“These beautiful young ladies yours?”
“My daughters, Freya and Miriam.”
“How do you do, young ladies. I’m Philip. And if I may say so, you’re a great help to your mom.” And to her: “I doubt you remember me. It was so long ago. We talked a little at one of these Christmas parties, but in Brad’s old apartment. Have you been injured?” touching her walker.
“No, it’s for an illness. This is what I’ve quickly been reduced to.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry. And I didn’t mean to pry.”
“And I didn’t mention my illness to elicit sympathy. I’ll be fine. I trust life has been good to you since we last spoke, though I have to admit I have no recollection of our conversation.”
“No reason you would. Party talk. And I’m much the same. Still not married and no kids. Still writing and teaching and going to Christmas parties and stuff like that.”
“Doesn’t sound so bad to me, the last part. But I’ll have to cut this off, Philip. I’m a little tired.” And to her girls: “I know it seems we just got here and you’re going to be disappointed, but would you tell Daddy I’m ready to leave? If he wants, he can put me in a cab, though one of you will have to come with me.”
“Nice to meet you again. ‘Abigail,’ it was, right?”
“Your memory’s better than mine. Perhaps we’ll see each other at next year’s party, if there’s one, and can talk some more.”
“I look forward to it. And I’m sure there’ll be a party next year.”
The girls have left the room. She starts after them.
“Can I help you in any way?”
“No. This has to be done alone. It’s slow but I get there. Thank you.”
Half an hour later he sees her and her husband and daughters at the front door, hats and coats on, saying goodbye to some people. He smiles at her when she looks his way, and she smiles back. At least, or so it seems, she doesn’t have any bad feelings toward him anymore. Maybe because she actually doesn’t remember anything about what he said the last time they talked.
He calls Brad the next day. “Once again, great party. I forgot how much I missed it. Christmas parties weren’t the same in California. You need the cold and threat of snow. But tell me, how bad off is Abigail Berman? She sure seemed weak. Though maybe she was just tired, as she said. The holidays and all. It can get to anybody.”
“I wish it was that. The worst kind of MS. Went downhill very fast, and still sliding. Exacerbating — something else. Chronic progressive. I forget the medical term. At our party last year she was able to get around with only a cane. The one before, she didn’t even need that and showed no signs of it except for her eyes, which were a little off.”
“The poor dear. I feel so sorry for her. I only wish I was the one married to her, so I could take care of her.”
“That’s nutsy, Phil. Don’t repeat it to anyone else. And Mike seems to do an excellent job.”
“Of course.”
He’s invited to the next Christmas party, but is out of town and can’t go to it. Very much wants to, mainly to see her again and have a real talk. About a year after it — Thanksgiving weekend — he sees her in a movie theater on the East Side. The movie ended a minute ago. He has his ticket and is waiting on line in the lobby to go into the theater and she’s in a wheelchair, on the other side of a rope separating them, being wheeled out of the theater into the lobby by her older daughter.
“Abigail. Stop,” and he climbs over the rope and goes over to her. “Hi. Philip Seidel. From Brad and Susan’s Christmas party.”
“Yes. How are you? And I remember you this time.”
“I’m fine, thanks. Haven’t seen you for a couple of years. Nor your daughters. Hi, kids. Freya and Miriam. I’m almost sure that’s right. I hope you’re all doing well.” And to her: “I don’t know what to say. And I usually end up saying the wrong thing, so excuse me beforehand. But this chair. I hope it’s only temporary.”
“It will be if they come up with a miracle cure for me. And I’m impressed you remembered my daughters’ names. As for the Christmas party. We’ve been invited, as I’m sure you have, and don’t embarrass me by telling me you haven’t, but I won’t be going to it. I’ve become a traffic problem, being in a wheelchair at a crowded party, people tripping all over me, besides other more personal inconveniences. My daughters will be there if their father takes them. It’s become a nice tradition for them, and they’ve even made friends with some of the other children there. So, if you go, give Susan and Brad a big hello from me. Now we should get home.”
“Wait, wait, wait. What are you doing? It’s pouring out.” The doors in front of the waiting line open and people start going inside. “None of you have raincoats and maybe not even an umbrella.”
“We’ll manage. My daughters know how to look after me.”
“No. I don’t want you to. You’ll catch cold. The kids too. Here. It’s wet, but take my umbrella. It’s large enough for all of you.” He gives the younger girl his umbrella. “Wait. What am I doing? You stay here and I’ll get you a cab. There’s a whole fleet of wheelchair-accessible cabs now running around New York. At least let me try.”
“Thank you but we were planning to take a bus. The crosstown here and the number 5 uptown. They’re all handicapped accessible now and they let the wheelchairs on first. You’re going to miss the beginning of the movie. Are you seeing the same one we saw?”
“I doubt it. One I’m seeing’s not for kids. But the hell with the movie. Heck with it, I mean,” covering his mouth and smiling. The girls and she laugh. “And I only came to it to get out of the house. Anyway, I’m getting you a cab and paying for it. My idea, so my expense. It’s the least I can do.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, to help you and the kids out best as I can. Stay here. I’ll signal you when I get one. But I’ll take the umbrella till I get a cab and get you into it.”
“You’re a stubborn man, Philip. Okay. We’ll wait here.”
“One question, though. If I can’t find a cab that can’t take a wheelchair any other way but folded up in the trunk, are you able to get out of the chair and into the rear or front passenger seat with a little help?”