I practically dropped the phone. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m sorry, I thought you knew, being such good friends and all. She’s very sick, it doesn’t look good. I guess I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“I’ll write your letter,” I said, and hung up.

I was completely at a loss. I looked up Liz’s number at Boston College and began to dial, then put the phone back in its cradle. What would I say, after so many years? What right did I have at this late date to reinsert myself into her life? Liz was dying; I’d never stopped loving her, not for a second, but she was another man’s wife. At a time like this, their bond was paramount; if I had learned anything from my parents, it was that the journey of death was one that spouses took together. Maybe it was just the old cowardice returning, but I did not pick up the phone again.

—

I waited for news. Every day I checked the Times’ obituary page, in a grim death watch. I was short with colleagues, avoided my friends. I had turned the apartment over to Julianna and sublet a one-bedroom in the West Village, making it easy to disappear, to recede into the fringes of life. What would I do when my Liz was gone? I realized that in some drawer of my brain I had kept the idea that someday, somehow, we would be together. Perhaps they would divorce. Perhaps Jonas would die. Now I had no hope.

Then one night, close to Christmas, the phone rang. It was nearly midnight; I had just settled into bed.

“Tim?”

“Yes, this is Tim Fanning.” I was annoyed by the lateness of the call and did not recognize the voice.

“It’s Liz.”

My heart crashed into my ribs. I could not form words.

“Hello?”

“I’m here,” I managed to say. “It’s good to hear your voice. Where are you?”

“I’m in Greenwich, at my mother’s.”

I noted that she did not say “my parents’.” Oscar was no more.

“I need to see you,” she said.

“Of course. Of course you can.” I was madly fumbling in the drawer for a pencil. “I’ll drop everything. Just tell me where and when.”

She would be taking the train into the city the next day. She had something to do first, and we planned to meet at Grand Central at five o’clock, before she returned to Greenwich.

I left my office well ahead of time, wanting to arrive first. It had rained all day, but as the early winter darkness fell, the rain changed to snow. The subway was jammed; everything felt like it was moving in slow motion. I arrived at the station and took my position beneath the clock with minutes to spare. The heedless crowds streamed by—commuters in raincoats with umbrellas tucked under the arms, the women wearing running shoes over their stockings, snow clinging to everyone’s hair. Many were carrying shopping bags brightly decorated for the season. Macy’s. Nordstrom. Bergdorf Goodman. Just the thought of these happy, hopeful people irritated me more than I can say. How could they think about Christmas at a time like this? How could they think about anything at all? Didn’t they know what was about to happen in this place?

Then she appeared. The sight of her nearly undid me; I felt as if I were awakening from a long sleep. She was wearing a dark trench coat; a silk scarf covered her hair. She threaded her way toward me through the hurrying mobs. It was absurd, but I was afraid that she would never make it, that the crowds would swallow her, as in a dream. She caught my eye, smiled, and made a “move along” gesture behind the back of a man who was blocking her path. I pushed my way to her.

“And there you are,” she said.

What followed was the warmest, most deeply felt hug of my life. Just the smell of her drowned my senses in joy. Yet happiness was not the only thing I felt. Every bone, every edge of her pressed against me; it was as if I were holding a bird.

She pulled away. “You look great,” she said.

“So do you.”

She gave a little laugh. “You’re such a liar, but I do appreciate the sentiment.” She removed her scarf, revealing a scrim of pale hair, the kind that grows back after chemo. “What do you think of my new holiday ’do? I’m guessing you know the story.”

I nodded. “I got a call from a colleague of Jonas’s. He told me.”

“That would be Paul Kiernan, that little weasel. You scientists are such gossips.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Never. But I could use a drink.”

We climbed the stairs to the bar on the west balcony. Even this small effort seemed to enervate her. We took a table near the edge with a view of the grand hall. I ordered a Scotch, Liz a martini and a glass of water.

“Do you remember when you met me here the first time?” I asked.

“You had a friend, wasn’t it? Something awful had happened.”

“That’s right. Lucessi.” I hadn’t said the name in years. “It meant a lot to me, you know. You really took care of me.”

“Comes with the service. But if I remember correctly, it was at least half the other way around. Maybe more than half.” She paused, then said, “You really do look good, Tim. Success suits you, but I always knew it would. I’ve kind of kept tabs. Tell me one thing. Are you happy?”

“I’m happy now.”

She smiled. Her lips were thin and white. “An excellent dodge, Dr. Fanning.”

I reached across the table and took her hand. It was cold as ice. “Tell me what’s going to happen.”