Black & White by Dani Shapiro Page A

it, her fingers ache.
    “Mama, may I please have more soup?”
    This from Tucker. The children call their parents Mama and Papa—nothing so common as Mom and Dad for them. Clara can’t imagine what Sam would make of this, these New York City first cousins she has longed to meet. Sam would be intimidated, that’s for sure. Sam is right between the two boys age-wise, but they might as well be creatures from another planet. Handsome kids whose lives are already mapped out for them; the type people refer to as well-rounded. They take after Ed’s side of the family—strapping sandy-haired jocks, destined for Ivy League eating clubs and varsity lacrosse.
    Ruth sits at the head of the table, in her wheelchair. She has some color in her cheeks from the two glasses of wine she’s downed since arriving at Robin’s. She fills her glass once again, then raises it and clinks the edge with her salad fork.
    “A toast,” she says. She’s looped, Clara realizes. Fine bordeaux and the benzodiazepines Ruth is taking three times a day cannot possibly mix well. “To my beautiful family,” says Ruth, slightly slurring her words. “I can’t possibly tell you how much this means to me—to see you all together.”
    Robin and Ed exchange a quick marital look. Ed passes the open bottle of wine down the table, toward Clara. The only thing worse than a terminally ill Ruth would be a drunk terminally ill Ruth.
    “Mama, what’s the matter with Grandma?” the little girl, Elliot, asks in a loud whisper. So she isn’t such a grown-up after all.
    “Ssshh, darling,” Robin says. Robin looks—despite the yoga, despite the therapy—so tightly wound that she may just uncoil from the table and start spinning around the room like a top. She’s put together perfectly—a personal shopper sends her bags full of each season’s latest Jil Sander, Narcisco Rodriguez, Georgio Armani—but none of the pieces quite fit. She is all angles and absences, a puzzle with the corners done but the center missing.
    “That’s all right,” says Ruth. “Elliot, you’ve asked a very good question. Grandma’s going to tell you—”
    “Stop!” Robin says. Her tone is so sharp that all three kids snap to attention. “Mother, think for a moment. Just think about what you’re saying.”
    The soup dishes have been cleared away, and now a fish stew is being served. The scent of cardomom and a faint whiff of ginger waft up from Clara’s plate.
    Ruth continues determinedly. “Grandma’s going to tell you, Elliot, and I want you to remember this forever and ever—”
    The little girl’s eyes are huge with wonder.
    “Mother, I’m warning you.” Robin’s voice is shaking.
    “—that I will always love you,” Ruth says. “Whether I’m in this room with you or someplace else entirely.”
    With that, Ruth keeps her eyes downcast, as she uses all the strength in her thin arms to wheel herself backward from the table.
    “Mother—Mom, where are you going?” Robin asks.
    Ed shakes his head, then spears a shrimp from the fish stew.
    “O ye of little faith,” comes Ruth’s voice, faintly. She turns her wheelchair—it must take every ounce of strength she has—and moves slowly through the French doors and into the living room.
    “Oh, please.” Robin drops her head into her hands. “What a drama queen.”
    “What’s a drama queen?” asks the younger of the two boys.
    “Grandma thinks…Oh, never mind.”
    “I’ll go see her,” says Ed.
    “No.” Clara rises quickly from her chair. “Let me.”
    “We need to talk about what happens next,” Robin says. “Clara—”
    “What do you mean?”
    “She’s deteriorating. She can’t be alone in that apartment with just that girl, what’s her name—”
    “Peony,” Clara says. “And we can talk about it later.” She’s feeling something almost impossible to contain, a welling up of sympathy for her mother so huge that it seems to fill her, spilling from her very pores.
    Ruth has moved to