, he calls his brother. The phone is answered and dropped. "Sorry," his brother says.

"It's Richard."

"Are you all right?"

"I'm all right, I just wanted to be in touch. What's the weather like?" he asks, not because he cares, but because he doesn't know what else to say. Before this, if you'd asked Richard about his brother, he would have said they were "pretty close," but the truth is he can't recall when they last spoke.

"Nice," the brother says. "The weather is very nice."

"It's raining." Richard hears Meredith, his brothers wife, in the background. She takes the phone. "It's been raining all week," she says. "He never notices anything. Is everything OK?"

I didn't feel well. I was in pain, knotted up. I went to the hospital. "Fine," he says.

The brother takes the phone again. "I spoke to Mom and Dad last week; they're great. I can't get over how much they're doing, they seem to have found themselves a whole new life."

"I took a chicken out of the freezer," Meredith announces to no one in particular.

"Listen, I'm just on my way out the door, running late — can I call you this afternoon, from the office, or how about tonight — can I call you tonight?"

"Yeah, sure, that's fine."

Meredith takes the phone again. "We'd love to see you. Why don't you come and spend a few days with us?"

"Well, that's part of why I'm calling," Richard lies. "I have some business in Boston, and I wanted to see if you were free for dinner…"

"Free for dinner? You'll stay with us."

"A hotel is fine. I'm not exactly sure when it will be."

"We're still in the same place," she says. "Two-eighty-nine Chestnut Street in Brookline."

Online, he searches for an e-mail his parents sent — he was one of thirty-two people copied. He finds it — a perky message about their travel plans. "Almost time for our annual migration. We're just back from Las Vegas, so lively. And last summer we took a wonderful cruise to Alaska. It was delicious," she writes, as though they'd eaten a glacier. "We're looking forward to seeing all of you. Come visit — golf, tennis, aqua aerobics, sun — what's a few more wrinkles when you've gotten this far."

He calls the number listed under contact info at the bottom of the screen. His mother answers. "It's a beautiful day down here, we just had lunch, and now we're going to play golf. Well, I don't play, because of my knee and my back, but I drive the cart. And tonight we have art appreciation, a beautiful young man from the museum is talking about the M's — Manet, Monet, and Marden. Have you heard of them?"

She talks as though he could be anyone. He waits for a pause and then identifies himself again.

"I know who it is," she says. "What am I supposed to say, long time no see?"

"I just wanted to say hello."

"We're not sure we believe you," his mother says, invoking the plural power of the couple. "Have you spoken to your brother lately?"

"Do you believe him more?"

"We know him better — he calls every Saturday. We like having a schedule. We're very busy. Your father makes a lot of friends, we're always seeing this one or that one. And you, what are you doing?" she asks, implying that she's expecting something big — world peace, a cure for cancer. "Are you working?"

"I'm retired."

"It's a shame."

He feels himself getting angry — he doesn't say anything.

"We moved," she says. "We're in a place that didn't exist before. A community. We don't have to do anything unless we want to. If we don't want to make dinner, we pick up the phone and they deliver it. If we need a bulb changed, they come running. I've never seen people work so hard. They'll even bring a snack in the middle of the night. And we have friends, we talk about the grandchildren who call once a year — Hi, Grandma, did you remember my birthday? We all know what that means…"

Cecelia is vacuuming. He walks towards her on purpose. She tries to get away. She tugs on the hose and the motor unit scurries across the floor, like an electric puppy. He's chasing her, and she's running with the vacuum.