Normal didn't hang around long. Trina refused to go to yoga. She screamed that she wanted to go back to bed. After a while, I saw Jean walking her toward the barracks.

I sat between Angelica and Bethany at a long table in a room in the back of the house. The new shell game was almonds, cracked the old-fashioned way. Even though the nutcracker they handed me was deluxe, the job was tedious. I mean, it wasn't picking cotton from sunup to sun-down; it wasn't fingers split open from the sharp bolls. It was just a pain-in-the-ass job.

"Full bucket means done," Brad told us.

I ended up cracking nuts for almost four hours and working up a pretty good sweat. Brad never mentioned our late-night conversation; in fact, he didn't address me directly at all. Halfway through my tour of duty, he left the room, and the tall man I'd caught a glimpse of the previous night took his place.

"I'm Pete," he said, as he sat down across from me. "You didn't come to breakfast, so I haven't welcomed you." He smiled and extended his hand. The hand I shook had soft skin and a powerful grip.

"Thank you." My words sounded too spare. I should add something. Underground Railroad Etiquette 101. "Thank you for opening up your home to my daughter and me."

"You're more than welcome," he said.

When he smiled, I realized he was handsome. His smile lit up his face, so that his dark eyes, aquiline nose, and wide mouth were highlighted, almost airbrushed. His skin was olive, a color that made me wonder what family tree he claimed.

When I handed Brad my full bucket, Angelica was still staring at the ceiling, the pile of almonds in front of her untouched.

I was surprised to find Wilbur inside the barracks with Trina. We'd driven for at least five hours to get to Pete's house, and I had assumed the girls would see a new psychiatrist.

"Hello, Keri," he said. "Trina, I'm going to step outside and talk with your mother, all right?"

We went outside to the corridor and moved away from the barracks door.

"Brad told me about last night, and I talked with Trina about it. What do you think happened?"

"I'm not sure what you mean. She jumped out of the car and took off. That's what happened."

"Right," he said, nodding. "Has she ever done anything like that before?"

"Run away? Sure. Whenever she gets manic, she takes off. She's a flight risk until she's stable."

"Right. I've decided to increase her mood stabilizer. We're still not going to see the real effects for six to eight more weeks, but the boost should cut down on the impulsive behavior. I'll be staying here until you leave, and I'll be keeping an eye on her."

"Should I try to get her out of bed?" I asked.

"No. Just let her be for a while."

I decided to walk. The terrain wasn't as mountainous as it had been at Jean and Eddie's. There were mountains way off in the distance, but the house and the surrounding property sat on flat land. Behind it were rows and rows of almond trees. The program's philosophy seemed to be: Shell what you grow and put it all in the Health Bar.

A huge magnolia tree, with branches and leaves that looked able to cover half a basketball court, was growing between the house and the almond orchard. A woman sat on a chair in the shade its leaves provided. I could hear her calling, trying to say something I didn't understand. When I got closer, I realized she couldn't articulate the words she wanted to say. It turned out that the chair was a wheelchair. The left side of her body seemed to be lower than the right, as though someone had put rocks in the pockets on that side. I assumed she was recovering from a stroke.

I smiled, and her face twitched slightly. Her eyes responded; they were large, dark, and luminous. And even though her face was slightly lopsided, and it was an older face, there were traces of beauty left in it still. She had turned some heads back in the day. There was a sturdy plastic lawn chair next to the woman, and I moved toward it, my back still facing the house.

"I see you've met my wife. Cecilia, this is our guest, Keri." Pete had come up so quietly I hadn't heard him.

"Nice to meet you," I said, smiling as his wife made a guttural sound.

Pete carried a tray, which he placed on his wife's lap. On it were a bowl of chili, toast, and a salad, as well as a glass of orange juice and a cup of black coffee. He pressed the edges of a napkin into the opening of Cecilia's dress and began feeding her, blowing on the food each time before putting it in her mouth. She seemed able to chew only a small amount at a time, and it took forever for her to swallow. When Pete held the cup of orange juice to her lips, some of the liquid spurted out of her mouth and dribbled down her chin.

"Had a little accident, huh?" Pete asked, wiping the drops from her face, dabbing softly at her skin. Cecilia's lips twitched.

It took a long time for Pete to feed his wife. I watched, because . . . why did I watch? Their tenderness took me by the hand, drew me in. At first I thought the giving was in one direction, but then I witnessed her energy flowing to him, the pleasure he received from watching her eat, from looking at her, remembering her beauty or still seeing it. Behind us the leaves of the almond trees rustled, and the breeze carried the faint sweet odor of their fruit.

"It was nice meeting you," I said, rising to leave. I took her hand in mine. Hers was cold, so I rubbed it to warm it up, an involuntary gesture. Cecilia closed her eyes, and I took her other hand and rubbed it too. Cecilia's hands told me a lot about her pain, her state of mind. I kept rubbing, pressing down on certain spots on her palms. My fingers worked their way up and down her wrists. No one said a word until I let go.

"You seem to know what you're doing," Pete said.

"Yes, I do."

"How was that, honey?" he asked his wife.

Her eyes were closed; she made a contented sound.

"Do you want to go back to the house?" Pete asked. She made another noise and he said, "Well, I'll check on you later."

As we were walking, I got a really good look at Pete. He was tall and straight, with no fat around the middle. His hair was mostly silver; the face it framed was calm, unlined, and handsome. He could have been fifty; he could have been seventy. I could see African, Native American Indian, and European in his features.

"So where did you learn acupressure?" he asked me.

"I went to massage school in another life."

"Did you work for a spa or do it on your own?"

"Both. When I started out, I worked out of my house; later, I was at a day spa. Very posh. I was in public relations for a while. Then I opened a designer resale shop and pretty much stopped doing bodywork until a couple of months ago, when an old customer of mine looked me up. She has cancer and is going through chemo. She talked me into working on her. I don't think your wife is aching, but she's stiff. Has she been ill long?"

"She's been the way you see her now for four years. But she was getting ill long before. My daughter will be thirty-eight on her next birthday. Trudy was diagnosed with schizophrenia when she was seventeen. Cecilia and I did everything we could to help her get treatment. She was a beautiful girl, just about to go to college. She was, of course, noncompliant with her medication regimen. We put her in facilities where she could get care; she walked out. This went on for years. There were times when she went missing, when she was homeless. Horrible things happened to her, things no one could have prevented.

"When she was first diagnosed, my wife and I were living in San Francisco. I'm a physician, a nephrologist. I owned three dialysis centers in the city, and plans were under way to open several in Los Angeles. I was earning more than two million dollars a year. I served on boards, and I was a member of several elitist organizations. We belonged to a country club. Cecilia was a real estate agent, selling multimillion-dollar properties. We were a very successful couple.

"As our daughter's illness progressed, both of us began to get ill more frequently. Colds, lots of colds. Flu. Numerous viral infections. And terrible headaches. I began to realize that if I didn't pace myself, I would die. I let go of the boards, the organizations. I sold the three centers and cut back on my practice. I stopped taking every telephone call my daughter made. But my wife tried to hold on to everything. If the telephone rang at three a.m., my wife took the call, and she wouldn't stop listening until five. She couldn't accept the fact that Trudy wasn't going to fulfill all our dreams. When you love someone who has a mental illness, there comes a point at which you must detach in order to preserve your own life. My wife couldn't do that."

He reached out, as if to hold on to something, and then returned his hand to his side.

"What happened to her?" I asked.

"Massive stroke. That's when we came out here."

"You think it was your daughter's illness that caused her stroke?"

He shook his head. "It was her reaction to it that made her sick. We all have the potential for pathology in our bodies. Cells can react negatively at any given time. Stress can set those cells in motion on a journey to self-destruction. Each one of us is responsible for defending our own bodies from that kind of assault. My wife wouldn't rest. She wouldn't eat well. She wouldn't guard her emotions."

"Will she get better?"

"What you see is an improvement." He smiled.

"How is your daughter?"

"Better. She lives in a group home just outside of Phoenix. I see her once a month. We talk on the phone every Sunday. She has a peaceful life. Sometimes, that's all you can ask for."

"Did the program help her?"

At first I thought he hadn't heard me, he took so long to answer. "Yes, but time helped more."

"Why do you work with them?"

"Why do I work with them since they didn't deliver back to me the daughter of my dreams?" He laughed. At me. "I believe in what they are trying to do. Early on, my wife and I encountered the kind of mindless bureaucracy that can frustrate anyone with a sick child. Don't get me wrong: There are good hospitals, good doctors, wonderful treatment facilities. Once we got the right information, I must say that the system worked very well for us, up to a point: patients' rights. Patients' rights often clash with what's best for a mentally ill person. Once, after we succeeded in getting our daughter on a hold, she refused to see us, told the doctors not to speak to us, and so, of course, they couldn't."

"I've gone through that. I felt like a beggar asking people for information about my child. I begged, and they still wouldn't tell me anything," I said.

"It's hard not to become frustrated. But then I began to recognize that there really wasn't anything they could tell me that was in any way not subject to change within microseconds. They could report that she was fine, had taken her medication, quit smoking, and was winning converts for Jesus, and by the time I'd made it to the hospital to witness the miracle, she'd be racing down the hall naked, screaming curses at everyone she passed. The updates are a waste of time. The system, the illness, the day-to-day management, all of it. It is what it is.

"Growing things provides me with a simple seasonal routine. It's a good routine for someone who is in mourning. You can't always beat what is difficult in your life. Sometimes you have to let it win and shout hallelujah anyhow."

It sounded like giving up to me.

He smiled. His teeth were bright white, a young man's smile. "Will you massage my wife again, while you're here?"

"I'd be happy to," I said.

I'd treat his wife, but I'd never agree with him. I hadn't brought Trina on this journey to accept the cards I'd been dealt. I was here to throw in that hand and pick up the one I was supposed to have.

TRINA WOKE UP IN TIME FOR DINNER. JEAN HAD DONE THE cooking, as she had at her own house. Trina stumbled to the table and ate with her head down. Afterward there were movies and games and beads to string in a large room off the kitchen. Trina sat on the couch and stared at the screen, but I could tell she wasn't taking in anything. Jean tried to talk her into playing Scrabble. She refused, but she did join Angelica at a card table filled with jewelry-making paraphernalia. Angelica had been working on a bracelet pretty steadily for at least an hour. I heard Trina tell her that it was pretty, as she sat down at the table. Angelica thanked her. They passed ornaments back and forth.

The rest of us-Brad, Wilbur, Jean, Bethany, Pete, and I-were in the room with them. Supervising, as it were. We watched movies, read the paper, talked a little, and kept our eyes on the two girls, who seemed to be bonding over colored glass. Jean got up after a while and made some coffee and tea. We supervisors sat around, sipping hot drinks. It was almost like a party, just not a very happening one.

THE DAYS TOOK ON A SERENE RHYTHM. WE AWOKE AROUND eight o'clock and had breakfast. Every morning, Wilbur checked on the girls. Then we all went to shell almonds, although Angelica still refused to do the work. For the rest of us, the hours seemed to have been extended. We shelled until one or two o'clock, and gradually the one bucket became one and a half and then two. Lunch was late, a farmhouse repast of fish or chicken, a salad, and several vegetables. After lunch there was yoga, crafts, art, or reading. At some point early in the evening, I would go into the master bedroom, light some candles, play soft music, and massage Cecilia. Dinner came around seven. Cleanup time followed, and then there were movies and games. At night, Wilbur was prescribing less Haldol for Trina.

For several days, Angelica didn't have any bad dreams. Neither did I.

I made my daily calls right after lunch. The store was the first one. I usually talked with Frances, whose efficient reports always removed any worry from my mind about the business or her ability to handle it. Sometimes Adriana was there, sometimes not. We spoke briefly twice. Adriana seemed anxious. I could tell by her voice that she was uneasy. She made me feel sad whenever I spoke with her.

Once I called PJ. He sounded far away and very young; I could tell he didn't really want to talk. I could hear Lucy calling him. He got off the phone without mentioning if he'd spoken to his mother or his father. But he didn't really have to tell me. I knew he hadn't.

I called Orlando two days after our last conversation. He was at home. He'd just come from an audition.

"It didn't go well," he said, his voice tight.

I should have left him alone. Orlando had his own routine for getting himself out of the bad-audition blues. Instead I was patronizing. I think I said he'd nail the next one.

"Maybe I'll even get my own radio show," he said, his words laced with sarcasm and a bitterness that stunned me. I knew enough not to touch that one. Seconds later, Orlando mumbled a terse good-bye before I could tell him that he didn't need a radio show to impress me. All he needed to do was-what? Stop chasing rainbows? Get serious about life? Give up the one thing he really loved? We'd had those conversations in the past, and I wasn't ready for the repercussions. I had other things on my mind.

Clyde was harder to get hold of. When I did hear his voice on the phone, he had exactly fifteen seconds to give me before he had to go on the air. So I ended up turning on the radio. But listening to his show wasn't a conversation, which was all I really wanted in the first place.

ON OUR SIXTH NIGHT, AS WE WERE ABOUT TO PREPARE FOR bed, Brad whispered to Bethany and me that we should pack up, because we'd be leaving in a little while. I'd just finished massaging Cecilia. As usual, Pete was sitting in the room with us. I watched his face through the light and shadows that the candles made. The thought of leaving them made me feel empty, even though, in a real way, I'd found something I thought was lost. I was like some old pianist who hadn't touched her instrument in years, only to discover that, when she did play, the songs were still there inside her. My hands, my fingers were working again. Rona had given me a sense of what was still within me. Cecilia made me know for sure.

Wilbur had left several hours earlier with a quick wave. I had no idea if I'd see him again. I could hear Jean singing as she cleaned up the kitchen. Brad wouldn't answer me when I asked if she would go all the way with us, but I figured that she would. Then, just as the girls were leaving with Brad and Bethany to tidy the barracks, Jean's cell phone rang. Everyone in the room seemed startled; it was the first ringing cell phone we'd heard other than mine. And then it was comedy time, with Jean running around trying to find it, the rest of us trying to guess where the sound was coming from. And, of course, just as she retrieved the phone, it stopped ringing.

"It's probably Eddie," she said. "He'll call back."

And he did, later that night when we had started to drive north. Trina and I were in the front seat with Brad. Jean, Angelica, and Bethany were in the back. My child was dozing, her knees bent, her head against my shoulder. If I closed my eyes I could pretend that peace of mind was the locomotive I was riding and I could ride that train all the way to a tranquil place. Or at least that was the way it seemed. But that was before I realized the tracks led to a swamp.

I turned around when Jean's cell phone rang and saw her head jerk forward. She said, "Hello, Eddie," and then was silent, as her lips began to quiver and her shoulders tensed. I could hear him through the phone, some of what he said. I heard the word police very clearly.

When she hung up, Jean repeated what her husband had told her. The police had come to their house earlier in the evening because a woman had reported what appeared to be the abduction of a young black woman by a white man, three white women, and a black woman in a vehicle with their license plate.

I waded into the swamp as the water covered first my ankles, then my knees, and kept on rising.

23.

WE RETURNED TO PETE'S HOUSE-WE WERE LESS THAN HALF an hour away-hustled the girls back to the barracks, and left them with Pete. He didn't ask any questions, accepting Brad's "Something has come up" with a nod of his head.

Brad, Bethany, Jean, and I filed into the dining room and sat down at Pete and Cecilia's table. Jean searched all our faces. No one spoke for a moment.

The first thing out of Jean's mouth was surrender. "I think we should drive back to my house. Go to the police. Tell them it was all a mistake," she said. She was looking at Brad, speaking in a low voice.

Brad didn't respond. Jean started to repeat her words, and Brad gave her a look that told her that he was thinking. She stopped talking.

I glaced at Bethany, who was seated next to me. I could tell she wanted a cigarette. "Fuck that," she said. She stood up and began pacing. "I didn't come all this way to go to jail."

Brad ignored her. "The police are going to want to see Trina. She'll implicate everyone." His voice was low, so that we all had to lean forward to hear him.

"If we just tell the police that she was in the midst of an episode, they won't-" Jean said.

"Police don't care about episodes, Jean. They care about the law. Kidnapping sentences are harsh," Brad said.

"Brad-"

"I can't jeopardize the program."

Brad and Jean continued to whisper back and forth, a heated exchange of opinions, while Bethany and I listened. We could lie low at Pete's for a few more days, in hopes that everything would blow over, and then continue on our way. That was Brad thinking aloud. But that would mean explaining everything to Pete, making him an accessory. Technically, Pete already was part of the crime by virtue of being in the program, Jean said. But staying in his house would just get him in deeper, Brad said carefully, as he looked over his shoulder at Bethany and me.

It was one thing to break the law in theory, to feel that the justness of your cause warranted a risk, to view punishment as a remote possibility; it was quite another to sniff the scent of the consequences in the wind that touched my face. That odor filled my nostrils, making it difficult to breathe.

"Look," I said. "I don't know about the rest of you, but this is more than I bargained for. Since my child is the cause of the problem, maybe we should leave."

Brad shook his head, as though that simple gesture were enough to override my decision. "Not the answer, Keri. In her current state, Trina is likely to expose us."

"Who is she going to tell? What could she say? She doesn't know who you are or where she is."

Brad shook his head. "You're not prepared to deal with Trina. She won't be admitted to a hospital. She's not yet committed to taking her medication. You'd be right back where you started."