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Speechless, she stared up at me, her lovely face stricken, tears streaking her cheeks. "Tell him I'll come soon . . . tell him that," she whispered hoarsely.

We told him that.

He kept his eyes closed, his lips glued together. There were ways of telling he wasn't asleep, only shutting us out.

Jory refused to eat until tubes were put in his arms to feed him intravenously. Summer days came and went; long days that were full and mostly sad. Some hours gave me faint pleasures when I was with Chris and Cindy, but few gave me hope.

If only, if only were the words that started off my mornings, as they finished off my nights. If only I could live my life all over again, then, perhaps, I could save Jory, Chris, Cindy, Melodie, myself--and even Bart. If only.

If only he hadn't danced that role--

I tried everything, as Chris and Cindy did, to pull Jory back from that terribly lonely place where he'd taken himself. For the first time in my life I couldn't reach him, couldn't ease his sorrow.

He'd lost what mattered most to h

im, the use of his dancing legs. With his legs he'd soon lose his wonderfully powerful and skilled body. I couldn't look at those beautifully shaped strong legs lying so still beneath the sheet, so damned useless.

Had the grandmother been right when she said we were cursed, born for failure and pain? Had she programmed us for tragedy to steal the fruit of our successes?

Had Chris and I achieved anything of real value when our son lay as if dead, and our second son refused to visit Jory but once?

Bart had stood and stared down at Jory lying helpless and still with his eyes closed, his arms straight down at his sides. "Oh, my God," he'd whispered before he hurried from the tiny room.

Never could I convince him to visit again. "Mother, he doesn't know I'm there, so what's the good? I can't bear to see him like that. I'm sorry, really sorry .. . but I can't help."

I stared at him, wondering if I had wanted to help him so much I'd risked the life of my beloved Jory.

That's when I began to tell myself that I wasn't going to believe he'd never walk, never dance again. This was a nightmare to be endured, but eventually we'd awaken and Jory would be whole again, just as he'd been.

I told Chris my plan to convince Jory he could and he would walk again, even if he never danced.

"Cathy, you can't give him false hope," warned Chris, looking terribly distressed. "All you can do now is help him accept what can't be changed. Give him your kind of strength. Help him--but don't lead him down false trails that will bring him only disappointment. I know it will be difficult. I'm in hell, too, just as much as you are. But remember, our hell is nothing compared to his. We can sympathize and feel dreadfully sorry, but we're not inside his skin. We're not suffering his loss--he's all alone in that. Facing up to agony you and I can't even begin to understand. All we can do is be here when he decides to pull out of his protective shell. Be here to give him the confidence he needs to go on . . . for damned if Melodie is giving him anything!"

That was something almost as awful as Jory's injury . . . that his own wife would shun him now as if he were a leper. Both Chris and I pleaded with her to come with us, even if she said nothing but hello, I love you, she had to come.

"What can I say that you haven't already said?" she screamed. "He doesn't want me to come and see him like that! I know him better than either of you do. If he wanted to see me, he'd say he did. Besides, I'm afraid to go, afraid I'll cry and say all the wrong things, and even if I stay quiet, he might open his eyes and see something on my face that would make him feel worse, and I don't want to be responsible for what might happen then. Stop insisting! Wait until he wants me to visit . . . and then, maybe, I can find the courage I need."

She flew away from Chris and me as if we carried with us some plague that might contaminate her dream that this nightmare would end happily.

Standing in the hall outside our rooms was Bart, staring after Melodie with his heart in his eyes. He turned to glare at me.

"Why don't you leave her alone? I've been to see him, and it tore me all apart. Certainly in her condition she needs to find some security, even if it's only in her dreams. She sleeps a great deal, you know. While you stay with him, she cries, walks as if in a dream, with her eyes unfocused. She half eats. I have to plead with her to swallow, to drink. She stares at me, and obeys like a child. Sometimes I have to spoon the food into her mouth, hold the glass for her to sip. Mother, Melodie is in shock--and all you think about is your precious Jory, not caring what you do to her!"

Sorry now, I hurried to her side and held her in my arms. `It's all right. I understand now. Bart has explained how you can't accept this yet . . . but try, Melodie, please try. Even if he doesn't open his eyes and speak, he's aware of what's going on, and who comes to see him and who doesn't."

Her head was on my shoulder. "Cathy . . . I am trying. Just give me time."

The next morning Cindy came into our bedroom without knocking, causing Chris to frown. She should have known better. But I had to forgive her after seeing her pale face and frightened expression. "Momma . . . Daddy, I've just got to tell you something, and yet I don't know if I should. Or if it really means anything."

I was distracted from her words by the outfit she wore: a white bikini so brief it was barely there. The swimming pool Bart had ordered was now complete and this was the first day it was ready. Jory's tragic accident was not going to inhibit Bart's style of living.

"Cindy, I wish you would wear those beach coverups at the poolside. And that suit is much too skimpy."

She appeared startled, crestfallen and hurt because I criticized her suit. Glancing down at herself briefly, she shrugged indifferently. "Holy Christ, Momma! Some friends of mine wear string bikinis-- you should see those if you think this one is immodest. Some of my friends wear nothing at all . . ." Her large blue eyes studied mine seriously.

Chris tossed her a towel, which she wrapped around herself. "Momma, I've got to say I don't like the way you make me feel, somehow dirty, like Bart makes me feel--when I came to tell you something I overheard Bart talking about."

"Go on, Cindy," urged Chris.