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heard the pause and was annoyed with herself for having asked. She remembered when Maria and Marcus had been children and had begged for rides downtown or had hoped to invite friends to the house. And her own moment’s pause while parental agendas had been consulted and discarded.
Of course I can. Of course I will.
When had nature flipped the balance, causing the parent to ask the favor of the child? At twenty? At twenty-two?
    — Just for a few days,
Linda said immediately, qualifying her request.
I don’t expect you to give up your entire vacation.
    — No, I’d love to come.
To her credit, Maria sounded enthusiastic.
We’ll see about the dates.
    But Linda would release her daughter from this promise; release her to her own young life.
Are you getting any sleep?
the mother asked.
    Static stole her daughter’s answer. Linda rolled over, dragging the phone off the nightstand. She pulled it up by the cord. One day Maria would be a pediatric cardiologist. Staggering to think of that. Staggering for Linda, who’d been the first in her family ever to go to college.
    — I’ve met someone,
Maria said, apparently for the second time.
    For a moment, Linda was confused, afraid the words had issued from her own mouth.
    — Tell me about him.
    — He’s a resident. His name is Steven.
    An image formed in Linda’s mind, doubtless incorrect, doubtless composed of other Stevens, though she couldn’t think of any at the moment.
And you like him,
Linda said cautiously.
    Another pause on Maria’s part, possibly for emphasis.
I do. He’s very good-looking.
    — That counts,
Linda said, never one to dismiss beauty in a man.
    — Maybe I’ll bring him to Maine with me.
    And Linda thought, This is serious.
    — What were you remembering about Dad?
Maria asked.
    — About his white shirts. And the way they fit across his shoulders.
The daughter was silent in the face of a memory too private for a child to share.
Are there people at the festival you know?
she asked instead.
    — I do now,
Linda said, wishing to dispel the sense of being needy.
    — Good,
Maria said, unburdened.
I’d better go. If I don’t have these lab reports done by six, the resident will kill me.
    Linda doubted that, though the sacrifice required of someone wishing to be a doctor was staggering. Mistakes were made from lack of sleep. One day Maria, in a fit of tears, had confessed her own.
    Linda put the phone down, disconcerted by the mix of truth and lies in a conversation with a child. More lies than truth this time, though it had often been so. One could not prepare a child for the future; such knowledge might be intolerable.
    The quiet in the room was absolute. Even the air-conditioning had stopped its hum. It was as though all traffic had suddenly ceased, all radios rendered silent. What time was it? Nearly four? She imagined people lining city streets in homage to the passing of some great hero.
    ----
    She went out into the sunshine only to retreat from it. In this city, she had been told, there were shops that she should visit (the exchange rate was very good), but when she entered a famous department store, she was saddened by the sight of people buying things to make them happier, or thinner, or impervious to death. She fingered a silk scarf and ran her hand along the shoulder pads of suits, neatly aligned with spaces in between to indicate best quality. She admired a negligee and remembered nights with other negligees, and still the sadness, that cloud, was not swept away. She went up the escalator, up and up, preferring the concrete evidence of floors to the free flight of elevators. She saw a lemon sweater with delicate edging in Children’s and tried to think of anyone she knew with a baby, and then reflected that it would have to be a grandchild now. She stood at an entrance to a café, ravenous and impatient to be seated, but when she had been shown to her table, she felt the store to be suddenly airless. She could smell the chemicals in the