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"Oh, I didn't mean to wake you. You looked so beautiful, like a sleeping princess. I was just about to be the prince and kiss you to wake you," he said warmly, his eyes bright.

"I can't believe I fell asleep so quickly. What time is it?"

Dark, brooding clouds had slid across the sky, blocking the sun and making it hard to tell what time of day it was.

"Don't be concerned. I'm sure your fatigue is a result of the therapy and the hot bath Mrs. Broadfield gave you," he explained with a father's comforting tone. "They'll wear you out in the beginning. You must remember that you still don't have much strength. That's why the doctors are so concerned that you have a peaceful, restful time while trying to recuperate. At least at the very beginning."

I saw by the way he pressed down on his lips that this was meant as a reminder and as mild chastisement for the tantrum I threw when I discovered I had no phone.

"I know. I just get so impatient, so frustrated," I offered as an excuse. His face lightened instantly.

"Of course you feel that way. Why shouldn't you? Everyone understands. You have to come back slowly, in small increments, doing a little more each day. Broadfield says that when patients try to rush things along, they retard their recuperation."

"The strange thing is, I don't feel that weak," I cried. "It's almost as if I could walk again immediately if I were forced to do it. At least, that's the feeling I get every once in a while."

He nodded with understanding. "Your feelings deceive you. Dr. Malisoff told me that might happen. It's expected. The mind doesn't want to face up to the limits of the body."

I wanted to show him that he and Mrs. Broadfield and the doctors were wrong, so I didn't ask him to help me up and out of the chair and into the bed. My hands wobbled on the arms of the chair as I tried to raise myself. But even putting all my weight on only my upper body, my lower body now just a bail and chain, I was unable to lift myself very high and fell back into the chair, my heart pounding from the effort. I felt a sharp pain across the middle of my brow and moaned.

"As I said. It seems like you can do everything you used to do for yourself, but you can't. It's the mind's way of trying to deny what happened." He looked away for a moment. "And sometimes, sometimes even the best minds, the strongest minds, refuse to believe what their bodies . . . what reality tells them is true. They invent, pretend, fantasize, do anything to avoid hearing the words they dread," he explained, his voice dropping to a whisper.

I stared up at him. He had spoken so

passionately, so vehemently, that I felt overwhelmed. All I could do was nod. Then he turned back to me, his face changed again, a look of loving compassion in his eyes. He leaned down over me, his face so close to mine, our lips nearly touched, and he hooked his hands under my arms to lift my body out of the chair and onto the bed. For a long moment he held me, embracing me, his cheek pressed against mine. I thought he whispered Mommy's name, but then he swung me gently to the bed and I fell back against the pillow.

"I'm not too rough, I hope," he said, still leaning over me, his face still very close to mine.

"No, Tony." I knew it was unfair and even silly to think it, but I hated my body for betraying me and leaving me dependent upon the mercy and kindness of other people.

"Perhaps you should take a nap before dinner," he said. I didn't need the suggestion. My eyelids felt so heavy it was hard to keep them open. Everytime I did look up, it seemed as if Tony were leaning closer and closer over me. I know I wasn't supposed to be able to feel anyone touch me from the waist down, but I thought his hands were over my legs, caressing them. I fought to keep myself awake in order to confirm or deny what I was seeing, but I dropped off quickly, like one under sedation, my last thought being Tony's lips were moving down my cheek toward my lips.

I next awoke to the sound of Millie Thomas setting my supper tray on the bed table beside me. Apparently I had slept through a summer

thunderstorm, for I could smell the fresh, wet scent of rain, even though the sky was now only partly cloudy.

When I recalled Tony helping me to bed and thought about the image of his hands on my legs and his lips close to mine, I considered it some kind of dreary. It seemed too ethereal, too misty a memory, anyway.

"Didn't mean to wake you, Miss Annie," she said timidly.

I blinked and blinked and focused in on her. With her arms pressed tightly against her body and her hands overlapping at her waist, she looked penitent, like one of the people from the Willies who had just been lectured by old Reverend Wise. He was always harder on them than he was on the people from Winnerrow proper.

"That's all right, Millie. I should be awake. It rained, didn't it?"

"Oh, like the dickens, Miss Annie!"

"Please, don't call me Miss Annie. Just call me Annie." She nodded slightly. "Where are you from, Millie?"

"Oh, from Boston."

"Do you know where Harvard is?"

"Of course, Miss . . of course, Annie."

"My uncle Drake goes there, and I have a . . a cousin going there now, too. His name is Luke."

She smiled more warmly and fixed my sitting pillow behind me. I pulled myself up into position to eat and she wheeled the table to the bed.

"I don't know anyone who went to Harvard." "How long have you been working as a maid, Millie?"