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expressionless but her eyes cold. It was as if she wore a mask and only her eyes peeped through this granite face. She went into the sitting room and returned soon after I had completed my meal.

"It was delicious," I said.

"Do you want me to help you back into bed?"

"No, I think I'll remain sitting up in the chair and watch television."

She took the tray and left. I took the remote control and turned on the television set. I settled on a movie I had never seen and sat back, but what seemed to be only minutes later a sharp pain stabbed across my abdomen. I groaned and pressed my palms against my belly. The pain ceased and I sat back, taking deep breaths; but then it came again, this time with a great deal more ferocity, tearing up and down my stomach and sending pain into my chest.

I heard my stomach bubble. I knew that I was going to have an accident any moment.

"Mrs. Broadfield!" I called. "Mrs. Broadfield!" I screamed. But she didn't respond. I started to wheel myself toward the doorway. "Mrs. Broadfield!"

It was happening. My body was rebelling.

"Oh no. Mrs. Broadfield!"

By the time she arrived, I was doubled up in the wheelchair and a mess.

She stood in the doorway, her hands on her hips, a sharp, cold smile of self-satisfaction carved on her stone face.

"Don't say I didn't tell you so," she said, shaking her head.

Bent over in the chair, I could only moan and plead for her to help me.

SEVENTEEN Mrs. Broadfield's Revenge

. Mrs. Broadfield wheeled me in to the bathroom quickly. She began to fill the tub, and then she stripped me down, peeling the clothing off me roughly. I felt like a ripe banana in the hands of a starving monkey. If she could have torn off my skin, I think she would have done it. All the while she said nothing, but I could read the repeated "I told you so's" in her furious eyes. I moaned, still clutching my stomach.

"It feels like someone's in there lighting matches," I cried, but my complaints fell on deaf ears. She wiped me down with some towels and then, pulling me up and tugging me out of the wheelchair, she literally dumped me into the hot water. She was very powerful for a woman her size.

As soon as I was submerged, she turned off the faucet and I slipped lower and lower until the water was up to my neck. Although it was as hot as ever, it seemed to bring some relief. I closed my eyes and lay back, still whimpering softly.

But I opened my eyes as soon as I heard Tony. He had heard the commotion and had come running to my aid. "What's wrong?" he called from the sitting room.

"Close the bathroom door!" I pleaded.

Mrs. Broadfield smirked,

"Just sit there and soak," she commanded and left the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Even so, I overheard their conversation.

"Has something happened to Annie, Mrs. Broadfield?"

"I pleaded with her not to eat those spicy, exotic meals your chef often makes. I even had the other cook prepare something proper and nutritious, but she was stubborn and insisted on having your chef's food, so I had to go back and have him prepare it."

"I know, but--"

"Her stomach is sensitive, as is most of her body. I tried to explain, but she is in a rush to recuperate, and like most teenagers, won't listen to older people who have experience."

"Should I send for the doctor?" he asked anxiously.

"No, I can handle it. She will be uncomfortable for a while, but there is no need to send for the doctor."

"Is there anything I can do?" God bless Tony, I thought. He sounded so concerned, his voice full of worry and sympathy in contrast to Mrs. Broadfield's stern, correct tones.

"No, get her cleaned up, medicated, and comfortable. By morning she should be better, but her stomach will be even more sensitive. What you can do is speak to that chef and tell him to prepare food exactly as I instruct him from now on."

"I will.'