I travel upstairs. In Ed’s library, I find the glass and bottle I abandoned twenty minutes ago, brimming with sun. I collect them, ferry the whole lot to my study.

At the desk I sit. And think.

Spread across the screen before me is a chessboard, pieces already in place, night-and-day armies braced for battle. The white queen: I remember claiming Jane’s. Jane, in her snowy blouse, saturated with blood.

Jane. The white queen.

The computer chirps.

I look toward the Russell house. No signs of life.

I start, stare.

Where had we left things? When had we left things? I expand the chat box, scroll up. GrannyLizzie has left the chat at 4:46 p.m. on Thursday, November 4.

That’s right: just as Ed and I had broken the news to Olivia. I remember how my heart thrummed.

And six hours later I dialed 911.

And since then . . . the journey outside. The night in the hospital. The interview with Little, with the doctor. The injection. The ride through Harlem, sun aching in my eyes. The hustle inside. Punch, snaking into my lap. Norelli, circling me. Alistair in my house. Ethan in my house.

That woman in my house.

And Bina, and our Internet searches, and her prim snores in the night. And today: Ed, disbelieving; that phone call from “Jane”; David’s apartment, David’s anger; Dr. Fielding’s voice croaking in my ear.

Has it only been two days?

She cut me off cold, but I’m taking the high road.

Good.

I put the glass to my mouth, drink. Set it down and sip from the other glass. I’d assumed that Lizzie didn’t want to hear my sob story. Me of little faith.

I smile too.

I think of Livvy and Ed, hear their voices in my head. My throat swells. I swallow some more wine.

For the first time in days, I feel relaxed, in charge. Useful, even. Almost like I’m back on East Eighty-Eighth, in my office, helping a patient. Only connect.

I might need this more than Lizzie does.

And so, as the light dims outside and the shadows fade across my ceiling, I chat with a lonely grandmother thousands of miles away. Lizzie loves to cook, she tells me; the boys’ favorite meal is my famous pot roast (not really famous), and she bakes cream cheese brownies every year for the fire department. There used to be a cat—here I tell her about Punch—but now she has a rabbit, a brown girl named Petunia. Though not a film buff, Lizzie likes cooking shows and Game of Thrones. The latter surprises me—pretty gritty.

She talks about Richard, of course. We all miss him very much. He was a teacher, a Methodist deacon, a lover of trains (with a big model set in our cellar), an affectionate parent—a good man.

A good man and a good father. Suddenly Alistair steps into my mind. I shudder, wade deeper into my wineglass.

I learn that Richard was not only decent but responsible, and managed all the house work: maintenance, electronics (William brought me an “apple TV” I cannot work, Lizzie frets), landscaping, bills. In his absence, explains his widow, I feel overwhelmed. I feel like an old lady.

I drum my fingers atop the mouse. It isn’t exactly the Cotard delusion, but I can propose some quick fixes. Let’s solve this, I tell her—and instantly my blood runs warm, the way it does when I’m walking a patient through a problem.

I take a pencil from the drawer, slash a few words onto a Post-it. At the office I used a Moleskine notebook and a fountain pen. Makes no difference.

Maintenance: See if there’s a local handyman who can visit weekly—can she do that?

Electronics: Most young people are good with computers and TVs. I’m not sure how many teenagers Lizzie knows, but—

Bills (a particular challenge for her, it seems; Paying on line is difficult, too many different user names and pass words): She should Choose consistent and easy-to-remember logins for both—her own name, I suggest, or a child’s, or a loved one’s birthday—but switch out some of the letters for numbers and symbols. [email protected], for example.

A pause.

I smile again.

I should hope nobody would, anyway. She’s a septuagenarian in Montana.

Finally, outdoor work: Winters are really really cold here, Lizzie notes, so she’ll need someone to clear snow off the roof, spread rock salt on the front walk, shear icicles from the gutters . . . Even if I am able to go outside, it’s a heck of a lot of work to get ready for winter.

Problem solved. Patient helped. I feel as though I’m glowing. I sip my wine.

And then it’s back to pot roast, and rabbits, and William and Beau.

A light in the Russell parlor. I peek around the side of the desktop screen and see that woman walk into the room. I haven’t thought about her for more than an hour, I realize. My session with Lizzie is doing me good.

btw. She’s learning Internet slang.

I splay my fingers, fan them over the keyboard. Yes, I’ve been able to go outside. Twice, in fact.

No need to go into it, either.

She signs off, and I drain my glass. Set it on the desk.

I push one foot against the floor, set the chair slowly spinning. The walls revolve before me.

I will promote healing and well-being. I did that today.

I close my eyes. I’ve helped Lizzie prepare for life, helped her live it a little more fully. Helped her find relief.

I will place others’ interests above my own. Well, yes—but I benefited, too: For nearly ninety minutes, the Russells retreated from my brain. Alistair, that woman, even Ethan.

Even Jane.

The chair drifts to a halt. When I open my eyes, I’m looking through the doorway, into the hall, into Ed’s library.

And I think about what I haven’t told Lizzie, what I didn’t get to tell her.