Dr. Redmond and her nurse keep me in the recovery room for an hour and a half. I spend most of the time lying on a cot, sleeping. I feel very tired. I don't feel much else. I think I should feel sad or regretful or relieved. But I don't feel anything. I am just here.

When I am released from the recovery room, the nurse walks me out to the waiting room, running through the after care instructions once more. She gave me a sanitary napkin when the procedure was finished and I'm supposed to wear one for the next few days. She says sporadic bleeding is normal and I may experience some cramps as well. She reminds me not to bathe or douche for at least a week, although I may take a shower as soon as I like. In two weeks, I'll have a follow-up at Dr. Wallingford's office. Otherwise, there isn't much left to do. Everything's taken care of. It seems so quick and tidy. I don't think it should seem this easy.

Mrs. Ellenburg's still in the waiting room as promised. She isn't reading her magazine anymore. She doesn't appear to be doing anything at all. She's simply sitting, straight and tall, legs crossed with her reading glasses perched on her knee. She isn't looking in my direction. She's staring the other way, toward the front windows, massaging her left temple. There's a tissue wadded in her hand.

I stop beside her chair. "Mrs. Ellenburg?" I say, quietly. "I'm ready to go."

She turns her head toward me. It looks like she may have been crying. "You're ready?" she replies. "All right." She picks up her glasses from her knee and stands, sliding the glasses into her purse. Whatever I saw a moment ago has passed. She looks as calm and self-assured as ever. "How are you feeling?" she asks me.

I shrug. "I'd like to go home now," I say.

"All right," Mrs. Ellenburg says and lifts my messenger bag off the chair and slides it over her shoulder. She holds my coat out to me.

"Thank you," I tell her and slip my arms into the coat sleeves. I busy myself with the buttons as we walk out of the clinic, taking an extra long time to fasten them and then even more time messing with my scarf. I am able to pass the protesters without glancing at them once.

We don't speak on the drive back to Stoneybrook. I stare out the window. I still feel numb, but even so, I cry a little. I keep my face turned away so that Mrs. Ellenburg doesn't see. If she notices me wiping at my eyes, she doesn't mention it.

Of course, no one's home when we pull into my driveway. Mom's still in Hawaii and I haven't seen Dad since the night he asked Mrs. Ellenburg if she was our new cleaning lady. Tiffany promised to keep Maria away from the house for most of the afternoon and evening. She and Tyler are taking Maria to an early dinner and movie. Maria invited David Michael along and claims the four of them are double dating.

Mrs. Ellenburg walks me to the front door still carrying my bag. We walk slowly because not only am I tired, I'm starting to cramp. It's mild, not much worse than the menstrual cramps I typically experience, but then they are worse because I know what they're from. We go inside the house and Mrs. Ellenburg instructs me to rest on the couch in the living room. My bedroom and warm bed sound more appealing, but climbing the stairs does not.

"When will someone be home?" Mrs. Ellenburg asks me when I've settled on the couch.

"I don't know," I answer. "My sisters won't be home until later, but my friend, Kristy, said she'd come over and stay with me. I don't know when she's coming." I'm surprised she isn't here already with the way Kristy likes to wait at her window and watch my house.

"I'll wait with you until she comes then," Mrs. Ellenburg says and sits down in an armchair opposite me.

"You don't have to, Mrs. Ellenburg. You've wasted enough of your time on me today."

"I don't waste time," she replies. "This was important to Wesley and important to you. Now, would you like something to drink? I can get you a glass of juice or make you some tea."

"Tea would be nice," I say.

Mrs. Ellenburg rises from the armchair and strides out of the living room. I listen to her moving around in the kitchen, opening drawers and cabinets. Then I hear her speaking to someone, which at first perplexes me until I realize she's on the telephone. She called Wes as promised. I wish I could hear her words, but she speaks too softly. I reposition myself on the couch, so I'm flat on my back. I stare down at my stomach and hesitantly, gingerly, touch it. Several tears break free from my eyes and roll down my cheeks. I wonder what I've done. I wonder if I've made a mistake.

Mrs. Ellenburg returns with my tea. She made jasmine tea, which is my favorite. "You don't have any food in your kitchen," she informs me, handing over the cup of tea.

"Are you hungry?"

"No, I'm not hungry. I was going to make you something to eat."

"The A&P delivers our groceries tomorrow."

"Well, maybe there's a can of soup in the pantry. You need to eat." Mrs. Ellenburg disappears back into the kitchen before I can point out that I'm not hungry.

I blow on my tea and take timid sips. The electric can opener buzzes in the kitchen. Then I hear what sounds like the dishwasher opening and pots and pans clanging and clattering. I close my eyes. Oh, dear Lord, now she's cleaning my kitchen. If I had any real emotion left, I'd been terribly embarrassed. But I am tired and numb and feel nothing more, except perhaps a passing sadness that rises and falls within me.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Ellenburg reappears with an olive green bowl in her hands. "It's very hot," she tells me, extending it toward me.

I take the bowl, the smell of tomato and herbs wafting into my nostrils, making me vaguely ill. In the distance, I hear the dishwasher kicking to life with a new cycle. "Thank you, Mrs. Ellenburg," I say, stirring my spoon in the thick red liquid. "You didn't have to load the dishwasher though."

"I've loaded a dishwasher or two in my life," she replies, breezily, and sits down in the armchair, crossing her legs. "Your house is a disaster," she informs me and runs a finger over the coffee table beside her chair. She studies it. "When are you getting a new cleaning lady? What happened to the old one?"

I blow on my soup and don't look at Mrs. Ellenburg. "I yelled at her and she quit."

"You yelled at the cleaning lady?"

I nod and take a tentative sip of the soup. It's still too hot. It burns my lips. "She called Social Services about my parents. She told a social worker some of the things my sisters and I had been doing," I say, still staring into my soup. "So, I yelled at her. I don't remember exactly what I said. I think I may have called her a spinster. Oh, and that she was just the hired help."

"That was certainly rude," remarks Mrs. Ellenburg. "Why would you say such things? Is that how you always treat people who try to help you?"

I shrug and continue stirring the soup.

Mrs. Ellenburg allows a few moments to pass, then says, "I spoke to Wesley. He's relieved that the procedure went well. He hopes your recovery goes smoothly." Mrs. Ellenburg pauses, considering her next words. "In the car, you said that Wesley always had wonderful things to say about Dennis and I. He always had very flattering things to say about you, as well. And according to Ginger Carson, you could likely walk on water if you so desired. I'm uncertain how much stock to put in anything Ginger claims, however, my son, as foolish and naïve as he may sometimes be, is generally a reliable judge of character. I think you are a very confused girl, Shannon, and you've made some terrible, selfish mistakes, but deep down, I believe you are the girl my son loved." Mrs. Ellenburg pauses again and watches me a moment, and then she leans over and picks up her purse. "I have something else for you."

I sip my soup, watching her thumb through the side pocket of her purse. She pulls out another piece of stationary, the same as the stationary she handed me in the car. She brings the paper to me and I set my bowl on the coffee table to take it from her. I stare at it. At the top, of course, there is From The Desk Of…Molly Stratten Ellenburg and then below are numbered names and telephone numbers. Each name has Doctor before it.

"Who are these people?" I ask, faintly.

"Therapists," Mrs. Ellenburg answers, simply, returning to her chair. She sits in it straight and tall, poised as always, and folds her hands over her knee. "Wesley is concerned about you. He thinks you need to speak to a professional. I agree. I've compiled a list for you of therapists I am familiar with. Please consider seeing one. You're a smart girl, but you are very mixed-up about love and sex. Your parents have failed you there. I suspect they've failed you in many aspects. Your parents' problems are not your own, Shannon. Their problems have nothing to do with you. You need to remember that and work toward building a better life for yourself. A therapist can help you do that."

I continue to stare at the list. "I know who Dr. Kasey Petrinski is," I say, dully. "She's a psychiatrist, not a therapist. She works with crazy people."

"Not all people who go to psychiatrists are crazy. Many are simply confused. But if it bothers you, not everyone on the list is a psychiatrist. You could see a regular therapist."

"Maybe," I say and fold the paper in half. I slip it into the pocket of my coat, which is lying across the back of the couch.

"I hope you'll seriously consider it, Shannon."

I nod and reposition myself on the couch, so I'm leaning back against the arm. "I promise, Mrs. Ellenburg," I tell her, quietly, and cross my arms over my chest, holding myself. "But my mom may think it looks bad. She cares a lot about appearances. It matters a lot to her what other people think of her."

"Well, your mother's a nitwit," Mrs. Ellenburg says, bluntly.

I almost smile, but I'm too worn out to make the effort. "She doesn't want to be a mother anymore. That's what she told me. She said I don't need her any longer and that it's time she considered her own needs. She said I made the choice years ago and pushed her away."

"That's ridiculous," Mrs. Ellenburg scoffs in disbelief. "You never stop needing your mother. And a person doesn't decide to quit being a mother simply because it becomes too hard or too boring or something more attractive comes along. Your mother is incredibly selfish and she's blaming you to make herself feel better. Your father is just as guilty of being shallow and neglectful. Wesley told me all about your father and his Kathleen Turner look-alike prostitutes. That's absolutely disturbing. It's even more disturbing that apparently, your father encouraged you to have Wesley in your bedroom. It's no wonder you're so confused."

I bite my lip and nod again, continuing to hold myself. "My dad knew about Wes, you know. He knew Wes was a lot older and that I was lying to him. Our neighbor told Dad. Dad thought it was amusing. He was excited that I wasn't frigid like his high school girlfriend, who beat him up at the prom and had some sluttish sister named Whackin' McCracken. Dad likes to tell me about them."

Mrs. Ellenburg purses her lips and studies me a moment. "I never thought that nickname was funny," she says, stiffly. "It was very sad when Margolo committed suicide, but then, very sad things often happen to girls with wicked, spiteful mothers. You must endeavor to rise above the poor example set by your parents, Shannon. Not every girl gets a second chance."

I can only nod, not knowing what to say.

The doorbell rings, then there's a loud knock on the front door. Mrs. Ellenburg rises from the armchair and crosses the living room into the foyer. She disappears from my line of vision. I hear her heels click on the tile and then the front door opens. The next thing I hear is Kristy's voice saying, "Hi, I'm Kristy Thomas from across the street. I told Shannon I'd come over."

The front door closes, but Mrs. Ellenburg and Kristy don't appear right away. I hear the hush of their voice speaking lowly in the foyer. They're talking about me. Finally, Mrs. Ellenburg's heels move along the tile and she reappears with Kristy trailing behind her. Kristy carries a shopping bag in one hand and looks disturbingly Christmas-y in a black sweatshirt with Ho Ho Ho written in red and green sequins and brightly threaded Christmas lights winding around the words. There's a red plaid headband in her hair.

"How are you feeling?" Kristy asks me, coming into the living room.

I shrug. "Okay, I guess," I answer. "I'm really tired."

Mrs. Ellenburg lifts her purse onto her shoulder. Just like that she's leaving. I'm sort of disappointed.

"She just ate," Mrs. Ellenburg informs Kristy. "Here are the after care instructions." Mrs. Ellenburg removes a blue sheet of paper from her purse. "There's a twenty-four hour hotline to call in case there are any complications. And here, I'll write down my number for you." Mrs. Ellenburg snatches the paper from Kristy's hand and digs through her purse for a pen. She scribbles out her phone number, then gives the paper back to Kristy. "She should really eat again later. Of course, there's no food in this house. Certainly, you have food at your house though. Make sure she rests, no strenuous activity. It's all there on the paper."

"I'll take good care of her," Kristy promises, reading over the after care instructions.

"All right," Mrs. Ellenburg says and comes to stand beside the couch. She looks down at me. "I hope you'll think about what we discussed, Shannon. Seriously think about it. You don't want to become embittered like your mother, or live in the past like your father." Mrs. Ellenburg places her hand on my shoulder. "I'll call to check on you tomorrow. Good luck, Shannon."

"Thank you, Mrs. Ellenburg," I reply. "For everything." I realize I should say more, but no other words come.

Mrs. Ellenburg removes her hand from my shoulder and turns, striding out of the living room. She says goodbye to Kristy and disappears into the foyer. I listen to the retreat of her heels and then the opening and closing of the front door. I realize I'll probably never see her again unless it's by accident.

"She seems nice," Kristy tells me. "Kind of bossy though."

I manage a weak smile. "She's efficient," I say.

Kristy comes further into the living room and sets her shopping bag on the coffee table. "I'm sorry it took me so long to get over here," she apologizes. "Mom, Watson, Nannie, and Charlie were getting ready for the Carsons' party and the kids were out of control. I told Mom you were sick and I promised to watch over you. Linny and Hannie just arrived, so I could finally come over. I don't think the kids realized Linny is actually their baby-sitter. Anyway, Nannie sent me over with some stuff for your family. She and the kids have been baking all week. There's peanut brittle and frosted sugar cookies and pumpkin rolls. I don't suppose you want anything?"

I shake my head.

"Just thought I'd ask. I'll take them into the kitchen. Are you done with your tea and soup?"

"Yes," I reply with a nod. "Could you bring me a glass of juice? Anything but apple."

"Yep," Kristy says and disappears into the kitchen. She returns a couple minutes later with a tall clear glass filled with pineapple juice.

"Thanks, Kristy," I say, taking the glass from her.

"Sure," Kristy replies and sits down on the coffee table in front of the couch, folding her legs Indian-style. I eye her for a moment over my glass, but decide it doesn't matter. The table's already covered in three inches of dust, what does it matter if Kristy sits on it? "So…" Kristy begins. "How was it? I mean…" Kristy's cheeks turn vaguely pink.

I look down into my glass and shrug. "It was…I don't know. Quick, I guess. I was there for almost three hours, but most of that was filling out paperwork and meeting with a counselor and then sitting around afterward waiting to be released. The…the procedure only took about ten minutes. I wasn't awake. It was strange, I guess. I was pregnant and went unconscious, then ten minutes later I woke up…not pregnant." I pause and slosh the pineapple juice around in the glass, then raise it to my lips and drain it. "I feel sort of relieved, kind of like this weight's been lifted off me. But then, I also feel a little sad. Do you think that's wrong? Do I have a right to feel sad about it? I chose to do this."

Kristy frowns slightly, thinking. After a moment, she says, "No, I think it's probably normal to feel like that. I know it was a hard decision for you, Shannon. It's okay to have mixed emotions about it. This shouldn't be easy. It'll take you awhile to sort out your feelings."

"I know," I say, quietly. "The abortion won't fix everything." I drag my finger around the rim of the glass, thinking. "I sort of wish things could have been different. I don't think I'm ready to raise a baby, but…if my life was different, I could have had it and given it up. Maybe what I did was selfish. I took the easy way out."

"I don't think what you did was easy. I couldn't have done it."

"That's because you're a better person than me."

"I'm not better than you. Just different."

Upstairs, my telephone rings.

"That's probably Greer or Sally," I say to Kristy. "I don't really want to talk to anyone right now."

"Okay," Kristy says and jumps up from the coffee table. She dashes out of the living room and thunders up the stairs. She returns a few minutes later, carrying a stack of clothes in her arms. "That was Greer," she explains. "She wanted to check on you. I told her you're doing okay, considering. She said she'll try to call tomorrow, but may not have a chance until the afternoon." Kristy comes back around to the couch. "Here, I brought you a change of clothes. What you have on doesn't look very comfortable." Kristy shakes out an old pair of black sweats and a faded Camp Eerie t-shirt from three summers ago.

I undress right in the living room. Kristy's right. The sweats and t-shirt are a lot more comfortable. Kristy folds my other clothes and takes them upstairs. While she's gone, I slip into the downstairs bathroom to check my sanitary napkin. I've spotted a little, but not as much as I expected. While I'm in the bathroom, I hear my telephone ring again. Kristy must be on her way back downstairs because her feet pound up the stairs again.

I tie my hair back with a green ribbon someone left on the sink. Probably Maria. My make-up is smeared again. I wet a washcloth and use the chamomile soap to wash my face. It leaves my skin feeling tight, but I look a bit better.

"That was Sally," Kristy informs me when I return to the living room. "She and her parents just arrived in New York. She was calling from the car phone. I told her the same thing I told Greer. Sally also said she'll call you tomorrow. Right now, she and her parents are on their way to dinner and then a Broadway show. They're seeing The Mikado, which sounds really boring. Oh, I guess you don't care about that. Do you want some more juice?"

I shake my head and sit back down on the couch. "Not right now," I tell her and begin pulling on the socks Kristy brought with her on her last trip. "I wish I was on my way to a Broadway show."

Kristy doesn't say anything right away. She just looks sort of uncomfortable. "Well…" she finally says. "Maybe we could go sometime before school starts again. If you feel like it. I'm sure Sally could tell us exactly what we should see." Kristy rolls her eyes. "I suppose Sally's not that horrible anymore. Or at least she's no longer the most vile person on the East Coast. She's definitely in the top ten though."

I smile and lay back down on the couch. "Anna's back in town," I tell Kristy.

"Yeah, I know. Abby told me this morning that Mrs. Stevenson was picking Anna up in New Haven. Then I saw the three of them get in the minivan about an hour ago while I was waiting to come over here."

"I wonder what's going on with them," I say.

Kristy knits her eyebrows together. I'd forgotten she's totally in the dark. "Yeah…" she says, slowly, still looking confused. "Abby and Anna are a little odd," she finally says. "So is Mrs. Stevenson."

For some reason, I start to cry. I don't know what triggers it. Certainly not the mention of the Stevensons. The tears simply fall unceremoniously and unprovoked. I cover my eyes with my hand, like I need to hide anything from Kristy now. Or from anyone at all. I sob behind my hand, wracking sobs that shake my entire body. They hurt. They physically hurt. I feel Kristy's hand on my arm. She's moved to the floor beside the couch. She kneels there next to me, stroking my arm. I lose track of time, but I think I cry for quite awhile.

When I finish, Kristy fetches a damp washcloth for my face. Then she brings me another glass of juice. This time she brings strawberry-banana. We have no food in our house, but apparently, we have an endless supply of juice. I laugh. I laugh a strange and horrid laugh. Then I drink the juice in a single gulp.

"Feel better?" Kristy asks, taking the empty glass from me.

I nod and wipe my mouth on the washcloth.

"Good," Kristy says and sets the glass on the coffee table, and then she sits back down on the floor beside the couch.

"You know what I was just thinking?" I ask her.

"What?"

"Right now, Greer is at a Christmas party, drinking spiked eggnog and dancing inappropriately with boys she doesn't know – "

"While her parents turn a blind eye," Kristy continues.

"And Sally White's ordering dinner in some swanky New York restaurant, probably acting pretentious and weird. And I am here."

Kristy takes my hand in hers. "And I'm here with you."