The Museum of Modern Love(17)

He’d been watching snow falling over Washington Square and feeling as if life was suddenly new and full of possibility with the new year almost upon them, a new album taking shape in his head, a new apartment. He needed Lydia to reassure him this was really theirs, all three thousand square feet of it. The removalists had finally left. He’d been trying to get the television sorted so he could watch the game at 8.30. It was a critical match if the Giants were to get into the playoffs.

Lydia had called from the airport when her London flight arrived. She had told him she was going to the hospital. These sudden plunges into ill health were becoming more frequent.

He checked his watch. He weighed up how long it would take him to finish programming the channels and whether he could steal another fifteen minutes to get the game to record. The Christmas traffic would be worse with the snow. He gave it up and went to wash his hands, and find his scarf and hat. He’d just have to be back by 8.10 to finish the set-up. It wasn’t enough time.

At the hospital Lydia was wired to monitors and drips. Alice pulled back the sheet to show him a bruise on Lydia’s hip that went all the way to her ankle. Levin hated the bruises.

‘When did that happen?’

Lydia shrugged wanly. ‘Yesterday, I think.’

He tried to remember the last time they had made love. Perhaps the morning before her trip. He wanted to remember. He wanted to make love to her in their new home. To have her back with him, not here where she didn’t belong.

‘So you’re in overnight?’

‘Yes,’ Lydia said. ‘For a few days probably. They think the creatinine percentage is too low. Elisabetta will be back soon with the results.’

She had always had a medical power of attorney in place. For years, he’d been the one she named in case anything happened. But when Alice turned twenty-one, Lydia had changed the paperwork. He’d been hurt by that. They’d had a fight. In the end he’d let it go. It was what Lydia wanted.

‘The apartment looks great,’ he said. ‘You’ll be home for Christmas, won’t you?’

‘I’m planning on it. Did the unpackers get it all done today?’

He nodded. ‘I’m wrecked. You were lucky to miss it.’

‘I’m sorry. I know it was bad timing. But it went well in London.’ She took his hand and squeezed it. ‘I hate not being there for our first night together.’

He traced the veins that ran across the top of her hand with his thumb. ‘I bought a bottle of Veuve. But we can have it another night.’

‘Don’t you have a big game?’ she asked.

‘Eight-thirty,’ he said.

‘You go. It’s going to be awful getting back downtown in this. And I know it’s depressing being in here with me.’

‘Mom . . .’ said Alice.

‘Are you sure?’ Levin said.

‘Of course.’

‘Did you bring Mom pyjamas or anything?’ Alice asked.

‘Do you need them?’ Levin said, irked by Alice’s tone. ‘Don’t you have your suitcase?’

‘Yes, yes, I have it.’

‘Fresh pyjamas would have been nice,’ Alice said, pulling a face and not meeting his gaze.

‘Give me a break, Alice,’ he said. ‘I spent the day moving house. I’m not perfect.’ Looking at the hospital clock he saw the numbers click over to 7.31.

‘Well,’ said Lydia.

He had bent to kiss her, then kissed Alice on the top of the head. ‘Goodbye, my girls. I love you both.’ And to Lydia, from the doorway, he said, ‘Get well.’

She’d needed plasma exchange and then dialysis. Christmas Day came and he spent lunchtime at the hospital. She was still in the critical care unit so the dozen red roses were put in a vase on the reception desk. She looked grey and feverish beneath the covers and wasn’t up to the movie he’d downloaded for them to watch.

She said, ‘There’s so much I love about you.’

‘Meaning there’s a lot you don’t?’

‘Please, that wasn’t –’

‘No, really. What did I do wrong this time?’

‘It’s Christmas Day and I’m eating hospital food. I’m imagining those turkey pies from the deli.’

‘I didn’t think you’d be hungry.’

‘It’s more the idea of it. I know bringing me food means another thing for you to do. Stop at the deli. Make decisions. But it’s Christmas Day.’

‘I bought you roses.’

‘I know. Thank you. But I’m not allowed flowers in here. You know that. I know you can’t understand how sad it makes me feel when you’re so . . . I keep thinking that if this is the last time, it doesn’t matter that you don’t understand. We’ve been happy. We’ve done our best. Both of us. But if I get well again . . . there’s so much I still want to do. . .’

He held her hand and she looked sadder than he’d ever seen her look.

‘With me? Do you still want to do them with me?’

She said, ‘Arky, sweetheart, it isn’t going well. I can feel it. I’ve come back from this thing so many times. I’m not sure I’m going to pull it off this time.’

‘You’re tired. It’s depressing when it’s Christmas and you’re in here. You’ll be fine.’ He kissed her forehead and smelled the flat odour of drugs leaching from her skin.