The night Robin Ross was dying in the hospital, I was waiting for a man to come pick me up—a man she had once dated, months before I began dating him—and he was late and I was wondering whether his going to see her with me was even wise. Perhaps I should go alone. Her colleague ZJ had called that morning and said, “Things are bad. When she leaves the hospital, she’s not going home.”

“I’ll go see her tonight,” I said. I felt I was a person of my word, and by saying something I would make it so. It was less like integrity perhaps and more like magic.

“That’s a good idea,” ZJ said. He was chairman of the theater department and had taken charge, like a husband, since Robin had asked him to; his tearfulness about her fate had already diminished. In the eighties he had lost a boyfriend to AIDS, and now all the legal and medical decision-making these last few months, he said, seemed numbingly familiar.

But then I found myself waiting, and soon it was seven-thirty and then eight and I imagined Robin was tired and sleeping in her metal hospital bed and would have more energy in the morning. When the man I was waiting for came, I said, “You know? It’s so late. Maybe I should visit Robin in the morning when she’ll have more energy and be more awake. The tumor presses on the skull, poor girl, and makes her groggy.”

“Whatever you think is best,” said the man. When I told him what ZJ had said, that when Robin left the hospital, she wasn’t going home, the man looked puzzled. “Where is she going to go?” He hadn’t dated Robin very long, only a few weeks, and had never really understood her. “Her garage was a pigsty,” he had once said. “I couldn’t believe all the crap that was in it!” And I had nodded agreeably, feeling I had won him; my own garage wasn’t that great, but whatever. I had triumphed over others by dint of some unknowable charm. Now I was coming to realize that a lot of people baffled this guy, and that I would be next to become incomprehensible and unattractive. That was how dating among straight middle-aged women seemed to go in this college town: one available man every year or so just made the rounds of us all. “I can share. I’m good at sharing,” Robin used to say, laughing.

“Well I’m not,” I said. “I’m not good at it in the least.”

“It’s late,” I said again to the man, and I made two gin rickeys and lit candles.

Every woman I knew here drank—daily. In rejecting the lives of our mothers, we found ourselves looking for stray volts of mother love in the very places they could never be found: gin, men, the college, our own mothers, and one another. I was the only one of my friends—all of us academic transplants, all soldiers of art stationed on a far-off base (or, so we imagined it)—who hadn’t had something terrible happen to her yet.

The next morning I dressed in cheery colors. Orange and gold. There was nothing useful to bring Robin, but I made a bouquet of cut mums nonetheless and stuck them in a plastic cup with some wet paper towels holding them in. I was headed toward the front door when the phone rang. It was ZJ. “I’m leaving now to see Robin,” I said.

“Don’t bother.”

“Oh, no,” I said. My vision left me for a second.

“She died late last night. About two in the morning.”

I sank down into a chair and my plastic cup of mums fell, breaking two stems. “Oh, my God,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“I was going to go see her last night, but it got late and I thought it would be better to go this morning when she was more rested.” I tried not to wail.

“Don’t worry about it,” he said.

“I feel terrible,” I cried, as if this were what mattered.

“She was not doing well. It’s a blessing.” From diagnosis to decline had been precipitous, I knew. She was teaching, then suddenly the new chemo was not going well and she was lying outside of the emergency room, on the concrete, afraid to lie down inside because of other people’s germs. Then she was placed in the actual hospital, which was full of other people’s germs. She’d been there almost a week and I hadn’t gotten in to see her.

“It’s all so unbelievable.”

“I know.”

“How are you?” I asked.

“I can’t even go there,” he said.

“Please phone me if there’s something I can do,” I said emptily. “Let me know when the service will be.”

“Sure,” he said.

I went upstairs and with all my cheery clothes on got back into bed. It still smelled a little of the man. I pulled the sheet over my head and lay there, every muscle of my body strung taut. I could not move.

But I must have fallen asleep, and for some time, because when I heard the doorbell downstairs and pulled the sheet off my face, it was already dark, though the sun set these days at four, so it was hard ever to know by just looking out the windows what time it might possibly be. I flicked on the lights as I went—bedroom, hall, stairs—making my way down toward the ringing bell. I turned on the porch light and opened the door.

There stood Isabel and Pat. “We’ve got the gin, we’ve got the rickey mix,” they said, holding up bags. “Come on. We’re going to go see Robin.”

“I thought Robin died,” I said.

Pat made a face. “Yes, well,” she said.

“That hospital was such a bad scene,” said Isabel. She was not wearing her prosthetic arm. Except in pieces choreographed by others, she almost never did anymore. “But she’s back home now and she’s expecting us.”

“How can that be?”

“You know women and their houses,” said Pat. “It’s hard for them to part company.” Pat had had a massive stroke two years before, which had wiped out her ebullient personality and her short-term memory, but periodically her wounded, recovering brain cast about desperately and landed on a switch and threw it, and she woke up in a beautiful manic frenzy, seeming like the old Pat, saying, “I feel like I’ve been asleep for years,” and she would stay like that for days on end, insomniac and babbling and reminiscing, painting her paintings, then she’d crash again, passive and mute. She was on disability leave and had a student living with her full-time who took care of her.

“Maybe we all drink too much gin,” I said.

For a moment there was just silence. “Are you referring to the accident?” said Isabel accusingly. It was a car crash that had severed her arm. A surgeon and his team of residents had sewn it back on, but the arm had bled continually through the skin grafts and was painful—the first dance afterward before an audience, a solo performed with much spinning and swinging from a rope, had flung specks of blood to the stage floor—and after a year, and a small ineffectual codeine habit, she’d gone back to the same surgeon and asked him to remove it, the whole arm, she was done, she had tried.

“No, no,” I said. “I’m not referring to anything.”

“So hey, come on, come on!” said Pat. The switch seemed to have been thrown in her.

“Robin’s waiting.”

“What do I bring?”

“Bring?” Pat and Isabel burst out laughing. “You’re kidding, right?” Pat said.

“She’s kidding,” said Isabel. She felt the sleeve of my orange sweater, which I was still wearing. “Hey. This color looks nice on you. Where did you get this?”

“I forget.”

“Yeah, so do I!” said Pat, and she and Isabel burst into fits of hilarity again.

I put on shoes, grabbed a jacket, and left with them.

Isabel drove, one-armed, to Robin’s. When we arrived the house was completely dark, but the streetlights showed once more the witchy strangeness of the place. Because she wrote plays based on fairy tales, Robin had planted in the yard, rather haphazardly, the trees and shrubs that figured most prominently in the tales: apple, juniper, hazelnut, and rosebushes. Unfortunately, our latitude was not the best gardening zone for these. Even braced and trussed, they had struggled, jagged and leggy; at this time of year, when they were leafless and bent, one couldn’t say for sure whether they were even alive. Spring would tell.

Why would a man focus on her garage when there was this crazed landscaping with which to judge her? Make your excuses: no jury would convict.

Though why would a man focus on anything but her?

We parked in the driveway, where Robin’s own car was still parked, her garage no doubt locked—even in the dark one could see the boxes stacked against the single garage window that faced the street.

“The key’s under the mat,” said Isabel, though I didn’t know this and wondered how she did. Pat found the key, unlocked the door, and we all went in. “Don’t turn on the lights,” Isabel added.

“I know,” whispered Pat, though I didn’t know.

“Why can’t we turn on the lights?” I asked, also in a whisper. The door closed behind us and we stood there in the quiet, pitch-black house.

“The police,” said Pat.

“No, not the police,” said Isabel.

“Then what?”

“Never mind. Just give it a minute and our eyes will adjust.” We stood there listening to our own breathing. We didn’t move, so as not to trip over anything.

And then on the opposite side of the room a small light flicked on from somewhere at the end of the far hallway; we could not see down it,...