Chapter 19
Anna's illness was manageable — that was the word her doctor used, manageable, and Harold had learned to be grateful for manageable.
She was on the right medication now.
She had a physician who came to the apartment for the first two appointments because Harold asked him to and paid him to, because Anna had spent too long in rooms where the asking was too hard.
They had dinners on Thursdays.
Harold brought food from the Italian place three blocks away.
They sat at the table Anna had chosen herself — she'd been particular about it, walked past it in the furniture store twice before committing — and they ate and they talked.
Not about Victor.
About other things.
Old things.
The dance recital.
A dog named Chester who had lived for sixteen years and deserved a monument.
The way their mother had burned toast every single morning of her life without ever adjusting the toaster dial, as if she refused to negotiate with machinery.
They laughed about it for the first time on the fourth Thursday.
Harold drove home after and sat in his car in front of his own house for several minutes.
Victor's formal charges came through on a Tuesday — financial fraud, identity misappropriation, wire fraud, and breach of fiduciary duty.
His attorney entered a not guilty plea and requested a continuance.
The case would take time.
Martin called to tell Harold when it happened.
"How do you feel?" Martin asked.
"Tired," Harold said.
"And grateful."
"That's a reasonable combination."
Harold went to his daughter's apartment the next morning, unannounced, early.
Anna answered the door in a bathrobe with sleep still in her eyes, and her first instinct was alarm — the old alarm, the trained reflex of someone who had opened too many doors to bad news.
Harold held up a paper bag.
"Pastries from the place on Clement Street," he said.
"The ones with the almond filling.
I don't know if you still like those."
She looked at the bag.
May you like
Then at him.
"I still like those," she said.
