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I didn't know we were approaching the psychiatric hospital when it came into view. Aunt Zipporah had the address and directions, so she knew we were just about there, but she was right when she described it as anything but an insane asylum. The main building was located on what looked like prime sprawling acres in a scenic region of upstate New York. The property was well maintained, and we could see a number of grounds people at work on the lawns, bushes and gardens.

The house itself was a Tudor-style old mansion with brick wall cladding and two large, elaborate chimneys. As we turned into the driveway, I could see small tabs of cut stone embedded in the surrounding brickwork. The doorway was arched.

"Impressive," I said.

"Some very wealthy person donated this house to be a psychiatric clinic," Aunt Zipporah explained, "because of her own son's mental illness."

"How did Grandpa find it?"

"Like always . . . he knew someone who knew someone. That's about the extent of my knowledge about it," she said. "I called and made our

appointment with a Dr. Simons, a woman who is also the chief administrator."

"I wonder if Darlene Pearson ever visited," I said.

"I don't know. Dr. Simons did imply that no one had visited your mother for some time. However, I have this suspicion your grandfather finds a way to come here from time to time. He cares about the mother of his grandchild."

Was this the time to tell her about my father's visit? I wondered. He did confess it in private to me, and it was his secret. What difference would it make for Aunt Zipporah if she knew? I thought, and besides, he did say that maybe keeping it a secret didn't matter anymore.

"My father was here once," I said.

"What? When?"

"Not long after it all happened. He told me so during his last visit."

She pulled into a parking space and looked to me before turning off the engine.

"He never told me that."

"He never told anyone. He said she acted as if nothing had happened and she told him she was here more to do the doctors a favor. He said she looked very good, but he also told me she didn't mention having given birth to me. In the end, he said the visit made him feel better, but he never came back."

"I'm glad he did that," Aunt Zipporah said. "I thought it was selfish and even cowardly of him not to care about her anymore. Thanks for telling me. Next time I see him, I'll punch him in the nose."

She shut off the engine.

"Here we go," she said, and we got out.

Inside, the clinic looked no more like a psychiatric hospital than it did from the outside. The lobby was small, but it had a set of matching, comfortable- looking sofas, chairs and tables with lamps, vases filled with flowers, and framed pictures with pleasant rural scenery on the faux painted coffee white walls, which gave the room warmth. Limestone was cut into the light brown carpet.

A tall, stout woman in a blue one-piece dress was dusting and polishing. She glanced at us but continued her work, her face so unmoving that it looked like a mask. I wondered if she was on the staff or one of the patients.

Seconds later, an elegant-looking woman who looked to be in her mid to late forties, came out of a doorway almost immediately, suggesting that some sort of bell or buzzer had gone off to indicate someone had entered the building. She crossed to us quickly, smiling. Her short reddish hair had a shade of amber running through

it as well. She was a little taller than I was and wore a dark-blue skirt suit with a white blouse.

"Zipporah James?" she asked, her hand extended. "Yes."

"Well, you're right on time. I'm Dr. Simons," she said and looked at me.

"This is Alice Stein," Aunt Zipporah said. Dr. Simons looked at me and nodded.

"I do see the resemblances," she said, which started my heart pounding. "Karen is outside," she continued, turning back to Aunt Zipporah. "She paints, you know, and she enjoys doing it outside."

"Paints?" I asked quickly.

"We encourage our patients to get involved in some form of art, creation, or another. Karen's gone beyond what we normally expect, and she's become quite good. I actually had someone interested in buying one of her paintings, a relative of one of my other patients, but Karen wouldn't part with any of her work. She nearly cried at the mere suggestion."

Aunt Zipporah smiled at me.