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doctor. Michael had never been sick a day in his life, had never been examined by a physician, certainly had never had a heart procedure. And, oh, one more thing: He’d never been frightened out of his mind like this before. Not about dying: He was all right with that, more or less. Cautiously optimistic anyway. But he had just found Jane again, and he didn’t want to lose her for any reason. He couldn’t lose Jane. “Hi,” she said, and he smiled weakly. He adored the sound of her voice. “Hi. I must look like I was hit by a speeding truck. I feel like it.” “You look terrific. For somebody who was hit by a truck.” The doctor gave Jane a pat on the shoulder and left. Jane came over to Michael’s bed and leaned in and kissed his forehead — and suddenly he remembered doing the exact same thing to her when she was eight. He reminded her. “We’re on the same wavelength, Michael.

Eighty-two WHILE WE’RE ON THE SUBJECT of miracles, consider this one: Just because life is hard, and always ends in a bad way, doesn’t mean that all stories have to, even if that’s what they tell us in school and in the New York Times Book Review. In fact, it’s a good thing that stories are as different as we are, one from another. So here’s how this one ends: happily, I should warn you. Huge spotlights rake the night sky of Manhattan, signaling that this is a really big deal. People are waving pens and pieces of papers, screaming for autographs from the actors. Police hold back the crowd at Sixth Avenue and 54th Street. It’s pretty cool. It’s a genuine rush. My stomach is all in knots, and I smile as if it isn’t and walk past the paparazzi into the theater. I’m wearing a red satin dress. It’s a little snug at my hips and flares at the bottom. But I look good, and I know it. Sort of. In my own way of knowing these things and feeling good about myself, which I’m slowly getting a lot bet

Eighty-three MICHAEL WAS SEATED at a table in the Astor Court at the St. Regis, with an absolutely adorable four-year-old girl named Agatha, who preferred to be called Aggie. Aggie was Michael’s latest mission, and although he always tried to do something fresh and new with every one of his kids, he couldn’t resist the St. Regis on a Sunday afternoon. This place was all about good memories, right? The waiter placed a bowl of melon balls and lemon sherbet in front of him. “Thanks so much,” said Michael, as if the waiter had done him a great favor, which Michael believed he had, since he did his job so well. The waiter had already given Aggie her sundae —strawberries with whipped cream, over strawberry ice cream, with a dab of strawberry jam. “You’re such a girl,” Michael kidded her. “I am a girl, silly,” said Aggie, who had the most amazing smile to go with her beautiful green eyes. Michael was tempted to teach her something that he would call the Aggie-and-Michael game, but he resisted