STICKS AND STONES

Thanksgiving began as the weeks since Joan's showdown with Donovan Snow had come and gone: uneventfully, slowly, almost comforting in its mundaneness. God was on vacation again, his single appearance made in the bookstore while Joan was shelving hardbacks of a new release by an author she had never heard of. He had waited till the day after her plea, when confusion and anxiety were knotted like pretzels in the pit of her stomach, and came with the face of a stranger, an anonymous teenage girl Joan thought looked like Ruthie. Or perhaps that was a trick of the eye, because Ruthie was everywhere -- in every song, movie, and page of required reading for English class. Joan had cried harder than Helen on family night when they tortured the male Girardis with the quintessential chick flick, Fried Green Tomatoes. Friendship, spousal abuse, and a character named Ruth. It hit too close to home.

The laissez-faire answers God gave were meaningless to Joan. She had enough riddles to solve. Was she meant to disclose the truth, or was Ruthie? What happened if she told and, like Donovan had said, no one believed her? Helen would, but what good did that do if Ruthie kept silent? And which was more dangerous: Ruthie living with Donovan and their secret, or her living with him after the secret got out and didn't land him smack in jail? And jail, if it transpired, didn't last forever. What happened after that?

"Just be concerned with the present, Joan. That's where Ruthie is. That's where you will help her. Leave the future to itself."

The future consisted of homework and tests, tense looks across the dinner table at her mother and father, a couple forgettable squabbles with Grace, and very little of anything to do with Ruthie, outside choir practice. If there were any fresh injuries, Joan wasn't aware of them. And she was vigilant. Strangely, Ruthie's happiness had regained its original spark, and when Joan asked after her, the replies were direct and authentic.

Donovan was a ghost once more.

Nana and Pop Pop Brodie's house smelled like childhood, years of past Thanksgivings drifting from plates and covered dishes filled with sweet and mashed potatoes, deviled eggs, dressing, and so much turkey it could have come from twelve birds instead of one. The cousins were there; the aunts and uncles, each of the latter wanting to know how many boyfriends Joan had. None! Well now, that just couldn't be true. She assured them it was.

Joan lost herself in the feast so that it seemed to be consuming her instead of vice versa. She ate almost as much as Will, who collapsed on the sofa at home, complaining of the stomach ache he had given himself. By late evening, the pain had spread to his back and sides.

Ruthie took a sip of tepid water from the wine glass beside her plate and tried not to look bored. Food was usually a welcome distraction when she dined at Donovan's parents' house, but her mother-in-law's cooking, however extravagant, wasn't agreeing with her today. And Paige Snow had been monopolizing the conversation for the last half hour, only engaging her son and, occasionally, her husband, Randall. If not for June and Charlie, Ruthie would have felt like a complete outsider. She smiled at them and waved with her pinky.

"Is something the matter with your food?"

Donovan had to clear his throat before Ruthie realized Paige was speaking to her. "Huh?" she said, then hurried to add, "Pardon?"

An attractive older woman, Paige's appearance was as meticulously cared for and situated as the china that decorated her table. What she lacked in size, for she tended to be the smallest adult in the room when Ruthie wasn't on the guest list, she made up in demeanor. Her hair hadn't yet faded from its natural auburn shade, and it draped about her like a bridal veil, sleek and mesmerizing to the eye. The one off-center feature she possessed was her smile, a crescent moon of white that never reached quite as high on the right as it did the left. Sometimes when he smirked, Donovan looked just like her.

"You're not eating," Paige said, her lips still a bit cockeyed when they weren't upturned. "I assume there is a problem with the meal."

"Oh, no." Ruthie looked at the helpings of mashed potatoes, gravy, and creamed corn that were beginning to congeal in front of her. "No, it's lovely. You did a wonderful job, really wonderful. I just- I'm not feeling too hungry."

"But it's Thanksgiving."

"I know," Ruthie said. She reached for her fork. "I'm sorry."

Donovan placed his hand on her arm, stilling her. "She doesn't have to eat if she doesn't want to, Mom. Let her be."

"I wasn't going to force it down her throat, Donovan." Paige's voice softened whenever she spoke her son's name, but her gaze stayed cool and fixed on Ruthie. "It's such a waste, though. To come all the way from Arcadia and not enjoy dinner, I mean."

"Mother."

After that, Ruthie sensed her children watching to see what she would do. Quietly, she laid the fork aside, the tines balanced on the edge of her plate. She drank the rest of her water in a single gulp but didn't request more. The pitcher was at Paige's end.

Gigantic, gooey slices of raspberry pie were served for dessert. No one but Randall liked pumpkin; that entire pie went to him. As he doused it with whipped cream, Ruthie concentrated on smelling anything besides the slightly overdone crust. Donovan offered her a piece of the raspberry, which she accepted despite Paige's faint sniff and found she could stomach, though she ate mostly filling and gave Charlie several bites. Rather than accuse of her being difficult, Donovan gobbled up his portion and then finished the remainder of hers, sliding eager little boy glances in her direction the whole time.

"Should I tell them now?" he asked, swiping a napkin over his purple lips. He was elated to the point of giddiness. Ruthie nodded and wished she knew how to make the sparkle in his eyes permanent.

"Tell us what?" Paige cradled the bowl of her wine glass, the stem wedged between her fingers, and lifted, but posed with it instead of drinking.

Donovan put his arm around Ruthie and turned to his parents. "You're gonna be grandparents again. Ruth Anne's pregnant, just found out the other day."

A plus sign on the home pregnancy test and a second opinion from the doctor, at Donovan's request, had confirmed Ruthie's suspicions. Baby number three should be arriving sometime in early August. "For my birthday?" June, born on the sixth, had asked when Ruthie explained to her and Charlie they would have a new baby brother or sister.

Paige and Randall were far less enthusiastic. He raised a forkful of pie and cream in a congratulatory salute, and she stayed immobile as a statue. "I figured as much," she finally said to Donovan, who waited expectantly.

"She's not even showing yet. How would you 'figure as much'?"

"Finicky appetite, insisting on water" - Paige sloshed the burgundy liquid in her glass - "and she's got that look. But you gave it away with the Cheshire cat grin you've been wearing since you walked through the door."

"My mother, the psychic." Donovan rolled his eyes. "You could stand to show a little excitement too. At least pretend you're happy for us."

"Oh, I'm happy for you. But..."

"Yes?"

"Never mind."

"Tell me."

Ruthie braced herself for Paige's reply. Because it would surely come. His ability to speak each and every callous thought that entered his head was a trait Donovan had inherited from his mother. It helped to remember her own mother's reaction to the news, which left Ruthie's ears ringing with ecstatic screams and more than one "I wish you weren't so far away" long after she had hung up the phone.

"Well, to be honest, it seems a bit soon. Your youngest is still in diapers."

Diapers. As if there were something dreadful about a toddler who soiled himself from time to time.

"I'm working with him on that," Ruthie said levelly. "And he'll be almost three and a half when the baby's born. That's plenty of time to learn."

Paige pursed her crooked lips and glared at her husband for commenting, "Hell, Donovan messed his drawers till he was in kindergarten. They were constantly sending him home because he smelled like a sewer."

"That's vulgar, Randall. Eat your pie," she said, and to Ruthie, "Having a newborn and a three-year-old will be stressful. I'm concerned about the burden on my son and you."

"June was three when Charlie was born. It was never a burden."

Paige's dark eyes flashed. "Your wife has an answer for everything, Donovan. Having two kids to my one must have made her an expert."

"I didn't mean-"

"Of course you didn't, hon. Sweet, innocent little thing like you?" Paige set her wine glass down heavily. "Now if you'd learn to keep those innocent legs together and take care of what you've already got, you'd be damn near perfect."

Donovan's hold on Ruthie's shoulders slackened and then retracted completely when she looked at him, so stunned that she forgot eleven years of his failure to defend her against Paige's lambasting. He handled the nitpicks, his tone playfully exasperated, but when it came to the real insults, the ones that stung like a quick, sharp hand, Ruthie was on her own. And somehow they became her fault. She could see him changing already, the joy gone from his face and disapproval replacing it, as he glanced sidelong at her.

She knew better than to get caught in Paige's snare, a preface to many nasty battles with Donovan in the past. What made her snatch the napkin from her lap, toss it onto the table, and speak, she wasn't sure. Maybe it was the safety of being pregnant and the swear words and hateful names, and possibly the heel of a palm to the side of her head but not too hard, that were as bad as it got for nine months. Or maybe she had just had enough.

"How dare you. I know how you feel about me, Paige -- that's fine. But I will not sit here and be called a bad mother. Not by you, and not in front of my children."

"Ruth Anne," Donovan barked.

Her voice trembled as she went on. "I would never claim to be perfect. I'm far from it. But at least June and Charlie know that I love them. And so will the baby. They'll grow up knowing how to love other people, too, and how to show kindness."

Donovan swung the back of his shoe into the leg of Ruthie's chair and leaned over, growling into her ear, each word separate and dangerous, "You are embarrassing me. Shut your goddamn mouth."

June started to cry.

With no clear notion of what she would do or how she would pull it off, Ruthie got up and unhooked Charlie from his booster seat. He was in her arms and clinging before she had the chance to lift him. She beckoned to June, who instantly had her by the hand and melded with every move she made, every step.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Donovan called, as she passed through the wide archway that opened into the front terminal of the house, where the staircase to the second level, living and dining rooms, and the entry to the basement all branched from one space with a cathedral ceiling and burnished oak floor. The front door was there too.

"Home."

June bundled up by herself while Ruthie fished in the pocket of Donovan's coat for the car keys and got her own coat and Charlie's from the hooks on the wall. The boy was partially in his sleeve when Ruthie heard her husband tell his parents, "I'll straighten her out." ("You do that," Paige replied.) She got Charlie zipped and both kids outside, with only her purple sweater and jeans to keep the cold at bay.

"Help your brother into his seat," she said to June, once they reached the car. She was watching them in the rearview mirror to make sure they were latched, her belt already in place, the motor running and the power locks double-clicked, when Donovan thumped on the driver's side window with such force she thought it would break. She shook her head at his motion to roll it down.

"Ruth Anne," he began, and she could tell a string of profanity followed in his mind, that it was torture for him not to be able to grab her and scream in her face every filthy word he could think of. "You are being ridiculous. If you don't get your- if you don't get out of this vehicle and in that house..." He glanced at June and Charlie staring with big, alert eyes from the backseat. He banged on Ruthie's window again.

"I'm not going back in there. I won't."

He scrunched up his features. "What?"

"I SAID NO!"

Ruthie should have put the gear in reverse and stomped on the gas, but she hesitated a second too long. In that moment she saw the flaws in her plan or lack of one -- the tank was near empty, and Donovan's wallet held the money to fill it; her seat had to be readjusted because it was fit to Donovan's body and no amount of stretching touched her foot to the pedal; she wasn't acquainted with the two hour and thirty minute route to Arcadia; June's seat belt was twisted into a spiral across her chest and needed tightening at the waist; and Charlie's zipper looked like it was strangling him, the roll of fat under his chin red and splotchy.

Donovan ran his fingers through his hair and gazed at the rows of houses that lined the street, happy families tucked away inside them, private as could be. "Fine," he said. "Okay then. Let's go home. Wait here while I tell my folks."

What else could she do? She waited.

He drove without speaking to her, his hands cemented to the wheel. She was thankful for the early evening darkness of November that shrouded his face and seduced the children into blessed, oblivious sleep.

"Kidney stones."

Joan fidgeted on the edge of the rickety chair in the waiting room and stared up at her mother, aghast. "Oh my God, he has kidney stones," she whispered, ready to burst into tears. "Can you die from that?"

"Oh, honey." Helen laughed lightly. "No. But they're very painful."

"So I gathered."

After hours of moaning and groaning about the sharp pain in his gut, Will had given in and allowed his wife and daughter to take him to the hospital. I probably ate too much turkey, he kept repeating, until his discomfort had become so intense he would only grimace and shift restlessly. Every diagnosis from food poisoning to ruptured appendix went through Joan's mind, but never kidney stones.

Helen explained what they were and got as far as the words "dilate" and "ureter" before Joan waved her hands in the air like she was frantically hailing a taxicab.

"Whoa, ew. Don't ever, ever say 'ureter' to me again. Ever. Just fast forward to what happens now."

"They want to keep him overnight. The stones might not pass on their own. He'll have to have them blasted if they don't."

Joan jutted her bottom lip out. "Poor Daddy. Can I see him?"

"He's not really up to visitors right now, sweetie. I have to go back and talk to the doctor and fill out some more paperwork. Why don't you let me tell him you said hi and hope he feels better soon?"

"I guess." Joan sighed. "Tell him I love him," she called, after Helen had kissed her on the forehead and gone off to the set of automatic doors that lurched open and shut like clumsy jaws, gobbling up each individual who happened by.

The scruffy television, which projected from a rod secured high on the wall, and its badly discolored picture didn't hold Joan's interest for long. And she could practically see the germs on the pile of magazines beside her. Even Luke's company would have been appreciated right then, but he was spending the night at Nana and Pop Pop's, no doubt basking in the love and attention they showered on their youngest grandchild. Kevin was gallivanting with Lily, who had invited him over for a second Thanksgiving dinner and Joan didn't want to know what else. She resorted to watching the clock -- 9:01 P.M. 9:02. 9:03.

At 9:15 the change in her pocket jingled, reminding her it was there. She went in search of a vending machine that sold something, anything for thirty-five cents.

She was headed back to her seat with a can of generic Coke when she noticed a familiar-looking girl with dirty blonde hair and a leather jacket by the emergency room entrance.

"Grace?"

"Joan?"

Before either could ask what the other was doing there, Joan saw Rabbi Polonski shuffling through the doorway, an angry, squirming toddler clutched to his chest. The brown-headed boy kicked and demanded, "Mama," his chubby arms extended towards the petite woman being ushered along by the rabbi's gentle, guiding hand. Another child, a girl, moved as if she were an extension of the woman's body. The strangeness of seeing the Snows with the Polks made them hard for Joan to recognize at first.

"We heard them screaming from across the street," Grace said.

If there was more, Joan missed it. Just for an instant, Ruthie looked up; the tousled hair had been swept back from her face, but bits of it were still matted to smears of blood on her chin, cheeks, and below the nostrils. Perspiration or tears had left trails through the mess, giving it a runny, ghoulish appearance that was heightened by the stark whiteness of her skin. Both eyes were glossy behind pink and swollen lids that fluttered then closed tight, a deep crease forming between her eyebrows whenever she took a step.

Someone's coat, probably the rabbi's because it was too large and too dark of a color, was draped around her, but she shivered violently. Each breath caught in her throat and started another tremor. She contracted, bearing down as though to separate in the effort, to force herself apart.

"Oh, God," Joan said. "Oh, God. Oh, God."

When she went to Ruthie and tried to touch her, Rabbi Polonski shook his head quickly, warning, "Careful. Careful of her arm."

What happened?, Joan almost asked. But she realized she already knew, at least in general. She wrung her hands and accidentally stepped on Grace's foot as she cleared out of the rabbi and Ruthie's path. She thought none of the Snows had even seen her, until an ER nurse had taken over for Rabbi Polonski, and Ruthie's answer to who, if anyone, should accompany her was a weak, anguished, "Joan."

"The little girl should stay here," the nurse said of June, though no attempts were made to pry mother and child apart. Not yet.

"Mama! I want Mama," Charlie, the one left behind, hollered from the confines of the rabbi's embrace.

After what seemed an eternity of waiting and a barrage of questions that, to Joan, were numb and pointless, it took the doctor a brief glance and some necessary prodding to make his first assessment: Ruthie's right arm was dislocated from its shoulder. "Can you tell me how this happened, ma'am?" he asked gently, his face close to hers as he felt the bones in her nose and cheeks and jaw, searching for other breaks. His clean latex gloves came away dappled with red.

Since the coat had been removed and laid aside, a task given to a young nurse who looked slightly terrified when the body underneath began to writhe as the fabric lifted, Ruthie's infrequent responses faded into total silence. She kept the injured limb fixed against her chest, left arm encircling it, and shied at any contact. The collar of her purple sweater hung loosely in the front, as if it had been grabbed and pulled. She hadn't spoken to the doctor at all.

"Ma'am?"

"Someone attacked her," Joan offered. "I think he yanked on her arm. I think that's probably how he did it." She was holding June, and the little girl gazed at her for a moment, dark eyes round and cloudy with secrets, pinky wet with saliva from sucking on it. There was nothing accusatory about the look, the one time June's attention had drifted from Ruthie, but Joan felt guilty anyway. She could have prevented this. Why hadn't she prevented this?

The medical jargon blurred together in her head, just a handful of terms like "x-rays," "pain reliever," and "sedative" making sense to her. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Ruthie would soon be crammed so full of drugs not a thing would faze her, not even her bones being popped back into place like Tinker Toys. But that small comfort was taken away when Ruthie mumbled something the doctor had to bend down and ask her to repeat.

"The baby," she whispered. "Check the baby."

Confused, the doctor glanced at June. "You mean the little girl?"

Ruthie's expression contorted, as if his ignorance were about to make her cry. "No. I'm pregnant."

While another slew of procedures was ordered, including an ultrasound and changes to medication, Joan tried to digest the news. It had never occurred to her, though proof rested in her lap, that a baby could come from a marriage such as Ruthie and Donovan's. Perhaps, because she hadn't known Ruthie before motherhood, hadn't seen the swell of a pregnant belly on her tiny frame, it was easier to believe that June and Charlie just were, just existed as their mother's children with no part of Donovan in them. But Ruthie had said he helped create them. And it must be true.

It didn't matter now, but Joan wondered how and when Ruthie would have told her about the pregnancy. They probably would have laughed and been excited as they discussed boy names and girl names and cutesy baby clothes.

"You'll need to return to the waiting room, miss," said one of the nurses that Joan had given up keeping track of. "Someone will call you when she gets back from radiology."

"Okay." Joan stood, more by reflex than willingness to leave. She wanted to say so many things to Ruthie, words of solace, words that might somehow make the situation bearable. The best she could think of as she paused by the gurney and spoke softly was, "Don't worry about the kids, Ruthie. I'll take care of them."

"Mama," June said, catching the rail of the gurney in her hand. She gripped it firmly, and Joan had to stop again, abrupt, before the bed jerked or rolled.

"Your mama needs to go with the doctors." Joan tried to work the girl's tiny but strong fingers loose. "They're gonna help her get better. C'mon, let go."

"No!"

"Junie Bear..."

"Don't call me that, you're not my mama! Mama!" June hit a frantic pitch, the loudest Joan had ever heard that bashful voice go. "Put me down!"

The protests became all-out screeches as Joan, assisted by the doctor and nurse, tangled with the angry child and finally won. June punished their thighs, her tough little sneakers landing more than one blow, Joan taking the brunt of it. Fat tears and a thread of saliva poured off of June's chin, the back of her throat visible as she bawled, open-mouthed, and screamed until no other noise would come, just her mute lips mouthing, "Mama."

Ruthie turned her face against the pillow, in the opposite direction of her daughter and Joan.

In the hall June went limp as a dishrag and let her sweaty forehead drop onto Joan's shoulder, at last taking a breath and, with it, making sound -- long, devastated sobs that drew stares from every patient and caregiver who passed. "Why can't I stay with her?" she asked, between gasps. "Mama gets ascared when I'm not there."

Joan struggled with her own desire to cry, but a tear escaped into June's hair regardless. "She's safe here, I promise. No one's going to hurt her. I'll take you to her as soon as I can."

Charlie was asleep in the chair beside Rabbi Polonski, his body stiff and twitchy, as if he had continued fighting in his dreams, when Joan reached the waiting room. She sat next to Grace, and they regarded each other for a while, Grace's eyes wider than usual, Joan's hand moving like it had been programmed to a single activity: stroking June's back. She started at the nape of the girl's neck and went down a ways, flattening a cluster of dark curls, then patted, and began again at the top. Grace held out a can of soda, possibly to still the nervous motion.

"No, thanks," Joan said.

"It's yours. You handed it to me before you left."

"Oh." Joan had no memory of doing so. "You can have it."

"Thanks." Grace balanced the can on the flank of her boot, which was propped on her knee, and didn't open it.

"Sorry I stepped on your foot."

"Didn't hurt."

"Has my mom been by here yet?"

"No. I haven't seen her. What're you guys doing here?"

"My dad has kidney stones."

"Oh. That sucks."

"Yeah."

Grace looked tentatively at June, whose quiet snuffles were interrupted by an occasional chugging for air, then slid her gaze to the automatic doors that consumed another visitor to the ER. "How is she?"

Joan bit her lower lip, shook her head. She didn't trust her emotions just yet, and she didn't want to upset June. But the girl was already dozing, her eyes flicking back and forth behind heavy lids, just the whites showing, when Joan peeked down. And it seemed unfair to keep Grace and her father on pins and needles.

"They took her up to radiology for some x-rays. The doctor said her face is all right, but she had a bad nosebleed. That's why there was so much blood. And she'll have a-" Joan faltered, her tongue adhering to the roof of her mouth. Too bad about giving away that soda. "A black eye, probably. He didn't think any of her ribs were broken, but they need to make sure. He said- he said her shoulder's dislocated" - she puckered, her voice going higher, thinner - "and she can't have the strong drugs like morphine, they have to give her something else because she's pregnant. Or she was, anyway."

Rabbi Polonski bowed his head and murmured what sounded like a prayer, though Joan couldn't make out the words. Grace watched the floor until he was done. "My parents and I were on the porch telling the relatives good-bye," she said, and finally popped the tab on the soda, taking a swig. She offered Joan a drink and went on as it was accepted. "This car came speeding down the street and pulled into the driveway across from ours. The guy- I don't know his name..."

"Donovan."

"He got out and slammed the door and went inside the house. Ruthie? Is that right? She waited awhile before she took the kids in. I figured they were arguing. He's a real horse's ass, that dude. I was cutting through their backyard one day and I heard him yelling, but I never thought..." Grace shrugged, fiddling with the aluminum can, its sides crackling as she squeezed. "We went in after that, but then, later, I was helping my dad clean up and take out the garbage. We heard glass breaking over there. And they were hollering, mostly him. That must've been when it happened to her arm, 'cause she screamed like -- if stuff ever gave me chills, that would've. And the kids screamed too. Then he stomped out of the house, got in the car, and drove away."

The rabbi cleared his throat. "I normally wouldn't enter someone's home uninvited. But they weren't answering the doorbell." He rested his hand upon Charlie's small head. "I found them huddled together on the kitchen floor."

"It's my fault," Joan whispered. She blinked at the prickly sensation in the corners of her eyes.

"What?" Grace asked.

"This. He beats her, Grace, and I've known for such a long time, but I didn't do anything about it. I'm supposed to be her friend, and I just sat back and let him hurt her." Joan rocked the sleeping child in her arms. "God made a mistake. Ruthie deserved someone better than me."

"God?"

Joan swiped at her wet cheeks and dried her fingers on the leg of her jeans. Neither she nor the Polks said another word until a nurse came for Joan, an update to deliver: Ruthie had been returned to the ER.

"Here, give 'er to me," Grace said, when Joan looked for a place to deposit June.

"If she wakes up-"

"She'll be fine. Didn't you know? I'm a regular Mary Poppins with the rugrats. Must be my sunny disposition." Grace smiled wryly and carefully arranged June's lax form, each attempt to position a limb futile since they were flimsy as spaghetti noodles.

"Who could resist it?" Joan said. She stood. "Her name's June. And that's Charlie."

"Go on."

"Thanks, Grace."

"Go, Girardi."

Mercifully, Ruthie had slipped in and out of consciousness, her body (or possibly her spirit) too traumatized by the arm movement that was required during x-rays, and stayed out long enough for a closed reduction. That is, the ball of the humerus being put back in its joint socket, the nurse explained to Joan, demonstrating with interlocked knuckles. The sling had to be worn for at least three weeks, rest was crucial, ice reduced pain and swelling, and rehabilitation would be necessary if the shoulder was to heal properly and not become dislocated again.

No other broken bones had been found. "But," said the nurse grimly, her tone dropping as she peeked at Ruthie, who snoozed in a bed that was far too large for her, "there were plenty of old injuries, healed ones, if you can call them that. You her sister? Honey, try to talk some sense into her. Guy does something like this? She won't last with him."

"Yeah." Joan swallowed the lump in her throat and lied, "Sister."

When they were alone, the nurse squeaking off in her white, thick-soled shoes and leaving behind promises of a short return, Joan lifted the chair in the corner and quietly set it next to Ruthie's bed. She didn't use it. She felt the need to hover, like the stories she rolled her eyes at Helen for telling, about standing over newborn Kevin/Luke/Joan's crib to make sure they were breathing.

The blood was gone from Ruthie's face but not her hair. She had a bit of color now, the normal kind and also the darker, shadowy tint that told of a bruise in the works, ready to be stenciled in around her cheekbone and - up, over, around again - just below the eyebrow. Even in sleep her expression reflected pain. She scowled, moaning feebly when a dream or a memory suddenly made her jerk and force her eyes open. She stared at the ceiling for a moment then found Joan.

Keep it together, Joan told herself. "Hey," she said, and failed miserably at smiling.

Ruthie licked her teeth, her lips. She either needed water or was checking for gaps and gashes. She waited awhile before answering, "Hi."

"Are you thirsty? I can get you a drink."

"No, don't go."

"I won't. There's a pitcher." Joan pointed at the spouted plastic container and stack of Dixie cups turned upside down on the cart beside the bed. She filled one of the cups with water and felt stupid when she tried to hand it to Ruthie.

"That's okay." Ruthie reached with her left, discomfort obvious, try as she might to hide it. The cup jittered as she gulped from it then held it out for more. "Thank you, sweetie," she said, after three refills.

More alert now, she gazed about the room, slowly at first, but her concern mounted rapidly.

"June and Charlie are asleep in the waiting room," Joan said. "Grace and her dad are with them. They're the ones who brought you in. Do you... remember that?"

Ruthie's nod was faint, almost imperceptible.

"Well, he's a rabbi. And I'm pretty sure Grace can kick anyone's butt. They're the second best thing to having me as a baby-sitter."

The drowsy smile only made it halfway onto Ruthie's lips, inverting to a puzzled frown. "You were here when I came in," she said, uncertain, like maybe she had it wrong. "Why?"

"My dad's sick. He'll be okay. My mom and I brought him in."

"Helen's here?"

"Yeah. She doesn't know you are, though."

Ruthie sighed deeply and studied the stiff, uncomfortable-looking sling that wound around her upper body and behind her neck, immobilizing her arm and shoulder. She flexed her fingers very cautiously on that hand. They were puffy and looked as though they belonged to someone else, not Ruthie, whose hands were pretty and nimble and expressive, as if they, of all her parts, represented what she herself was as a whole.

"Does it still hurt a lot?" Joan asked quietly.

"Yeah," Ruthie said, the softness of her voice making her sound not much older than June. "But it's better than it was."

They fell into one of their pensive silences that were becoming common the closer they grew, which seemed ironic to Joan since they could both talk a thing to death. She opened her mouth to speak a few times but wasn't able to form the words. Leave him, Ruthie. Leave him while you have the chance, while your kids still have a mother, while they're young enough to maybe grow up and not remember spending Thanksgiving night in a hospital.

How could she say it so that Ruthie would understand?

"I..." Ruthie began, her head lowered, chin tucked to chest. When she raised her head and met Joan's gaze, her eyes were dry but full of fear. "I can't stay with Don anymore, Joan. It's too much. He's gotten worse. And even if he hadn't, I just... I can't take it."

Joan scarcely breathed. She was afraid of jinxing the moment, of somehow reversing it and changing Ruthie's mind. But oh, how she wanted to do a victory dance or catch Ruthie in a hug and only let go when that frightened expression had disappeared for good. She improvised, reaching for a spot that was safe to touch - Ruthie's hair - and stroking it lightly.

"You don't have to."

"But what am I supposed to do? I'm his. He won't let me go." Tired, Ruthie trailed off, each blink slower than the last. "I don't have anywhere to go."

"Yes, you do," Joan said quickly, frantically, "you're coming to my house. You and June and Charlie. Don can't bother you there. And that'll give you time to figure something out. My mom and I'll help, and my dad will too, when he gets home. I know I've done a lousy job so far, but they're really smart. They'll know what to do." She gripped the edge of the bed. "Please say yes, Ruthie. You need rest right now, is all. Once you've had that, you can decide where to go from there. Okay?"

Ruthie's nod was hard to make out again. "Okay," she said, and then more confidently, "Okay."

The doctor who performed Ruthie's ultrasound was no doctor. Although, Joan had heard titles like Healer and Physician applied to him, and she supposed that if anyone should be allowed to practice medicine without the proper credentials, God was the best choice. For old time's sake, he wore the guise of the doctor he had been when he wrapped her ankle after the washing machine incident a couple years earlier. But this time, other than a fleeting glance Joan's way, his attention was focused entirely on Ruthie. He kept his velvety, accented speech low, almost cooing, as he explained the procedure and asked if she was ready for him to begin.

Ruthie shut her eyes. "Mm-hmm."

"This might feel a bit cool, love," he said, when he eased her sweater up and prepared to spread gel on her exposed abdomen. Joan noticed a cherry-colored mark on the skin there, about the size of a fist, she estimated, not far above Ruthie's belly button. She took Ruthie's left hand and held it.

"All right. Now I'm placing the transducer on your belly. Just relax." Doctor God lowered what looked to Joan like a scanning device from a supermarket onto Ruthie's tightened middle. "Just relax," he repeated with a drawl. "That's a-girl. Let's see if we can get a look at your precious one..."

Joan watched him carefully, trying to judge whether it was a good sign or a bad sign that he had chosen this moment to appear. He wouldn't be so cruel as to pretend there might be a chance, that the pummeling Ruthie had taken wasn't too much for a fetus whose only defense was its mother's soft, slight body. Would he? The longer he navigated the transducer without commenting, Joan felt her hope dwindle. She saw a tear trickle from between Ruthie's closed lashes and lose itself in a nest of blonde hair.

Doctor God's grin, when it came, was big and bright. "There you are," he said to the monitor he had been watching. He stopped moving his arm and used his free hand to point to something on the screen. When Ruthie's eyes snapped open, he added, "She's tricky already. Playing hide and go seek. You'll have to be on your toes with her."

Joan practically tipped her chair over as she stood and leaned in for a closer look. All she saw were blobs of gray and black, like the special effects in a 1930's alien invasion movie. "Where is it?"

"Is it okay?" Ruthie said.

Doctor God outlined a minute dot on the screen with the edge of his thumbnail. "She's got a good heartbeat. See that? My, my, she's strong."

Ruthie slipped her hand from Joan's and covered her face with it, weeping.

"That's it right there?" Joan said, her own vision wet and blurry. "That thing that looks like a, uhh..."

"Honeybee," Doctor God offered.

"I was gonna say a freaky jelly bean, but yeah, honeybee works."

Through her tears, Ruthie laughed. It was short and breathy but a laugh nonetheless.

"Oh, thank God," she sighed, still concealing her eyes.

Wordlessly, the doctor straightened up the equipment. He gave no reaction to the statement, though Joan thought he might have laid his palm on Ruthie's stomach just a fraction longer than necessary when he had guided her sweater back into place. "You take care of yourself and" - he chuckled, a rich, exotic sound - "the little bee. She needs her mama to be healthy and safe. Get plenty of rest, take time to recuperate, and don't discourage the people who love you when they want to help. Can you do that for me, Ruthie?"

Ruthie tilted her head and peered up at him as if trying to recall a name to go with face she had not seen in years. "I think so," she said. "Yes."

"Good."

As he was leaving, Joan asked, "Is it really a girl?"

"You won't be able to tell that for a few more months," Ruthie answered knowingly. She gave the doctor an appreciative smile and waved at him.

"Right," he said.

Before he exited the room, God paused to wink at Joan.

At 12:30 A.M. Joan wandered through one last hospital corridor and, her search for Doctor God unsuccessful, plodded into the waiting room, yawning and expecting to see Grace and her father half-asleep on the elementary school style chairs that snaked along each wall. Instead, she found her mother, wide-awake and anxious, her foot tapping the floor nonstop as she stared blankly at the McDonald's commercial on television.

"I'm lovin' it!" sang the staticky voice narrating the ad.

"Mom."

Helen's back straightened and she started to get up, but Joan motioned for her to remain seated, taking a chair across from her, the ones on either side already occupied by June and Charlie's sleeping forms.

"Where's Grace and Rabbi Polonski?"

"I sent them home, they were worn out," Helen said distractedly. "They told me everything. The baby, everything. My God. How is Ruthie?"

"She's..." Fine? Good? Alive? Learning that the baby was unharmed, according to a machine that normally wouldn't be used until a fetus was several weeks older, had been a blessing, but it didn't mend the damage done to Ruthie, didn't get rid of the sling and the motley bruises that seemed hidden in every nook and cranny like the colorful plastic eggs hunted down by children on Easter morning. "She's all right, I guess. Pretty banged up. They fixed her shoulder, she's got this sling she has to wear. She didn't miscarry." Joan filled her lungs with stale hospital air and exhaled shakily. "I didn't even know she was pregnant till tonight."

Helen passed something back and forth in her palms, a small, round object that fit in the curve of her fingers. "I knew Don was trouble," she said to herself more than to Joan. "I knew it." She shook her head, curled her lip in disgust. "That son of a bitch. He must be out of his mind."

"He is."

"I didn't like him the first night we met him. He was too damn smug. And then I had that dream. And the way Ruthie refused to talk about him." As she spoke, Helen toyed with the object faster. And faster still. "I shouldn't have let it go this long."

Joan knew that feeling all too well.

"What's that?" she asked, sad and drained, her gaze on Helen's busy hands.

"I don't know. I was scooting June over, and I saw it clutched in her little fist. She's got a scratch, but it's not very deep." Helen held the thing up for Joan to see, its chipped glass nose and wide, unblinking eyes pointed towards her. A spidery crack traveled from the neck, where it had been broken off in jagged pieces, to the crown of butter-yellow hair, a shiny gold halo topping that.

Joan reached, took the ruined head of the figurine, and looked at it. She closed her fingers and squeezed, not caring about punctured flesh or a drop of blood and one or two stitches, with a cute butterfly Band-Aid stuck on, for safety's sake. Trivial, those. Child's play. "It's from one of Ruthie's angels," she said. "She collects them."

Joan told her story then -- every bit of it: how Donovan's voice went slick and derisive when he talked to Ruthie, as if each syllable was meant to cut her down, chew her up, spit her out. How Ruthie managed to be there and yet not be there, the light gone from her eyes when he looked at her. The slap and how it sounded and how hard it was. The argument in the music room and how it had probably figured into Ruthie being beaten and left alone, just her babies to tend to her.

"Don't blame yourself, Mom," she finished. "I knew more than you did. I made it worse."

Helen was on her feet in an instant, gathering Joan into a firm hug. "Now, you listen to me. None of this is your fault." She tilted back to look at her daughter, taking her by the chin. "You understand? Don's the one to blame. Don't you ever let a man make you think something like this is your fault."

Joan had heard the lecture before, but she made no exasperated comments this time. In fact, she had given those up the night her mother came to her room, closed the door, and revealed a secret that they seldom mentioned again, though once in a while they glimpsed it in the other's face or a brief, unconscious mannerism.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner," she said, gripping Helen's cardigan. "I wanted to."

"I know."

"Ruthie's being released tonight," Joan said, after a moment. "She says she can't stay with Don anymore. But she's so scared. I'm worried she'll change her mind. I told her she could come home with us, that we'd help her."

Helen's silence lasted longer than Joan anticipated.

"Mom? We're her friends. She can't go back to that house."

"No. No, you're right. It's not safe for her there." Helen brushed the bangs from Joan's forehead and kissed the spot. "She'll come home with us."