Susan turned off the stove. "Breakfast is ready. Are you coming?"

Luka didn't answer. He'd been standing at the window, leaning on his crutch, staring out at the snow flurries, for a good 20 minutes.

"Luka?"

"I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat a little."

"Why?" Short and bitter.

"You'll feel better if you eat. Susan poured the tea, put the food on the plates. "You like blueberry pancakes." She heard the pleading tone slip into her voice.

Luka just took his coat from the rack. "I'm going out. For a walk."

"Don't go far, ok?"

No response, just the slamming of the door behind him. And Susan sank down at her own place at the table, her head bowed over her plate. Her own appetite was gone. After a few minutes she got up and went to the window, looking up and down the street. She didn't see Luka. He couldn't have gone that far yet. He moved so slowly these days. Then she saw him sitting on the front stoop. Just sitting. Anything was better than being in the apartment with her.

The past two weeks had been hell. For both of them. No longer able to work, Luka was growing, daily, more depressed and withdrawn. Susan had immediately taken a leave of absence from work herself. She knew he didn't have a lot of time left, and wanted to spend whatever time he had left together. Luka though, had other ideas. He barely spoke to her anymore, growing more bitter and angry by the day. Preferred to use his waning strength walking around the neighborhood rather than talking with her. He hadn't had the energy for lovemaking for quite some time, but he kept far to his edge of the bed now, meeting any attempt at a touch from her with his most common words these days -- "Leave me alone!" And often he'd then get up and leave the bed altogether, going to look out the window for a while, or leave the room without another word.

And he slept badly. His sleep was restless, filled with dreams again, or nightmares. But not the old ones anymore. He called out in his sleep; desperate, afraid. For Danijela. And he cried in his sleep. Too often she would wake to find him gone from their bed, but she wouldn't find him at prayer any more. Instead, she would find him just sitting, staring into space, or with his head in his arms, or looking at Danijela's picture.

He would never tell her what was wrong, what was troubling him so much. "You can't help." "Let me try," she would say. And then the usual, "Just leave me alone!" She offered to take him to church again, or to call Father James to come see him, suggested that he call the priest again. All these suggestions too brought curt refusals and "Just leave me alone!"

Luka barely ate any more. Worsening nausea and diarrhea were part of the problem, but he just had no appetite. Susan tried to fix things she knew he liked, things she hoped would stay down. But it grew increasingly clear to her, as the days passed, that the problem was a much more basic one than nausea. Luka had done what he had said he was going to do so many months before. When he could no longer work, he would have nothing left to live for. He had given up.

He was going through a rough time, Susan knew. Things would get better, they had to. Stopping work had been a shock, had brought the reality of his illness, his impending death, home to him. He would regain his footing again, his sense of peace. He had to. But things didn't get better. Luka seemed determined to die, and die alone, without comfort.

Two people in a two room apartment, one living, one dying. Each alone.

---------

Susan was scraping the cold pancakes, hers and Luka's, into the disposal when the door buzzer rang. She ran to answer it. "I didn't bring my keys," Luka said, and she buzzed him in. Once through the door, he didn't speak to her. Just hung up his coat and went into the bedroom. After a moment she heard voices and, puzzled, went to the bedroom door. He was on the phone, speaking in Croatian. Impatiently, he motioned for her to leave the room, as he always did when calling home.

Susan retreated hastily, but felt a glimmer of hope. He was talking to someone, presumably Tata. This was an improvement. He hadn't allowed Susan to have company over, not even Carter, whose company he usually enjoyed. They had been alone together in their individual misery for weeks. If he was talking to Tata, perhaps he was starting to feel better.

After a bit, Luka came out of the bedroom, poured himself some tea from the pot.

"I can make some fresh," Susan said quickly. "That's cold."

"It's fine." Luka sipped the cup.

"Talking to Tata?" Susan asked after a moment.

"Yeah. I owed him a call."

"How is he?"

"He's fine. Arthritis in his knee has been bothering him." Another sip. "He wanted to know if I'm coming home for Christmas this year." The faintest hint of a smile. "I told him maybe. I might be, you know."

"I know."

"He said I didn't sound well ... wanted to know if everything was ok."

"What did you tell him?"

"That ... I'm tired. I'm having a rough week. Which is true." Luka poured the rest of his tea down the sink, set the cup down carefully. "I told him I loved him." A sigh. "I am tired. I'm going to take a nap."

Luka slept better in the daytime than at night now. The nightmares, or dreams, or whatever they were, didn't seem to bother him as much during the day. Or maybe, Susan thought, it was that she wasn't lying beside him during the day. He went into the bedroom again. Shut the door firmly behind him.

Susan sat wearily on the couch. She was tired too. She wasn't getting much sleep herself. She stretched out, pulled the afghan over herself. But sleep didn't come. Why was he doing this? Was he pushing her away, thinking it would somehow make it easier for her? That if he said good-bye now, they wouldn't have to do it later? Or was he in so much pain that he didn't even realize how much he was hurting her? How long had it been since he'd told her that he loved her?

She must have finally drifted off to sleep, because when she opened her eyes again it was 11:30. She got up and peeked into the bedroom. Luka was still asleep, restlessly. He'd probably be getting up soon. She should make him lunch. Something light. He hadn't had breakfast, so he'd probably manage to eat a little something. Maybe the ginger tea he liked. It helped the nausea and usually stayed down when nothing else did. And toast and jam. If he managed that, she could make something else for him.

Going into the kitchen, Susan brushed against a small stack of papers on the counter, and they spilled over. She stopped to straighten them up, and one suddenly caught her eye. It was a notice from St. Charles. It was out of date, from early in the fall. Luka must have brought it home from church months ago and forgotten about it. But it had a phone number on it.

She had offered to call before, and he had refused. Maybe it was time to take matters into her own hands. Maybe, she thought ... this was a sign ... Susan took the paper over to the telephone.