When I found myself at Columbus Circle, I stopped: Sylvia Markey and Jake Steiner lived nearby. On impulse I turned on to Central Park South and walked until I came to their apartment building. I gave the doorman my name and asked if Jake Steiner was in. To my surprise, he was. The doorman hung up his phone and told me to go on up. “Come in, Abby.” Jake looked well, considering the strain he’d been under. His face was gray and tired, but he held his body straight and his head up. “Drink?” I declined. “How do things stand, Jake? The hospital won’t say anything other than ‘condition stable.’” The beginnings of a smile appeared on his face. “She’s coming home, Abby. In three days. She’s coming home.” The surprise must have shown on my face, because Jake went on, “The doctors wanted her to go to a nursing home, but I know I can give her better care than one of those impersonal institutions. Oh, she’ll have qualified nurses here—around the clock. She’ll be well taken care of, you can be sure.”
