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In the middle of both summers I returned to the Doral

House for my grandfather's birthday. I never felt very

far away or apart from either him or my grandmother,

but after the accident and all that aftermath and now

with my new plans unfolding, Aunt Zipporah was

right: this did feel different.

For one thing, there was nothing here that in any way attached me to or suggested my mother. Maybe my grandmother didn't understand, or maybe it was because she did understand that she was always so frightened about my wanting to be in the attic so much, but I wanted to be in there because it was there that I felt close to my mother. There I could imagine her, paint her, act as she might have acted and, in

doing all that, keep myself close to her.

Sometimes, when I returned from school and

went up to the attic, I imagined her waiting for me.

She would, as any mother would, be full of questions

about my schoolwork, my friends, my interests and

activities. I pretended she was there, because even if it

was only in my imagination, there was someone there

to listen to my complaints.

Without the attic, there was no way to pretend

here. I was really on my own finally, and that was

good. I realized that without that independence, I

would always be disabled in more than just the

physical way.

I loved both my uncle and my aunt and really

did enjoy being with them, but when I dressed for bed

and turned off the lights, even the stars I saw through

the window looked sad and alone, blinking away

tears, crying for me. There was a different kind of silence here, too. This house didn't creak as much as the Doral House, and I was downstairs, not upstairs. Any sounds my aunt and uncle made were carried off in a different direction, except, of course, for their

footsteps.

Once last summer, I woke in the middle of the

night and heard their footsteps. I had forgotten where

I was and I sat up, my heart pounding, because I

thought I was back in the Doral House hearing my