"Do you want a soda, honey?" I took Trina's hand and led her to the refrigerated section. When I looked back at the cops, they were staring at us.

As Brad drove off, the police were coming out. Nobody said a word for five miles, except for Trina, who kept repeating that the police were trying to poison the dog.

"They're not trying to kill the dog," Angelica said. "They need the dog."

I thought about group, visualized Mattie, Milton, Gloria, and me siting together, listening to a speaker, some expert who had information on the latest medication, the latest study on schizophrenia, depression, or bipolar disorder. For a moment, I longed to be back in that cocoon, telling the others about Trina's bout of paranoia, hearing their voices saying, "Yes, yes, that's just the way it is."

Barking. I heard barking. Jean turned around before Bethany and I did. Right behind us was the police car. We were on a two-lane highway that served as a bypass for an adjacent town. Early-morning traffic consisted of a perfect flow of cars zipping by, the drivers on their way to work, maybe dropping kids off at school. Nowhere in LA did cars move in this unimpeded way.

"How far from here to where we're going?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," Brad said.

I peered into the mirror again. The police car was moving up, crossing the solid yellow line. Why? I heard Jean cursing softly. She was looking out the back window.

"Would you mind not doing that?" Brad said to her.

"How far?" I repeated.

"I don't know," Brad said, his voice a loud snarl.

My heart was beating to the rhythm of fear. When I glanced into the rearview mirror, the cop who was driving glared back at me with eyes that didn't blink. His partner was on the phone. Was she talking about us, checking the license plate of a ten-year-old Volvo, calling for backup?

Behind me, Bethany drummed her fingers on the back of my head, rest. When I turned my head, I could smell the nicotine on her fingertips. She gave me a nervous smile.

"Quit it," I said.

I didn't see the turnoff until the very last minute. An exit to the unknown. A split-second choice: keep going or veer right to another path.

"Turn, turn, turn!" I said.

Brad kept going straight. "No need to draw attention to ourselves," he said.

"Are we lost?" Trina asked.

Angelica began to laugh. Trina joined in. If I hadn't been so distracted, I would have realized it was a bad sign.

"No," Brad said, careering down what looked like the main drag of a hardscrabble town.

"We're not lost," Angelica said. "We're escaping."

Behind me, Bethany's fingers were silent, her lips tightly bunched in what looked like a knot.

In group, everyone would wait their turn to rise and recount the travails of coping with a mentally ill relative. At the end of the evening, members would leave feeling supported, less isolated. Not hunted. Why hadn't I made my peace with that? Why had I thought there was the possibility of a quicker fix?

Behind us, the police car made a hard right and disappeared. A hot flash steamed my entire body. In a moment my forehead was dripping. They could come back, of course. The cops could be waiting for us at the next intersection. These roads were their domain, not ours. If they wanted to find us, they could. We still needed to get rid of the Volvo.

The town faded away after less than a mile, as Jean tried to pinpoint our location on the map. The suburbs were a blink, a couple of housing tracts surrounded by farmland. We found ourselves on a thin ribbon of road, flanked by growing things. We sped along for a good ten or twelve miles, past fields of artichokes and garlic. The odor of the latter seeped through the closed windows, mixed in with the air-conditioning, chilling and assailing our sinuses.

"Pass the spaghetti," Trina said, looking at Angelica, who obliged her with a chuckle.

The next odor-the bracing, pungent scent of unwashed animal flesh and manure-overcame us several miles before we saw the source. "Yuck," Trina said, holding her nose. Cattle. Two hillsides full. The herd was settled, peaceful, content with just sitting and staring and mooing. Acres of dark-brown-and-white hides, legs folded beneath their massive bodies.

I was attacked by a bout of acute envy. Oh, to be able to rest on the side of a mountain, chew my cud, low a bit, and mind my own business. Wouldn't that be the bomb?

We could still smell the cattle for miles after we passed them. The scent was just beginning to grow faint when a red light on the dashboard started flickering on and then glowing steadily as the engine began sputtering and the wheels started to wobble. At the last minute, Brad managed to get the car on the right shoulder before it stopped.

"Are we out of gas?" Trina asked.

Not that simple. The tank was three quarters full. When Brad tried to start the car, it wouldn't even turn over.

All the women looked at him, as though an auto mechanic's skill is an automatic outgrowth of testosterone. I sure as hell didn't know a fan belt from a transmission. When Clyde and I were together, if anything broke I always expected him to fix it. But neither one of us could fix broken things. To his credit, or maybe because of masculine conditioning or pride, Brad went outside, lifted the hood, and poked around inside. He returned to the car within five minutes, clueless stamped over his face.

"Can we walk back and see the cows?" Trina asked.

"No," I said.

"It's not that far."

"No!" This time a shout. I turned to Brad. "We can't just sit here." Brad didn't respond, which infuriated me. I began dialing my auto club on my cell phone.

"Maybe you'd better wait," Bethany said. She put her hand on my hand. I snatched mine away.

"I'm calling the auto club, and I'm not waiting."

"Let's step outside," Brad said.

We walked about twenty feet from the car in silence.

"Why are you acting like such an asshole?" Bethany asked, when we stopped.

I glared at her. "Maybe I'm tired of being with people who don't know what the hell they're doing."

"Wait a minute," Brad said.

"You wait a minute. How could you not know that one of your people had been arrested? You sure as hell asked me that. Do I look like someone who has a record?"

"There was nothing about you that-" His face turned red. "Look, we slipped up. I admit it."

"Damn right you slipped up. And my child and I are in jeopardy because of it."

"We're all in jeopardy," Bethany said, "not just you and your precious perfect child."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I see the way you look at my daughter."

I was quiet for a while. "Look, I just want to get out of here," I said finally.

"If you give me a chance to think, I'll call someone in the program," Brad said. "That's better than risking exposure with outsiders."

"All right." I glanced at Bethany, then turned back to Brad. "I'd like to speak with Bethany alone for a few minutes." Brad walked back to the car. "Listen," I said, "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings."

"My feelings? Fuck my feelings. Don't you dare write off my kid."

"Bethany-"

"I'm not here because I want her to get a degree from Brown and meet the perfect young man. I want to keep her alive. That may not be enough for you, but it's enough for me."

"Bethany-"

"You should try to see the God in her."

The religious reference took me by surprise. Bethany had never struck me as someone who believed in any power other than her own indomitable will. "All right. I hear you," I said. But really, I didn't.

Trina was begging to take a walk when we got back. She wanted to stretch her legs, smoke a cigarette.

"No," Brad said. "Nobody gets out."

"I'm not going to run away," Trina said, lighting her cigarette. "I just want to walk back and forth a little bit."

"I don't want you going anywhere," he said.

"Just over to that bush," she said, pointing to some low shrubbery about twenty feet away.

"Okay. Just to the bush. I'll walk with you," Brad said.

"No. Just my mommy."

Brad got out and leaned against the door of the car, watching us.

We marched away, Trina puffing as I dodged her smoke.

"Does Daddy know where I am?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

"He'll be mad."

"Trina-"

"When are you going to kill me?"

Good ol' paranoia, banished but not gone.

"I'm not going to kill you, Trina. I love you."

She ignored my sentiment, the logic. "Are you going to let them kill me?"

"No."

"You've been trying to have me killed for so long."

"Trina, why would you say such a thing?"

"Because it's true." She stopped walking, then moved forward, pushing her face closer to mine. Behind her back, Trina flexed her fingers; the knuckles cracked like tiny guns.

It came back to me, the way the group had taught me to respond to Trina when she was manic. An expert from USC had facilitated a session on communication. I summoned his words, played them back in my mind. Use sentences that begin with I, so that you own your feelings. Agree with her.

"I can understand why you feel that way."

The words didn't stop her, but she hesitated.

A phone rang; the noise was faraway and tinny. I patted my pockets, then began moving toward the sound in the car. "Come on," I said, taking Trina's hand, pulling her along. "That's my phone."

She wouldn't move.

I saw Brad coming toward us.

"Trina-"

"Are they coming to kill me? Are the killers calling you?"

"I can understand why you feel that way."

"My daddy will save me," she said, falling in step with me.

Right.

By the time we were sitting in the car and I was fumbling through my bag, the telephone had stopped ringing. The numbers flashing belonged to the shop. It seemed so far away: Dolce and Gabani, Armani, DKNY. Another planet. I checked for other messages. Clyde's was a terse two-seconds-to-air time reminder: "Call me." Orlando's was a performance piece: "Hey, baby. I miss you. Hope you're relaxing and clearing your mind. The play is looking good, at least I am. We're in previews this week. I hope you're back for the opening. The kids are all right. Did I tell you that I miss you, baby? Call me."

Me and my men.

I put the telephone back in my purse. Trina was singing a slow hip-hop jam; I heard Angelica joining in. Beside me, Jean tugged at her thinning hair. Above her upper lip were tiny lines I hadn't noticed before. When the tow truck pulled up behind us, we all jumped at the same time. That is, the mothers and the wardens jumped. The daughters were still, even as they harmonized. Their eyes weren't turned toward the road but toward each other.

25.

THERE WAS NO FARMHOUSE THIS TIME. NO GIANT SUN flowers or almond trees. During the trip, I had gotten used to California agriculture and perhaps a little too dependent on the peacefulness of nature. This last stop was on a tree-lined street with houses flanking both sides of the one we entered, a house that smelled of chimney smoke, laundry detergent, and mingled perfumes. This was no isolated retreat but a suburb south of Sacramento. The street thrummed with activity. There were cars in driveways and people coming in and out. Bicyclers, tricyclers, and a trio of skaters vied for space. It didn't seem a good place to be underground.

The house was an old-fashioned ranch, spread over at least half the parcel of land it sat on. It was cheerful; the wood shingles were a freshly painted white. The lawn that surrounded the house was well tended, a bright emerald green. A brilliant burst of roses, azaleas, hydrangeas, and geraniums bordered the walk and the front.