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Pa had come to see Kitty . . . or me?

Grasping my hand tighter, Tom began to pull me along.

All the nurses and attendants had grown to know me by this time, and they greeted me by name as I took over and led Tom toward an elevator that would take us up to Kitty's room. I felt strange, almost numb, and so fearful of what I'd say and do when I saw Pa. Still, when I was in Kitty's room, and she was pale and weak-looking, and Cal was kneeling by the side of her bed crying, it took me moments to adjust to the disappointment of not seeing Pa, and then I was again shocked to see how happy Kitty looked. She lay on the narrow bed, beaming at me, at Tom. Why?

"Yer pa done come t'see me," she whispered in a frail voice I could hardly hear. "He asked bout ya, Heaven; he said he hoped t'see ya. Said he were sorry fer what he did in t'past, an hoped I'd fergive him. Ya know, neva thought in a million years I'd hear Luke Casteel sound--Cal, what way did he sound?"

"Humble," Cal said in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah, that's it. He were humbled, sorrysoundin." Her eyes were bright, as if she'd seen a miracle. And for days she hadn't spoken. "He looked at me, Heaven, an he neva did that before. When I loved him, an woulda died fer him, he neva saw me . . jus took me like I was a thin, an left. But he done changed, he has . . . an he's gone an left this here note fer ya."

Hers was a feverish kind of happiness, frenzied, as if she had to hurry, hurry. For the first time I saw she was dying, dying right before our eyes, maybe had been for months before we even came here, and both Cal and I had grown too accustomed to her erratic swings of moods to recognize they were

manifestations of depression, of frustrations . . . and fearful secret anxieties about that lump. Her thin hand seemed gaunt, her nails long and witchy, as she handed me the envelope with my name on the outside. But her smile, for the first time, seemed warm, loving.

"Did I say thank ya fer all ya've been doin fer me, Heaven? Got me a daughta, at last--an ain't it some-thin, though, ain't it, that Luke would come t'see me? Were ya t'one who sent fer him--were ya? Ya must have, cause he came in an he looked around, like he expected t'see ya. So go on, Heaven, go on, read what he says in his letta."

"This is Tom, my brother," I finally said.

"It's good to see you, Tom," said Cal, standing up and shaking his hand.

"Why, yer like Luke when he was yer age!" Kitty cried with delight, her pale eyes glowing strangely. "All ya need is black hair and black eyes . . . an ya'd be jus like yer pa! Ya would, ya would!"

She was touching, this devil-woman with her red hair and her long pink nails that had raked my skin many a time. Images of how she used to be flashed in and out of my brain; my ears rang with all the insults she'd thrown my way without regard for my feelings; and here she was putting tears in my eyes when I should have been feeling glad God was delivering to her just what she deserved. Yet I was crying. I sat in the chair that Cal pulled out for me and, with tears streaming to wet my blouse, I opened the letter from Pa and began to silently read.

"Daughta, read it aloud," whispered Kitty.

Again I glanced at her, sensing something different; then I began in a small voice:

"Dear Daughter,

"Sometimes a man does what he feels is necessary and lives to find out his problems could have been solved in better ways. I ask you to forgive me for things that can't be changed now.

"Our Jane and Keith are happy and healthy. They love their new parents, and Fanny loves hers.

"I have married again, and my wife insists that I try and put my family back together again. I have a fine home now, and earn a great deal of money. There is very little hope that I can buy back Keith and Our Jane, or Fanny, but I am hoping you and Tom will come to live with us. Your grandfather will also be there.

"Maybe this time I can be the kind of father you can love instead of hate.

Father"

There was an address and a telephone number beneath his name, but I could hardly read by this time. He'd never called me daughter before, never referred to himself as my father before--why now? I balled up the note and hurled it into the trash can near Kitty's bed.

Anger overrode all my other emotions. How could I trust a man who'd sell his children? How did I know for sure Tom and I would be all right in his care? What could he possibly do to earn a lot of money? Or had he married it? How could I believe anything he said? How could he know that Keith and Our Jane were truly happy where they were? Or Fanny? How could I know until I found out for myself?

Tom ran to retrieve the balled-up letter, and carefully he smoothed it out and read it silently. Each line he read made his face brighter.

"Why did ya do that?" asked Kitty with softness in her eyes. "It were a nice letta, it were, weren't it, Cal? Heaven, ya take it up an save it, cause there'll come a day when ya'll need t'see him again--" And then she failed and began to cry.

"Tom, let's go." I turned to leave.

"Wait a minute," whispered Kitty. "Got somethin else fer ya." She smiled weakly and took a small envelope from under her pillow. "Had a good talk wid yer pa--an he gave me this here t'keep fer ya, an give t'ya when t'time comes. It's my way of tryin t'make up fer what I did. . ." She floundered, glanced at Cal, then added, "I think t'time is now."

I was trembling as I took the second small envelope. What could Pa say in this one to make up for all he'd done? Maybe Our Jane and Keith were fine--but how could I be sure, when that horrible farmer had worked Tom like a sl

ave, as Kitty had worked me? Then I glanced up and saw Torn with his eyes fixed on me, as if I held his life in his hands . . . and maybe I did. Oh, what harm would it do to read more lies?

Again I read his small handwriting. My eyes widened even as my heart began to race.