Once there were two sisters, one older, one younger. They grew up in the same house, but they were nothing alike. They were exactly alike. They went away and never saw each other again.

Once there were two sisters, and the elder sister hated her younger sister without reason. She had no right to, but she did. She couldn't say why and she couldn't stop. The hate filled her up and some days it felt like love.

Once there were two sisters and the younger one was lost. She was somewhere, she didn't know where. She'd been there before, or somewhere like it. She'd had something once, but she didn't know what and she didn't know where and she was sure she'd feel better soon but she needed something. Just one more something. She dreamed all the time but her dreams were memories and when she woke up she'd forgotten what she'd remembered.

Once there were two sisters who grew up far apart. They were nothing alike, but some days, on good days, the elder could see her expressions on her sister's face, or the younger could hear the yearning in the elder's voice, and they'd stop. They'd learned to stop and to look and to listen.

Once there were two sisters who didn't understand each other, and probably never would. But they didn't hate each other and probably never would. They adored each other, and probably always would. Both the elder and the younger never thought about the probably.

Here is a story, a true story, truer than a true story: everything changes, and nothing does. There were two sisters and they were both lost. There were two sisters who would find each other. That is the truth, though the story is too simple to be real.

Part Three

For the next week, my dreams, when I could get to sleep, revolved around Mansfield. I dreamed I was driving up the lane in Edwina's Buick, but the lane kept twisting and I ended up standing on the side of the hill in the pouring rain. I dreamed I was swimming in the pond but the pond was full of paint, so I pulled myself out and ran to the tree, my hiding place, and climbed all the way up in its branches, looking down as Mireille gave up seeking me. I dreamed that I was tiptoeing down the hallway to Ned's room, as I'd done so often when we were kids, and I stopped outside Tom's door because I heard him crying. I dreamed that Ned was the one drowning in the bathtub, and Dr Bertram was the one screaming, only when I got there he was sitting quietly, reading a paper alone in a room with his dead son.

The morning I dreamed that Ned had died, he didn't pick up his phone. He had checked in with me every other day or so since he'd left, and he'd always answered the phone when I called him. I knew, I knew, that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened, but that knowledge didn't help me. I sat, twitching, unsettled at my table, trying to put the finishing touches on my references, and I couldn't. Billy came over to see how I was doing and I was so preoccupied that he had to clap his hands in front of my face to get my attention.

"Flan! What's wrong with you?"

I blinked at him, then ran my hands through my hair. "I keep getting this feeling that something's wrong."

"Wrong? What's wrong?" He looked around the house quickly and then at me.

"Not here, not with me, just wrong. I don't know."

A determined look settled on his face. "Are we talking Mansfield now?"

I shrugged.

"Oh, no, don't pull that shit with me. Are we or are we not talking about Mansfield?"

I released my breath. "We are."

"Jesus God. They're adults, Flan. They don't need your help. They don't want your help."

"The parents don't."

Billy turned away for a second then came back, hands on his hips. "So we're talking about Ned now. Aren't we?"

I pulled a wry face. "We are."

"I thought you were done with him. I thought you were over him."

I bridled at his tone, "I am. Over him, I mean. I mean, I'm not, like, you know—"

"Not what?"

Beginning to feel very put upon, I ran my sweaty palms over my jeans. "Not in love with him," I finished in a rush.

"So then what's the thing?" His arms were folded across his chest now, and a very stormy look was in his eyes. If I didn't know him, I'd have been terrified of him.

"The thing is that he's still my friend and he and his brother—he and Tom—need all the help they can get. And I have this feeling that something's wrong and I can't shake it."

"Well, yeah, guy's in the hospital with a coma."

"Not that. That's not what I mean." I laced my fingers together nervously, and I must have looked agitated enough for Billy to change tacks, because he came over to me and hugged me.

"What do you want to do about it?"

I pulled away from his chest and looked him dead in the eye. I'm pretty sure he knew what I was going to say before I said it, and was dreading it. "I need to go back to Mansfield for a little." Then I stepped away from him so that he could be angry.

"Bullshit you do. They treated you like garbage, remember? You don't owe them anything."

"I know. It's not about owing someone something, but Ned is my friend and Tom was my friend, sort of, and I have a lot of things to say to the others. Things I need to actually look them in the eye and say, and I can't do that from here."

"Fuck 'em," Billy spat caustically.

"I know. That's kind of what I need to say to them."

"Be real with me right now: Are you actually going back to face these assholes down and tell them off for how they treated you, or are you really going back for Ned?"

I raised my hands helplessly. "It's both, Billy. Both things matter to me."

"Chrissakes."

"It's not like that, though."

"Not like what?"

"Not like I'm going back to help him and, like, win his affections. That's not what I want anymore, Billy. But he's my oldest friend apart from you, and I would do anything to make sure you were okay."

"Then he should do the same for you."

I nodded ruefully. "Yeah, he should. He's on probation. We'll see what happens."

Billy rubbed the back of his head vigorously. "This is bullshit. I hate this."

I watched him sympathetically. "I know you do."

He sighed. "But I'll drive you down. I have vacation days I need to use. Just…just don't make me regret doing this."

I ran to hug him. "I can't promise that, but I can promise that it'll at least be interesting."

"God help us all."

Ned Bertram's house sat on a slope a little off-set from the university, aloof in its private dell. My first memory of it, when I was a scared eight-year-old peering through windshield of my social worker's beat-up Buick, was an impression of shocking size and a surging feeling from the back of my ribcage that must have been something bordering on complete awe. At twenty-one, I realized that my memory it had distorted the property's proportions: I had made the fields and trees and house larger in my imagination. The gate had rust on it, now, but I didn't know if that was new or had just gone just unnoticed. I turned to look at Susie, who was leaning forward in the backseat, her hands pressed against the front seat headrests. She had already commented, several times, on the size of the houses in this part of Connecticut, but Mansfield made her jaw drop as we turned into the gate.

"Holy shit," she breathed.

"Language," Billy chastised.

"Holy shiitake mushrooms. You used to live here?"

"I did," I said, releasing the breath I hadn't known I was holding.

"Do they have butlers? Tell me they have butlers."

"No butlers," Susie made a sound of disappointment, "but they do have a personal chef and a maid service, so."

"I could do with that," Billy muttered. He hadn't spoken much during our drive, and had gotten even more taciturn as we approached.

"Which room was yours?" Susie asked, leaning forward again. "Can we see it from here?"

I pointed to the gatehouse. "Well, I used to live in the gatehouse, in the attic. Then when I turned eighteen Nola sent me over to Mansfield. That third window from the right, that one on the third floor. That was mine."

If it were possible for Billy's back to stiffen further, he managed it. Susie was silent for a second. "So, like, did they have a lot of kids in the gatehouse or something?"

"No. Just me. And Nola and Norris."

"There have to be, like, twenty rooms in that thing. And why is it a gatehouse? It's not near a gate. Was the attic just the best room?"

Billy turned down the lane to reach Mansfield's front drive, and he and I were both silent. He'd never seen my attic room, and neither had Ned. Neither one of them had ever known I'd had anything but normal accommodations in the gatehouse, though, I realized, they must have both suspected by now. "I'll show you," was all I said to Susie, and she fell silent, too. I'd told her I needed to show her Mansfield to have her understand it. It was going to be a tall order.

Billy parked the car, and before I could even remove my seatbelt, Ned was on the drive, opening Susie and my doors. I clambered out to hug him, then turned to grab my duffel bag while Ned swung Susie around, then clasped Billy by the hand.

"Welcome back," Ned said, with just a trace of irony. His huge grin threatened to split his face in two, but he still looked vaguely haggard.

"What are we up against in there?" Billy asked. Ned shook his head wryly.

"Well, my mom is heavily medicated, and my dad is in a temper. Tom's doing better, staying awake longer, able to eat more, so that's all good. Nola is here," he warned, "and her current favorite thing to do is to talk about how much suffering Tom is in right now, which isn't exactly helpful. Julia's been here and left again, but she should be coming back this weekend, and we haven't heard anything from Mireille."

I glanced at him, startled. "Nothing?"

He nodded at me, understanding my question. "Apparently she hasn't checked in since right before Tom had his accident. Haven't heard from Rush, either." I frowned, trying to puzzle it out, and Ned laid a hand on my shoulder before turning to the others. "Listen, here's my only tip for dealing with them. With the exception of my mom, they aren't going to approve of you. Don't try to get them to. Be polite, but don't try to win them over. Don't back down if someone insults you. I'll be with you, and they need to learn their lessons. Can I take anyone's bags in with me?" He accepted Susie's backpack and my duffel and led us up to the front door.

"Jesus, is he serious?" Susie whispered to me.

"You said you wanted to know what it was like here."

"Yeah, but, like, the pond and the fields and the trees and the house and stuff. This place is beautiful."

"Wait until you see the rest of it."

I let the others step into the house before me. I let them walk ahead of me through the foyer and up the stairs I had last seen in total disgrace, then down the hall, the carpeting thick and plush. The smell almost made me stop, panting—I was a child again in this hallway that smelled of pine and dust and nothing. It smelled the same as it always had, and I had to fight myself to keep from turning around and running away and getting into the car and driving as far away a I possibly could. I wasn't a child anymore. These people didn't control me. I slowed my pace, feet dragging in the thick carpet.

Up one more flight of stairs and I could be safe in my room. The path was so familiar I might still have been able to do it with my eyes closed. I could be in my room and the door could be shut and I could be safe, except I'd never been safe there. It had never been my room. I pressed a hand to my heart and found that it was thumping in my chest.

Ned's hand descended to my shoulder. "Flannery?" His voice was soft and when I looked up at him, his eyes were calm. He stood close to me but not too close. He looked concerned for me but showed no pity. We were children in that house again, except we weren't children, because he didn't say anything else after that. He waited for me to tell him what I needed. Behind him, Billy and Susie had stopped as well, and were turned toward us, watching like curious strangers.

"It smells the same," I said quietly. Ned nodded silently, then waited. I straightened my shoulders, trying to force my breathing to be steady. "I can do this."

"I'm here with you. You won't be alone. And besides," he went on, a small smile chasing itself around his mouth, "if it's bad, we'll leave. You pick the place, and we'll go together." He laughed as I rolled my eyes at him. Years ago I had been sitting in that chair, that very chair next to the door, and felt like I was going to die. This was nothing. This was nothing.

"We need a safe word," I said, "some kind of code if she gets too fresh."

"How about 'shut the hell up, Nola'?" He suggested.

I snorted. "That could work."

"You won't ever be alone in there. There's me, yeah, and then there's Billy and Susie, and then there's you. You won't ever be alone." He watched me as I took a few deep breaths and straightened up. I nodded at him, then at Billy and Susie's grim faces.

"You're right. I can do this."

"Whenever you're ready."

The door creaked inward like it always had, with just a slight groan that spoke of years of meticulous care on century-old hinges. Like from the south-facing windows beamed across the hall carpet as we let ourselves in, my family and I. For a moment we were blinded by that light, then as we stepped into the room we could make out the figures of Mrs Bertram, lying on the couch propped up with cushions, and Dr Bertram, stern and formidable against the window. I knew without looking that Nola was in her customary chair, just to the left of the door, far enough out of sight lines that she could surprise you if you weren't looking for her. I knew she was there, but I spared her no glance. Not yet.

When we were all in the room, under the force of three pairs of startled eyes, I cleared my throat, took a step forward, and said, "Hello."

Three startled pairs of eyes exchanged a glance.

Nothing changes, but everything does.