The Good Twin(44)

I arrived at the gallery a little before 10:00 a.m., and as usual, Sandy had readied everything for our opening. Although we attracted some share of walk-in traffic, most of our customers were steady ones and made appointments. I had two scheduled for today, the first at 10:30 a.m. Mrs. Sonia Belvedere and her husband had recently purchased a country home in Rhinebeck, New York, an elegant retreat on thirty acres bordering the Hudson River. She was one of my dad’s clients, and I’d worked with her before. Now, she was looking for artwork to adorn her new weekend home.

A few minutes before she was scheduled to arrive, the phone rang, and I recognized my grandfather’s number. I picked it up on the first ring. “Hi, Poppy.”

“Is it true?” he asked without so much as a hello.

“You spoke to dad?”

“Just got off the phone with him. Tell me he was being overly dramatic.”

“Have you ever known him to be? He’s the family optimist.”

“Damn!”

“It’s possible he’ll get into a drug trial.”

“Good. When will he know?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe in a week?”

“Well, I’m flying up. I need to be with him.”

That was my grandfather—someone who could always be counted on. Even though he now lived in Florida, I always knew he would be back if I needed him. “I’m glad. Dad will be happy, too.”

I heard a knock and looked up to see Sandy standing in the doorway, mouthing that my appointment had arrived. “Let me know when you book a flight, and I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

“Nonsense. I’ll take a cab. And I’m coming up today, so I’ll see you tonight.”

“Love you, Poppy.”

“Ditto, Pips.” That had been his nickname for me since I was a toddler. Short for pipsqueak, I’d been told. I hung up and pulled out a folder marked Sonia Belvedere, then walked into the showroom. I felt better already.



I arrived at my father’s apartment a little after 7:00 p.m. and immediately got a bear hug from my grandfather. Although he was approaching seventy, he was still a big man, skimming six feet tall, with a barrel chest and a full head of mostly gray hair.

“You should have given me a heads-up,” he said when he finally pulled away from me. “Your father looks like shit.”

“He’s lost a lot of weight in just a short time. He’s having trouble keeping food down.”

“He’s got to eat.”

I saw the worried look on his face and reached out to hold his hand. “How long can you stay?”

“I thought I’d try to make it to Thanksgiving, but I can stay longer if you need me. It’s just, you know, the cold really does a job on my bursitis.”

“I didn’t even expect you to stay that long. You’ve got to take care of yourself. I don’t want to lose you, too.”

“Hey,” he said, a sharp tone to his voice. “Don’t talk about losing your father. This isn’t over yet.”

I nodded, then headed into my father’s bedroom, Poppy right behind me. Dad was sitting up in bed, a tray of uneaten food on his nightstand. I walked over and gave him a kiss. “How are you feeling?”

“Not too bad.” He smiled weakly. “I managed to get some work done today.”

I could see the dullness in his eyes, the feebleness of his posture, the slackness of his jaw. “Liar. You’re feeling worse, aren’t you?”

He hesitated a moment. “It hasn’t been a good day.”

“When will you find out if you’re in the trial?”

“Dr. Haber called this afternoon. They turned me down.”

I couldn’t help it. The tears started rolling down my cheeks, even though I wanted desperately to hold it together for Dad.

“Come here, sweetie,” Dad said, as he patted a spot on the bed.

I sat down, and he took my hand in his. “You are my beautiful daughter, and I don’t want to leave you.” He looked over at Poppy, standing at the foot of the bed. “I don’t want to leave you, either, Dad. I will fight this as hard as I can, and I will do everything Dr. Haber tells me to do. But . . . I also want to accept with grace what I have no control over. And it would give me great comfort if I knew that you both were able to do that as well.”

I wiped away my tears with the back of my hand, then leaned down on the bed and lay my head on Dad’s chest. I wished that I could grant my father his wish, that I could accept the inevitable, not rail against it. I just had too much fury roiling inside me. Anger that my mother had died when I was so young. Anger that I might lose my father too soon. Anger that Ben, the one person I needed to lean on as I went through this, was cheating on me.

Despite my grandfather’s presence, I felt alone. There was no best friend that I could talk to about Ben. He had been my best friend since we’d met, our second year of college. Sure, there were women—men, too—I was friendly with, but none with whom I’d share intimate secrets. I’d grown up an only child, so my parents had filled my afternoons with ballet and horse-riding lessons, with gymnastics and soccer, with museum visits and theater performances. I’d spend a few years at an activity and then grow bored and be on to something else. I spent two years studying fencing and two more convinced I was meant to be a figure skater. The one constant over the years was art. I’d always loved drawing. It was a busy childhood, but one that didn’t lead to any close friendships.