It was raining when I left the hospital. One of those cold unpleasant rains that knows how to sneak down the back of your shirt and give you a chill before you've gone ten blocks. Hospitals invariably give me the feeling of being coated in an invisible sheen of bloodthirsty germs and lost hope that doesn't disappear until I've walked hard awhile and breathed in the healthy world outside, so I kept walking.

I wanted a hamburger. A cheeseburger dripping with grease and a mound of fried onion rings that would clog my arteries and fuck the rest. I knew a nice gross luncheonette nearby that had what I needed. I headed in that direction.

Standing on a corner waiting for the light to change, I looked across the street and saw Veronica. My guts did a double salto. I didn't know whether to run away or straight at her.

"Hey, you wanna buy a gold chain?"

A tall black man standing next to me held open a case full of glittering junk.

"No thanks."

When I looked back across the street, Veronica had metamorphosed into just another lovely New York blond. The light changed and we moved toward each other. Without realizing it, I continued to stare at false Veronica. Seeing me gawk, her face turned to stone.

Later over my cheeseburger, I thought about what it was like to be haunted by a person. What was it like for Edward Durant to think about his son, falsely accused, imprisoned for murder, sexually assaulted, a suicide.

What was it like to be lying in a hospital bed knowing time was up? Your soul full of regrets and memories driving the guilt deeper every day.

I put the burger down and asked the counterman for a glass of water. I drank it in one go and asked for another, which went down the same way.

Holding the empty glass in my hand, I felt the world around me increase. Sounds, smells, the closeness of the people in the room. Some godly hand had turned up the volume. I knew if I went back outside I would be crushed by the weight. Is that what Durant was feeling? Because for him it could only get worse. Even frozen solid in this jacked-up moment, I knew it would pass and I would come through. Drink a glass of water, take a deep breath, rearrange the furniture . . . There were a million ways to fix things and go on. But what if all the furniture was gone and the only company you had in that final room were ghosts you'd spawned and fed on a lifetime of mistakes?

There was a phone on the back wall of the place, next to the toilet. I called Durant and said I would write the book he needed.

While in the city there was one more thing I needed to do, thanks to Ms. Lake and her hacksaw. I needed a new pen. There was only one place to go – the Fountain Pen Hospital. I liked the store so much that I had taken Veronica there one day. We had spent a long time mooning over the thousands of old and new pens. I had bought her a vintage Elmo-Montegrappa. More than anything, she loved the name of the company. Said it sounded like a rare tropical disease.

When I walked in this time, one of the owners brightened and said he had a surprise for me. Sotheby's had recently had an auction of objects owned by famous writers. He brought out a worn black leather box and handed it to me. Inside was a plum colored Parker 51 Custom, complete with a broad nib. The same model Veronica had cut in half. But the one I was holding had belonged to Isaac Bashevis Singer! I was barely able to keep my tongue in my mouth. With a sinking feeling, I asked how much it cost, knowing full well I'd mortagage the house to own it.

"It's a gift from your friend. The one you were with the last time you came in? We have the provenance too. There's no question it belonged to Singer."

"How did this happen?" I couldn't bear to put the pen down. A present from Veronica after everything that had happened made me uneasy but I couldn't let this one leave my hand.

"She came in a few days ago and asked if we had a mustard colored 51, but you know how rare those are. We told her about this one. She looked at it and said to hold it for you."

"She didn't take it with her?"

"She was sure you'd be in soon so we should hold it till you got here."

"How much did it cost?"

"We're not allowed to tell you."

It was remarkable, as great a gift as any I had ever received. But did it make up for the chaos and trouble Veronica kept causing? I took the pen but never used it. Mr. Singer had owned it, but Ms. Lake gave it to me. As far as I was concerned, her juju was a lot more powerful than one of my favorite authors.

Fall arrived like a bully, wasting no time making nice-nice with pretty autumn leaves or crisp cold mornings. It shoved summer in the face and started sleeting in the middle of September.

McCabe and Durant went home from the hospital changed men. Durant knew the big clock was ticking an inch from his head. Like an artist inspired to do one last great work, he threw himself into gathering the details of his son's life and whatever he could do to help me.

I took to spending whole days with him, going over his research and discussing aspects of the book. His enthusiasm inspired and humbled me. Despite a body full of healthy cells, I had been moping around for such a long time. Being with Edward Durant made me want to go fast again.

Never once did he try to sugarcoat his son or what the boy had done in his short life. "The only time you need to convince a jury is when your case is weak, or you know your client is guilty. Thank God we don't have that problem here. Edward's innocence needs no clever distortion." He lit one of his atomic-bomb cigarettes and delicately plucked a piece of tobacco off his tongue.

"You know how you can tell if a woman is genuinely beautiful? See her when she wakes up in the morning. No makeup, no elaborate hairdo – just her. If she's got it, you'll see. Same thing applies here. Tell the truth about Edward and they'll see."

When he said that, I thought of Veronica in the morning. She liked to sleep in men's pajamas. Opening her eyes, she'd see you and reach out her arms like a child. The only thing she ever said was "Come." We'd embrace and when our faces were touching, I could feel her smile against my cheek. She was beautiful.

Inevitably, as he talked about Edward and Pauline, I found myself telling Durant about Veronica and what had happened between us.

He thought about it awhile and then said, "She sounds like a haunted house. We're all so optimistic and vain when it comes to romance. Always convinced our love can exorcise their ghosts. But ghosts have forgotten about love. It's not part of their world. The only thing they know is how to make you miserable.

"Veronica probably does love you, Sam. It's unfortunate you didn't meet years ago. You might have been able to save her then. But saving someone is not the same as loving them, is it?"

The doctors said McCabe would recover completely in time, but when he got out of the hospital, he took a leave of absence from his job and spent the time watching television or Hong Kong karate videos. Whenever I was there, he was in his robe and pajamas, watching the tube and rarely talking. We ate whatever I cooked or brought in from outside. When I was gone, Magda Ostrova came by at least once a day with something for him.

He lost interest in my book or investigating what had happened to Pauline and Edward. Whenever I spoke about it, I could see him tune out, his eyes flickering back and forth between me and the TV set.

I knew Frannie was trying to find his way out of the trauma of being shot, but knowing that didn't make it any easier to be around him. A vital part of McCabe had closed down and he didn't seem to be much bothered by the loss.