"Will he walk? Will he talk? Will he be able to write checks?" Marsha zoomed right in on the practical considerations. Daddy paid the bills, after all. Mommy was the idiot who didn't even know where the checkbook was.

Dr. Cohen tapped the table with his pen. "It's very early to predict. Some people do better than expected. Others-"

"What do you mean ‘better than expected'?" Cassie cried.

"The CT scans show that your husband had a stroke. That means plaque on his arteries prevented the blood flow from getting to his brain. His brain shows quite a bit of damage from oxygen deprivation."

"How much damage?" Teddy broke in.

Dr. Cohen put his lips together. "We'll have to see. We're just going to have to take this one day at a time." He gave them his first bright encouraging smile.

"But you gave him PTA. Doesn't that arrest the damage?" Cassie asked hopefully.

"TPA," Marsha corrected gently.

"I know. I'm no dummy," she replied.

"Of course, you're not, Mother," Marsha said sweetly enough to indicate that she thought her mother was a great big dummy.

"Well, how long before we'll know something?" she asked slowly, trying not to take offense.

"We'll have a better idea in forty-eight hours." Wellfleet spoke slowly, too. It was pretty clear they didn't have much hope.

"The first few days are crucial. We'll know more in a day or two," Dr. Cohen added quickly.

"One day at a time. That has to be our credo." Dr. Ballister took this opportunity to say a few comforting words. Cassie didn't hear them. She was alarmed by the prospect of her husband in a wheelchair. Mitch had to recover, he had to. As an invalid, he'd be very difficult to manage.

"I'd like to see him. Is he awake?" she asked.

"He's in intensive care. You can go in for a few minutes, but don't expect much."

"Oh no." Panic overtook Teddy's face for the first time. Courage wasn't his middle name.

Marsha, on the other hand, had resolve written all over her. She squared her shoulders, the social worker kicking in. All three doctors gave her admiring glances. She glowed with the attention. The past week she'd been through hell with her mother. Now it was Daddy's turn. The girl was jumping into the parenting role with both feet. She draped her arm around her mother's shoulder. "Don't cry, Mom. Daddy's strong. He'll pull through this. I know he will."

Grateful for the comfort, Cassie reached across her chest and patted Marsha's hand. She didn't want to tell this finally empathizing daughter that the tears in her eyes were for the young mother who'd lost in a nanosecond her husband and both children when they went out for pizza on the L.I.E.

CASSIE FOUND MITCH IN A GLASS ROOM in the Neurological Intensive Care unit, where he and his many monitors were highly visible to the nurses and doctors responsible for keeping him alive. He was also mercilessly displayed in all his certain mortality to anyone else who happened to pass by. With breathing tubes in his nose, and hookups to any number of life-sustaining devices, he wasn't a pretty sight. Plastic tubing and drip bags were everywhere, several going in, and one tube that snaked out from under the covers led to a half-filled urine bag.

The head of their family, the captain of their little ship, lay on his back like a beached whale. His beautiful tan had turned to a putty gray. The hair that he had freshly blow-dried every single morning of his life was now a thin, oily mat on his scalp. The true extent of his receding hairline was now clearly revealed. He was motionless, yet there was motion all around him. A respirator breathed for him, making whooshing noises. Monitors clicked, showing his brain and heart activity. There didn't appear to be much. Mitchell Anderson Sales was alive, but only just.

Teddy hung back outside the window. "I can't take this. I'll wait for you outside."

Having ascertained no wedding ring on Wellfleet's finger, Marsha now took the opportunity to consult with the neurologist just down the hall. So Cassie pulled herself together and went into her husband's glass cocoon all alone. The first thing she saw was that his eyes were open, and her heart spiked with hope.

"Sweetheart, it's Cassie," she said brightly. "You're going to be just fine. I know it." The cheerleader in her went right to work. Go Mitch.

Mitch didn't seem interested. His eyes, directed elsewhere, did not register her optimism.

"Can you hear me, baby? It's Cassie. I'm with you." She leaned closer to catch his reply, but Mitch wasn't home. The breathing machine with its loud mechanical whoosh answered for him.

"Baby, I'm with you. Marsha is here. Teddy. We're all here, and we're going to stay with you until you come back from there. From wherever you are." She paused. Nothing. This emptiness where there used to be such power scared her.

"Listen, kiddo, remember that swami who came to see Mother in the hospital? Remember what he told her about going into the light? Mitch, listen. Whatever they tell you about heaven, don't go into the light, okay?" She paused again, thinking of her mother, who'd gone right into that damn light when Cassie was only twenty-four. Oh God, she still missed her mommy.

"Listen to me, Mitch, honey. I know what I'm talking about. That light thing, forget it. Look at me, sweetheart. I'll stay with you. I'll bring you back, I promise. I don't care what the doctors say. You can do it. I know you can. We'll travel together from now on. I'll keep you company. We'll have fun, live to be old, okay? An old couple, having fun."

She leaned down close to his ear. A big cauliflower ear. Five or six gray hairs were growing out of it. She swooned, dizzy from those hairs and the smell of intensive care. The tubes were everywhere. So many plastic tubes laced back and forth around him, they actually appeared to be mating. Cassie realized she was now in greater intimacy with her husband than she'd been in years. She closed her eyes and let the noise take over. She didn't realize that his unseeing eyes were empty. She felt a profound irritation, thinking he was resisting her attempt to be with and care for him.

This was not an unusual situation for them. She'd walk into a room, and he'd walk out. He only hung around long enough to have a fight with her. But this time she was here and he wasn't walking out. He wasn't fighting. He was stuck, and had to listen to her. And this time she wasn't taking no for an answer. He was hers and he had to survive. She wouldn't be able to live with herself if he didn't.

"Listen to me, Mitch. I won't let you go like this. It's my fault. I didn't tell you about the face-lift, and I know that was wrong. I'm sorry if it was a shock. Just wake up, and I'll never do it again. I promise. Okay? Okay? I'm sorry. I'll remember every single thing about wine. I'll drink white, or I won't drink it. Whatever you want. Okay? I won't complain about cigars. Honey, just come back." She finished her prayer and stood there, waiting for a sign from him. But there was no pressure back from his fingers. He wasn't going to forgive her for the plastic surgery, for not being whatever it was he'd wanted of her. The tears came again. She was sorry, oh was she sorry.

Finally she composed herself and went into the hall. Teddy was nowhere in sight. Marsha was in deep dialogue with Dr. Wellfleet. She could tell from their body language that the conversation would continue for some time. She found Dr. Cohen facing a window, talking to himself. When she approached, she realized he was on his cell phone. He finished the call when she touched his shoulder.

"Mark, I want to spend the night here," she told him.

"I know it looks bad, Cassie, dear. But I don't want you to do that. I want you to go home and get some rest. We'll call you if there's any change. I promise."