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  "Do whatever it takes," she repeated. "Would you even be asking if she were twenty?"

  "Yes, I would have to ask."

  Teddy said softly, "Mom and I talked about what she wanted. Do you want me to tell him?"

  She turned her face away from Teddy's gentleness. Though it had taken her a while to uncover it, he had the same wealth of sensitivity that his mother did. "No," she whispered.

  "Is it DNR?" The doctor had his pen poised.

  "Ray?"

  She could not say it. She felt him nodding and the pain in her chest was so severe she could not breathe. She heard the doctor's pen on the chart. DNR. Do Not Resuscitate.

  "When will she wake up?" she heard Teddy ask.

  "If she regains consciousness, it won't be in less than three hours — probably six. If she doesn't within twelve, then she probably won't."

  Rayann found the doctor's dispassionate tones absolutely loathsome. The man was a monster.

  "She's very strong," Teddy said.

  "As I suspected." The doctor slung his stethoscope around his neck. "She wouldn't have survived the surgery if she wasn't. We did what we could. There was a lot of shattered bone, and four major organs were damaged. We don't know yet if any will regain even partial function."

  "Is there—" Teddy's voice broke. He coughed. "Is there any chance?"

  Rayann looked up, watching every expression on the doctor's face.

  "Where there is life, there is hope," the doctor said quietly. "But if this were my loved one I'd make the very, very most of the times she is conscious. If she is conscious," he said more briskly, "I or someone else will explain the situation to her. And if she wants to change her instructions she can, of course."

  "I doubt she will," Teddy said. "She has strong feelings about it."

  The doctor nodded and left.

  Teddy helped her sit down in the only chair. "I'm going to make some phone calls. Will you be okay?"

  "No." Her voice shook.

  "I know." He left so quickly she knew he was hiding his tears again.

  Time was only broken by the clicking of the auto¬matic drip and the grind of the blood pressure machine.

  The next thing Rayann was consciously aware of was a raised voice outside the room.

  "I'm sorry, it's the rules."

  "My best friend is in there and I'm going to see her."

  "The family has to consent."

  Rayann opened the door with relief. "Danny, please, come in."

  The nurse said sharply, "Is this okay with her son?"

  Rayann replied, equally sharply, "I say who visits her, and yes, it is okay with him."

  Danny looked tiny in her bomber jacket, all the swagger of her usual step gone. "Oh, Lou," she whispered, as she caressed the back of Louisa's hand. "Oh, Lou."

  Teddy slipped in after a few minutes. Part of Rayann took note of him holding Danny's hand as they stood next to Louisa's bed. That alone was a remarkable thing. Ten years ago Rayann had been running away from a bad love affair when Louisa had offered to rent her the other bedroom in the apart¬ment over the bookstore that Louisa owned. At that time Teddy wouldn't stay in the same room with the obviously butch Danny because of what Danny's overt lesbianism meant about his mother — that his mother was a lesbian, too. Louisa's love for Rayann had been one of the reasons his attitudes had changed.

  A long time later, Teddy's wife, Joyce, arrived with Tucker. He came to Rayann's side, white-faced but composed.

  "Is Grandma going to wake up?" In typical teenaged fashion, his fists were jammed into the pockets of his Forty-Niners jacket that was too big at the waist and too small at the shoulders. He shook his hair out of his eyes the same way he always did when his grandmother asked him to.

  "Maybe," Rayann managed. Her voice was raspy and she realized she was very thirsty. "I hope so."

  "Okay." He brightened and Rayann realized he'd thought if Louisa woke up she would get better. Later, she would ask herself if that was the moment she had given up hope.

  For the hundredth time she told herself that it wasn't happening.

  Joyce pressed one hand sympathetically to Rayann's shoulder. Rayann had liked Joyce the moment she had entered Teddy's life four years ago. She was very good with Tucker without trying to alter the already secure relationship between father and son. "If there's anything, Ray. You know that."

  Rayann nodded.

  Joyce said to Tucker, "It's time to go talk to your father about Grandma Lou."

  He nodded, gave Rayann the half hug his fifteen-year old dignity could manage, and then said to Louisa, "Get better, Grandma."

  Louisa's eyelids fluttered and Rayann's heart felt as if it would burst. "She hears you, Tuck."

  Louisa's eyes opened. She blinked slowly, then tried to turn her head. After a few moments several of the machines began beeping excitedly and the officious nurse burst in.

  "Everyone must go. The doctor will be here right away."

  Joyce took Tucker out, telling him they would come back soon.

  Rayann leaned over Louisa. "I'm here, I'm here."

  Louisa's dark brown eyes were filled with appre¬hension and pain.

  "Don't try to talk, just rest. The doctor is coming. I'm here, Teddy is here. Danny will be back in a little bit. Don't worry."

  Louisa closed her eyes after trying to nod.

  "Ms. Germaine, you really must leave." It was not the same doctor who had first met them and Rayann wondered if he'd even read Louisa's chart.

  "Why?"

  "Because I need to do an exam and have a very specific conversation with the patient. Another presence can make that hard."

  "If I was legally her wife would you make me leave?"

  The doctor took a deep breath. "I know this is difficult, and yes, I would."

  She had leaned against the wall outside the room, eyes closed. She hadn't even felt as if she was on the planet, let alone in a hospital. Anger, frustration, grief and disbelief had swirled inside her but she had told herself she needed to be in control, for Louisa's sake.

  Control, that was a laugh. Rayann turned out all the lights in the house as if that would hide the tears. Tears and anger got the better of her every day. It was such a relief not to have to go to work. What a waste of time — picking out a suit, dithering over hose and shoes, trying to get yet another account, make yet another bonus. None of it meant a damn thing.

  Even with that load eased from her mind, she wondered where she would find the endurance to get up and go on. She wanted no part of tomorrow.

  3

  What to wear to a board meeting? The question had been plaguing Teresa for the last three weeks. Her serious career wear was limited to her interview suit, which had suffered from an oil smear on a Muni train. Her other clothes were more appropriate for an ad agency. The D'Angelo Museum board was too con¬servative for sweaters and leggings.

  Yesterday she'd bought a vintage suit at one of her favorite shops on Fillmore Street, but she was in serious need of new shoes. Her adored Doc Martens were right out, and her "dress" shoes were showing

  their age — they dated from before graduate school and they'd seen a lot of dances and interviews.

  She pondered the pair of Aldos she really liked — black with their distinctive wide heel — but the price tag was still taking her breath away. They'd look smashing with the heavy raw silk that made up the suit. Think of it this way, she told herself. If you were still working at that ad agency you could afford a closet full of shoes. One good pair won't break the bank.

  She took another turn around the store. It was making her salivate. There was a pair of simple not-too-high heels, black patent, that screamed "business¬woman" and might make her seem a little more experienced — but hell. Did she really want to play that game?

  You're only young once — why not look it? Because she was asking the board for an increase in their badly underestimated budget for modernizing the museum's collection database. She didn't want them to think she was som
e upstart brat who didn't know what she was talking about, three weeks on the job and full of ways to spend more money. Carla thought it very important that the board members get a chance to meet her and hear directly from her what she proposed to do.

  So what's it gonna be, she asked herself. Fun or competence? And make up your mind before you're late back to work. It was less than a Muni stop back to Yerba Buena Gardens, but she'd already been gone forty minutes.

  Unsure what to do, she let her credit card take

  over and left the store with both pairs of shoes. She would try them on tonight and get her roommate's opinion. Vivian could be counted on to have definite feelings on any fashion subject. Now, that was a plan. Thank God it was settled. She didn't want to turn into the kind of person who obsessed about her appearance. She had three years until she turned thirty. She could obsess then.

  She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrors that lined the curved escalator. As usual she squinted at the wrinkle that refused to go away. Obsessed? Mildly, she thought. She'd switched from cheap shampoo because Vivian said it would eventually ruin her hair, and now she used only Cetaphil on her face — more of Vivian's advice on How to Stay Young. What was gentle enough for a baby's butt was gentle enough for her skin.

  If she followed all of Vivian's advice, however, she'd give up running, which Vivian swore would make her bosoms sag. Vivian, who avoided vulgarity at all costs, had blanched when Teresa had said it was a poor choice to make — sagging tits or a fat ass.

  She needed a moisturizer and Vivian had dictated a brand only available at a cosmetics counter in finer stores. She braved the perfume samplers at the Nordstrom entrance and lingered next to a cosmetics display offering a free bottle of cologne for a purchase over sixty dollars.

  A clerk, clad in a white lab jacket and meticulously made up and coiffed, immediately offered her services. "Are you looking for something to protect your skin from airborne toxins? Or UV damage?"

  "Well, I have this wrinkle." The darned thing was getting deeper no matter how much Cetaphil she rubbed into it.

  "Well, we girls must expect such things when we're in our thirties."

  Thirties? Thirties? How terrible did she look? She glanced in the mirror — she looked ghastly. Or was that just the lighting? "What do you recommend?"

  "The most important thing is a good, gentle cleanser. Our cleanser can be used with or without water. Here —" she dribbled a dollop onto Teresa's fingertips. "Doesn't that feel smooth?"

  She rubbed the solution around her fingertips. It felt and looked like Cetaphil to her.

  "Used with our deep-cleansing pack, the pores on your face will start to breathe again. Do you use any makeup at all?"

  "No, not really. Not enough time."

  Another bottle appeared on the counter. "This is our premiere foundation. After the foundation comes our perfect match cover that will hide all those little imperfections."

  "Is that what you use?"

  "Oh, of course. Would you believe that I am forty-seven?"

  Teresa looked at the woman carefully. Another bottle appeared on the counter, then a palette of eye shadows. Her mental cash register was ringing. No, she didn't believe this woman was forty-seven. "Actually, I just wanted a good moisturizer."

  Two more bottles joined the growing pile on the counter. "Our patented astringent removes all the excess oils, then our moisturizer restores the natural moisture balance to your skin. In use with the

  cleanser and foundation you are virtually assured that your skin is clean, moist and smooth."

  Smooth again. The word du jour.

  "Shall I ring this up? Today is a good day to start working on your new, younger look."

  She guessed the total was well over two hundred dollars. She'd be twenty-eight in a few months — how much younger did she want to look? "No, really, I just want the moisturizer. I can't really afford the rest right now."

  "Oh, but you can," the woman crowed. "Just open a credit card account today and use it to make this purchase. You'll get five percent off and then you can pay for it over time."

  By the time she paid it off it would be time to buy more. She was not going into debt to fight one little wrinkle. When she had two little wrinkles she might feel different. "Really, just the moisturizer."

  The woman finally rang it up, after making Teresa wait while she recorded her list of recommended products — so next time they wouldn't have to start over. Teresa stopped in at Gloria Jean's for a latte, Godiva's for an ounce of chocolate-dipped white chocolate truffles, then set off at the fast-paced walk that would get her back to work sooner than the bus or Muni. She was glad the fog hadn't yet burned off for the afternoon. Summer in the city, cool and breezy as always.

  The exercise made her brain function more clearly and she abruptly realized that she could wear the suit and shoes to her father's wedding at the end of next month. The pearl-gray suit would do nicely for a wedding; thank goodness she hadn't bought the black one. The weeks were flying by — time really did fly

  when you were having fun. She'd already redone all the note cards in the mustier exhibits, a task that had been waiting for attention for over three years. They even had color, courtesy of the inkjet she'd bought for them shortly after she started work. What a concept, Carla had said. Color in a museum.

  She was serenely at work when Carla came looking for her. As usual, she arrived out of breath and stood poised to dash in any given direction at a moment's notice. "We're going to get a delivery in the next few days — approximately thirty small sculptures from an estate. It'll need to be sorted and cataloged."

  Teresa leaned on the Egyptian papyrus display case. "It'll make a nice change. Is there anything of value?"

  "There could be a Braque, which is why I said we'd value and catalog it for the family. They're big donors anyway. I wanted to tell you that a teacher from today's kid tour told me how much she appreciates the new note cards in here. She said she didn't know how the scroll ink was made and it was interesting to the kids."

  "Just showing off my art school education."

  "Keep it up." Carla twined a lock of platinum hair around her finger and leaned toward the exit as if she heard some silent call that needed her immediate attention. "You've been doing a great job."

  "Thanks. I hope the board can be convinced to let me do a fabulous job on the database."

  "Most of the board members are thrilled. Oh, and Eric has allowed as how he might be able to free up one of his assistants to collaborate. After all, they do know the fine arts collection best."

  Teresa had wondered why Carla, who had only one

  assistant — her — had been saddled with such a monu¬mental task. She knew that Eric's assistants weren't sitting around eating bonbons, but there were three of them. "That will be great."

  "Don't jump for joy yet. It seems the person who will help will also be doing the new Securi-tag inventory system."

  "Oh. So I'll be helping out with that a little?"

  "If it gets to be too much let me know. Actually, I do think this is a good idea. We don't want to finish our new database and have to go back and reenter the Securi-tag numbers or have a separate database for that. That would be counterproductive."

  "I can see that. Well, I'll be glad for some help." So what if she spent time securing and coding the security tags; it was no big deal. It was the grunt work of running a museum and she'd expected to do a lot of it. One couldn't sit around all day looking at art. She would get to handle some of the finer pieces — it was something to be able to say you'd held a Man Ray or a Stuart Davis in your hands.

  Carla headed for her office at a rapid pace. Teresa was just getting back to full concentration when her phone rang.

  "I want you to meet me at that new bar I was telling you about," Vivian said.

  "What new bar?"

  "It's not new new, just new to us. The one where business types hang out."

  "By that you mean older?"

  "Maybe. Ho
w should I know?"

  "Remind me why this is a good idea."

  "Because we haven't met anyone new in at least three months. Hang on." She could hear Vivian telling

  someone that their brief would be out of the printer in five minutes. Apparently that was soon enough.

  "Bars are never good places to meet anyone," Teresa observed.

  "Well, hanging around at the library isn't working either. We need to branch out."

  Teresa sighed. The truth of Vivian's statement was undeniable. She hadn't had a real date in way too long — just promises to meet for coffee that were canceled, or awkward arrangements to meet at the movies or a comedy club with everyone bringing a friend along just to make it clear it wasn't a date. Her first year of graduate school was the last time that anyone had made her heart, let alone other influential parts of her body, go thump-thump. "Okay, so where is this place?"

  "Sort of between Noe Valley and the Castro —"

  "So I can take a K, L or M, right?"

  "If traffic is all messed up you could take the streetcar."

  "Yeah, yeah. Let me write the address down."

  After Vivian hung up, Teresa was vaguely de¬pressed, and she'd been feeling so positive. Vivian hated being single with a passion, but Teresa didn't really know any other alternative. Her father had been a single parent and, honestly, this driving need to couple up seemed a little bit... stifling. Nobody stayed together these days, and coupling up early seemed like a sure way to break up. What if she had the opportunity to do a really interesting project on the other side of the country? Could she just pack up and go if she was living with someone?

  So she didn't have Vivian's burning desire to find

  Ms. Right, but lord knows she did need some more friends. It seemed like everyone from college was in either New York or Los Angeles, or so involved in their various installations and projects that they were never available for something fun. They weren't doing the 9-to-5 and were just starting their social day when Teresa was going to bed.