“I love you,” Alex called, with tears in her eyes, as they got in the elevator, and Sam looked at her with the familiar annoyance, as Annabelle cried softly.

“She'll be fine,” he reminded Annabelle again as they went down in the elevator with their bags, angry that he even had to reassure her. Alex had no business clinging to her and scaring her the way she did. It brought back all the same feelings of resentment he'd had since October, and ever since his own mother had died years before. For Sam it was a relief to get away from her. Just being around her was depressing, no matter how hard she tried.

They got in a cab for La Guardia, and by die time they were gone, Alex was standing alone in her bedroom, feeling lost without them. She had seen more of Sam in the last two days than she'd seen of him in the past month, and in some ways it had been pleasant, but in others it was very painful. It was like forcing herself to look at something she could no longer have, and reminding herself of all the reasons why she had loved it. Even after he had hurt her so much and failed her so badly, she still had to remind herself to stop loving him now. Caring about him was destructive and having seen him with the English girl, she knew there was no point hanging on. It was a relief now that he was gone.

After a little while, she washed the breakfast dishes and made Annabelle's bed. Carmen was not coming in. Without Annabelle, Alex had said she didn't need any help, and she had given her the day off. Alex wandered aimlessly around the apartment, and finally went to her bathroom to take a shower. She was trying to talk herself into getting dressed, and going out for a walk, so she wouldn't feel so lonely. But even thinking of it reminded her of seeing Sam with the English girl only three days before. And suddenly she didn't want to. She wanted to go back to bed, and sleep all day. She had nothing to do anyway, since she wasn't going in to the office. But a certain Spartan spirit told her to at least take a shower and get dressed. And to that end, she pulled off her wig, and happened to catch a glimpse of herself in the mirror. The last of her hair had just come out, and she was suddenly completely bald, without a single hair on her head. The last of it lay in the wig she dropped on her sink, and as she took off her dressing gown, and slipped her nightgown off, she suddenly stood staring at herself, and realized how she must look to Sam. She was bald, she was scarred. The missing breast was a slab of white flesh now, with a narrow pink scar and no nipple. She didn't even look like a man. She was even less than that. She looked like a nothing, like a mannequin, with no hair and one breast, the kind that you find lying disassembled on the floor in department stores on the day that they change the windows.

She started to cry as she saw herself, and realized that not only Sam was gone but Annabelle. She had already lost her husband, and eventually she might lose her daughter. It was as though she were being stripped of everything she had ever been or loved or wanted. The only thing left to her was her work, and she couldn't even do that the way she had once done it. She was like a broken bird, limping to earth, stripped, and dying. She felt ugly, useless, and sick. She almost wondered if it wouldn't be easier to die, to just give up now, before she lost even more than she already had. Why wait until the rest was taken from her? Until Sam told her he wanted a divorce so he could marry that girl, and Annabelle fell in love with her. Why wait for them to kill her? Or leave her all alone.

She just stood crying, staring at herself, and in the distance, she heard the phone, but she didn't bother to answer. Her stomach revolted finally from all the anguish of her illness and her realizations, and naked, she knelt on the floor and began vomiting, and eventually there was only retching. It was all too familiar now. It was what she had become, a broken machine that could only spew bile. There was nothing left of her. And when it was over, she lay on the floor and cried until finally, she went back to bed, just as she was, and lay curled under the covers. She ate nothing all day, and Sam and Annabelle never called. They were too busy having fun at Disney World. They had moved on, toward life, in a world of sunshine, while she lay alone in the dark shadows of her own winter. She lay crying in the dark, until the emptiness in her stomach made her sick again, and she went back to the bathroom. It was an endless day of vomiting and tears, and always the bald ghost she saw in the mirror. She didn't even bother to turn the lights on, but still she saw her.

And then the phone rang again late that afternoon, but she still didn't bother to answer. She was too sick, too tired, too crazy, too willing to die, even to reach out to anyone who would call her. Annabelle didn't need her now. She had Sam. No one needed her. She was nothing. No one. Not even a woman.

The phone rang incessantly, as she lay in her bed, in tears wishing it would stop ringing, but it just wouldn't. She reached out finally, and picked it up, without speaking.

“Hello?”

She knew the voice, but she wasn't thinking clearly.

“Hello, Alex?” the voice repeated.

“Yes.” Her voice sounded vague and disjointed. “Who is this?”

“It's Brock Stevens.” It didn't sound like her, and he wondered if she had gotten a lot sicker, or gone back for additional treatment.

“Hi, Brock.” Her voice sounded dead, and he was worried. “Where are you?” She sounded as though she didn't care, but she knew she had to say something.

“I'm in Connecticut, with friends. I wanted to ask you about Vermont again. I'm going up tomorrow.” She smiled. He was sweet. But he was also very stupid. She was dying. Why did he need a dying friend? It was a waste of time to help her.

“I can't make it. I have work to do.”

“No one's going to work this week, and we caught up on everything.”

“Okay,” she smiled weakly, overpowered by nausea again. Not eating earlier had made her sicker and she knew it. “I'm a liar. But I can't go anyway.”

“Is your little girl there?” he asked, unwilling to let her off the hook without a fight. He wanted her to go with him. He thought it would do her good, and Liz had agreed with him when he asked her. Alex needed to get away, and the fresh air would be healthy for her as long as she didn't overdo it.

“Annabelle's in Florida,” she answered his question. “And Sam's probably with his girlfriend,” she threw in for good measure. She was a little giddy from lack of food and water.

“Did he tell you that?” He sounded annoyed when he asked her. He thought her husband was a complete jerk, and he didn't deserve her. But even as a friend, he felt he couldn't say that.

“I saw them together, the day before Christmas Eve. She's very young, and very pretty.” She sounded almost drunk, and Brock got suddenly even more worried about her. “And I'm sure she has two of everything. Sam hates anything that isn't perfect.”

“Alex, are you okay?” he asked, glancing at his watch, and wondering how long it would take him to get into the city to see her. Or he could call Liz, and she could go over. He was contemplating doing one or the other. He didn't like the way she sounded, especially since she was alone. There was always the possibility that in light of her present state of mind, she might do something crazy.

“I'm fine,” she said, lying very still with her eyes closed, so she wouldn't vomit. “The rest of my hair fell out today. It looks a lot neater.”

“Why don't you just rest for a while. I'll give you a call in about an hour. Okay?”

“Okay,” she said sleepily. She hung up and forgot about him. She wanted to forget everything. Maybe if she just starved herself for six days until Annabelle came home, she'd be dead when they found her. It was a lot easier than dying by chemo. She drifted off to sleep, and a little while later, she heard an alarm, or a bell, or a sound. She tried to ignore it for a long time, and then she realized it was her doorbell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she tried to ignore it some more, but it wouldn't stop. And then someone started pounding on the door, so she put her dressing gown on, and went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Brock Stevens. She was so surprised, she opened it and they stood staring at each other, she in her beige cashmere robe and he in a heavy sweater and parka, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. There was a smell of fresh air about him, and he looked very worried when he saw her.

“I was worried sick about you,” he said as she stood there.

“Why?” She looked a little vague and she was weaving, but he knew her well enough to know she hadn't been drinking. She was just very sick and probably hadn't eaten. She stepped aside to let him in and he followed her into the living room, and then she saw herself in the mirror and realized she hadn't put on her wig. “Shit,” she said, and looked up at him like a little kid, “there goes that.”

“You look like Sinead O'Connor, only better.”

“I can't sing.”

“Neither can I,” he said, still looking at her, thinking that she really looked like Audrey Hepburn. She was even beautiful without her hair, it was so simple and so unadorned. All the beauty of her face stood out like some exquisite being from another world. There was a luminousness to her that never failed to touch him. “What happened?” he asked her. It was obvious that something had. It was as though she were trying to let go and die. And she was. But even over the phone, he had sensed it.

“I don't know. I saw myself in the mirror this morning, and Annabelle was gone, and I was sick again …it's just too much to fight anymore …Sam and his other woman …it's all such a mess. It's just too much trouble,” she said honestly, and he looked angry.