May We Be Forgiven

places his enormous bag on the small table next to me and proceeds to unpack a series of documents. “Due to the physical and mental conditions of both Jane and George, you are now the legal guardian of the two minor children, Ashley and Nathaniel. Further, you are temporary guardian and the medical proxy for George. With these roles comes a responsibility that is both fiduciary and moral. Do you feel able to accept that responsibility?” He looks at me—waiting.
    “I do.”
    “You are conservator of assets, real-estate holdings, and other items that transfer to the children upon their majority. You have power of attorney over all transactions, assets, and holdings.” He hands me a small skeleton key; it’s like being indoctrinated into a secret society. “It’s the key to their safe-deposit box—I have no idea what’s in the box, but I suggest you familiarize yourself with the contents.” And then he hands me a new bank card. “Activate this from the home phone at George and Jane’s house. The accountant Mr. Moody also has access to the accounts and will monitor your usage. It’s a system of checks and balances: Moody checks on you, you check on Moody, and I check on the two of you. Got it?”
    “I do,” I repeat.
    He hands me a manila envelope. “Copies of all the related paperwork, in case anyone should ask.” And then, weirdly, the lawyer takes out a little bag of gold chocolate coins and dangles them in front of my eyes.
    “Gelt?” I ask.
    “You look pale,” he says. “My wife bought a hundred of these, and somehow it’s fallen to me to get rid of them.”
    I take the small bag of chocolate coins. “Thank you,” I say. “For everything.”
    “It’s my job,” he says, as he’s leaving. “My occupation.”

    W here is Claire?
    She has been lost in transit, was heading home and then rerouted. Along the way, she started hearing from her friends. I get a hostile call from Hawaii, where the aircraft has mechanical trouble. Accusatory.
    “What are your comments based on? Hearsay?” I ask.
    “The New York Post ,” she says.
    “And that’s the new paper of record?”
    “Fuck you,” she says. “Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you.” And she smashes her phone into the wall. “You hear that, that’s the sound of me smashing my BlackBerry into a wall. Fucking asshole.”
    “I’ve got you on speakerphone,” I say, even though I don’t. “We’re all here at the hospital, the kids, Jane’s parents, the doctor. I’m sorry you’re so upset.” I’m lying. I’m alone in what used to be a phone booth that’s now been stripped of its equipment; it’s a denuded glass booth—powerless.
    “FUCK YOU!”

    T he day of limbo. There is the oddity of knowing tomorrow Jane will be dead. When the phone in the house rings, Jane’s voice answers: “Hi, we can’t come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number we’ll call you back. If you’re trying to reach George at the office, the number is 212 …”
    She is here, still in the house; I run into her coming around the corner, unloading the dishwasher, running the vacuum, folding laundry. She was just here—wait, she’ll be back in a minute.
    The next day, at the hospital, Jane’s mother collapses at her bedside and everything is delayed until she is revived. “Can you imagine having to make a decision like this about your child?” she asks as they take her down the hall in a wheelchair.
    “I can’t imagine, which is why I don’t have children. Correction, I can imagine, which is why I don’t have children.” I say this thinking I am talking to myself, silently in my head, not realizing that in fact I’m talking to everyone.
    “We thought you couldn’t have children,” Jane’s sister says.
    “We didn’t even try,” I say, even though that’s not exactly the truth.
    The family takes turns saying goodbye to Jane privately. I am the last. On her forehead there is a mark from her mother’s lipstick, like the blood-and-earth dot of a Hindu. I kiss her; Jane’s skin is warm but uninhabited.
    Ashley walks with the stretcher down the hall. As they wait for the elevator, she whispers something in her mother’s ear.
    We stay, even though there is nothing to stay for. We sit in the ICU Family Waiting Room. Through the glass I see a housekeeper stripping the bed, washing the floor, preparing for the next patient.
    “Let’s go to the cafeteria,” I say.
    In the hallways, people hurry past. They carry Igloo