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By Root 529 0

fault I've only come to realize lately how often and how much we are moved by others, even when we are priding ourselves on our control and self-reliance — I still want to say I'm sorry. And I want to tell you something else, something I'm really starting to believe: I'm going to be okay. Not today, not tomorrow, and not next week, but eventually. As okay as we mortals are privileged to get, anyway. It's good to know that — good to know that survival is still an option, and that sometimes it even feels good. That sometimes it actually feels like victory.

I love you, dear Ruth. You and your tough talk were a big part of saving my life last October, even though you didn't know it. I love you so much.

Your old friend,

P.S.: Please write me. Better yet, call . . . please

Ten minutes later she laid her letter, printed and sealed within a manila envelope (it had proven too bulky for an ordinary business-length envelope), on the table in the front hall. She had gotten Ruth's address from Carol Rittenhouse — an address, anyway and had written it on the envelope in the careful, straggly letters which were all she could make with her left hand. Beside it, she put a note carefully written in the same straggly letters.

Meggie: Please mail this. If I should call downstairs and ask you not to, please agree . . . and then mail it anyway.

She went to the window in the parlor and stood there for awhile before going upstairs, looking out over the Bay. It was starting to get dark. For the first time in a long time, this simple realization didn't fill her with terror.

'Oh, what the fuck,' she told the empty house. 'Bring on the night.' Then she turned and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

When Megan Landis came back from running her errands an hour later and saw the letter on the table in the front hall, Jessie was deeply asleep beneath two down comforters in the upstairs guest room . . . which she now called her room. For the first time in months her dreams were not unpleasant, and a tiny cat's smile curled the corners of her mouth. When a cold February wind blew beneath the eaves and moaned in the chimney, she burrowed deeper beneath the comforters . . . but that small, wise smile did not fade.

November 16, 1991

Bangor, Maine

Table of Contents

C H A P T E R O N E

C H A P T E RT W O

C H A P T E RT H R E E

C H A P T E RF O U R

C H A P T E R F I V E

C H A P T E R S I X

C H A P T E R S E V E N

C H A P T E R E I G H T

C H A P T E R N I N E

C H A P T E R T E N

C H A P T E R E L E V E N

C H A P T E R T W E L V E

C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N

C H A P T E R F O U R T E E N

C H A P T E R F I F T E E N

C H A P T E R S I X T E E N

C H A P T E R S E V E N T E E N

C H A P T E R E I G H T E E N

C H A P T E R N I N E T E E N

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - O N E

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T W O

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - T H R E E

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F O U R

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - F I V E

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S I X

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - S E V E N

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - E I G H T

C H A P T E R T W E N T Y - N I N E

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - O N E

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - T W O

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - T H R E E

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - F O U R

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - F I V E

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - S I X

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - S E V E N

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - E I G H T

C H A P T E R T H I R T Y - N I N E

C H A P T E R F O R T Y