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gift we can’t deny is his doing. By the time I was out of money and the staff said we really had to let him go, Einstein woke.
    Part of me felt relief, as if somehow this meant that my plan of keeping busy and maintaining control was working. But the morning after Einstein woke, it was Friday, the day of Sandy’s funeral.
    I arrived at St. Thomas Church, not realizing I was wearing a navy blue dress instead of black until I hesitated on the church steps, my coat hem flapping open in the wind. Sitting in the front pew, I was only vaguely aware of the massive crowd in attendance; I studied lint on the blue jersey.
    I saw no faces. No voice stood out. Not even my sister was there because she hadn’t been able to get a flight back from South America in time. Whenever the disjointed numbness started to crack and let something darker seep through, I refocused on the lint or thought about Einstein. I thought about the manuscript I was working on. I thought about anything except the mahogany casket at the front of the church. I only wanted to get back to work, back to Einstein, then back to the safety of the apartment Sandy and I had shared at the Dakota.
    As soon as the service was over I turned to leave.
    “Emily.”
    With effort, I made out my mother-in-law.
    She came toward me with icy-cold correctness, her auburn hair pulled back, her green eyes closed off, the kind of eyes that didn’t give anything back. She spoke with stiff enunciation of every syllable, jaw thrust forward, though I always had the feeling that her manner was an affectation born of necessity rather than a lifetime of New England nannies and Mayflower teas. It was Sandy’s father who had the blond hair and faded gray eyes of an older New York, along with the ease of that world which he wrapped around himself like a king’s robe, rich and important, but taken for granted.
    Althea nodded to people as they passed, then said, “How are you doing, dear?”
    I had the fleeting thought that this woman was kinder than I had always believed, and I started to blurt out that there was a photo of her and Sandy that I thought she might want.
    She never gave me the chance to offer the picture or even answer her question. “Taylor,” she called out to a man I somewhat recognized.
    “Mrs. Portman,” he said. “I’m so sorry.”
    Althea and I both said thank you, before glancing at each other.
    “Yes, well,” she said, as if I had no right to the name. “The two of you might as well set up a time to meet.”
    The man shifted uncomfortably.
    “Meet?” I asked. “What for?”
    “The apartment, of course.”
    Foreboding prickled my skin, and I felt the hazy scrim seep back into my mind.
    “Althea,” the man said with a scowl, “I hardly think this is the time—”
    “Taylor, none of this is going to get any easier.” She turned to me. “My husband and I will give you time, but you need to start thinking about when you can move out.”
    I could only stare at her. “What?” I managed.
    “Emily,” she said carefully, “the apartment belonged to Sandy and is covered in his will. At his death, the residence at the Dakota goes into the Portman Family Trust.”
    “But … Sandy promised.” I tried to make my brain work. “He said he was deeding it to me. He changed his will.”
    “Emily, you’re confused. He didn’t change anything.”
    “No. That’s not possible.” After a year of Sandy’s prodding, a year after he promised me the Dakota, I had given in and given up my rent-controlled apartment, the decision tying me even more tightly to my husband. “Sandy said the Dakota was mine.”
    His mother looked me in the eye. “That’s ridiculous.”
    Heat ripped through my face. You can’t do this! But I caught myself. “I have to go,” I managed, banging into people as I hurried toward the door.
    “Emily!” Althea called out.
    But I didn’t stop. You will not fall apart, I told myself, needing to get away, though what I really needed was