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Curious, I walked over to the small stone and then stopped in my tracks as I was able to read what it said. I blinked disbelieving eyes. Was I reading correctly, or was the morning light playing tricks on me? How could this be? Why would this be? It didn't make sense. It just didn't make sense!

Slowly I knelt at the tiny monument, running my fingers over the carved letters as I read the few words.

EUGENIA GRACE CUTLER

INFANT

GONE BUT NOT FORGOTTEN

My stomach tightened even further as I looked at the dates which fit my own birth and disappearance. There was no denying the fact. This grave was mine.

Suddenly the ground beneath my knees felt as though it were burning. I felt icicles dripping down the back of my neck. I stood up quickly on trembling legs, tearing my eyes away from the evidence of my nonexistence. There wasn't any doubt in my mind as to who had had that grave created: Grandmother Cutler. She'd certainly be happier if my little body was really in there. But why? Why was she so anxious to have me buried and forgotten?

Somehow I had to face up to this hateful old woman and show her I was not a lowly creature to be spit upon and tolerated. I wasn't dead. I was alive, and nothing she could do would deny my existence.

When I returned to the hotel and my room, I reached into the wastebasket and took out Momma's torn picture. It had been ripped through her beautiful smile. It was as if my grandmother had ripped through my heart. I hid the torn pieces under my underwear in the dresser. I would try to tape it together, but it would never be the same.

I changed into my uniform and went directly to the kitchen. By the time I arrived, it was already filled with waiters, other chambermaids, kitchen help, and the bellhops and receptionists. The conversations stopped and every face turned my way. I felt just the way I used to feel whenever I entered a new classroom. I imagined most of them knew who I was by now.

Mrs. Boston called to me, and I joined her and the other chambermaids. I could see they resented me for taking someone's job, someone who really needed it. Nev

ertheless, she introduced me to everyone and pointed out Sissy. I sat down beside her.

She was a black girl who was five years older than I was even though she didn't look a day older. I was an inch or so taller. She had her hair chopped short, cut evenly around as if someone had put a bowl over her head and snipped it.

"Everyone's chattering about you," she said. "People always knew about the missing Cutler baby, only everyone thought you was dead. Mrs. Cutler even had that memorial put up on the family cemetery," she added.

"I know," I said. "I've seen it."

"You have?"

"Why did they do it?"

"I heard that Mrs. Cutler had it made years later after she came to the conclusion you weren't going to be found alive. I was too little to go to the service, of course, but my grandmother told me no one but the family went anyway. Mrs. Cutler told everyone the day you was kidnapped was the same as if it was the day you died."

"No one mentioned it to me," I said "I just came upon it by accident when I wandered into the cemetery and found the family section."

"I suppose they'll be digging it up now," Sissy said.

"Not if my grandmother has her way," I mumbled.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," I said. I was still shaking from the sight of the small stone with that name on it. Even though it wasn't the name I accepted, it was meant to be me it was the same thing. I was glad to get to work and put my mind on other things.

After breakfast we went with the other chambermaids to Mr. Stanley's office. He gave out the assignments, new rooms that had to be prepared, rooms that had to be cleaned because guests were checking out. Sissy and I had to do what was called the east wing. We had fifteen rooms. We alternated rooms down the corridor. Just before lunch my father came to get me.

"Your mother is ready to meet you, Eugenia," he said.

"I told you . . . my name's Dawn," I retorted. Now that I had seen the gravestone, the other name was even more despicable.

"Don't you think Eugenia has a more distinguished sound to it, honey?" he asked as we walked. "You were named after one of my mother's sisters. She was only a young girl when she died."

"I know, but I didn't grow up with that name, and I don't like it."

"Maybe you will. If you give it a chance," he suggested.

"I won't," I insisted, but he didn't seem to hear or care.