"Why do you have to tell them anything?" Frances asked when Adriana informed us of her policy. "It's not like you're going to marry them."

"Suppose we're out somewhere and some john comes up to me?"

"Just say, 'You must have me confused with somebody else,' " Frances said.

Adriana shook her head. "I don't want to live a lie."

"That ain't a lie; that's your business," Frances said.

Frances and I kept rooting for the Third Date Man, but so far he hadn't materialized.

Adriana wasn't the only redeemed soul working with me. Right before I hired her, Frances had lived in a shelter for battered women. She'd landed there after she fled from her first husband's fists and finally his weapon. Her social worker was one of my customers. She'd told me about Frances's situation and convinced me to hire her. I never thought about why the three of us came together, but people come into each other's lives for a reason. If it's not clear in the beginning, all you have to do is keep on living.

I WAS STILL PRICING GARMENTS, MY HEAD BENT OVER A beaded silk purse, when I felt a hand on my shoulder. When I looked up, Frances was smiling at me. "Somebody's here to see you," she said.

"Orlando?"

I smiled to myself, feeling smug.

She shook her head. "It's your ex."

As in husband, not boyfriend. My heart pumped a little bit harder. I put my jacket back on and pressed my lips together quickly to maximize their color.

When Clyde saw me, his eyes widened just enough to let me know he thought I was looking good. Which made me smile.

"Sorry I didn't call. I was in your area and, uh-I just-"

"Is something wrong?" He rarely came by, and never without calling.

"No, I just-have you had lunch?"

The restaurant was in a strip mall off Wilshire in the heart of Koreatown. The owners, former guest workers in Japan, had learned the art of making sushi from the masters and brought their skills to the west. The place was located down the street from spa row, where new immigrants had opened luxury massage parlors that catered to an arriviste clientele as well as anyone looking for the cheapest body scrub in town. Koreatown had risen like the phoenix from the fires of 1992. That year rioters enraged by the verdicts that had exonerated the LA police, whose video-taped beating of Rodney King had been seen around the world, unleashed their fury on a group they viewed as exploiting them in their own neighborhoods. Although their gripe was with those Koreans who'd established mom-and-pop stores in black and Latino communities, charged high prices for goods, and never hired any of the people who lived in the area, rioters and looters traveled to Koreatown to exact their revenge. Businesses were destroyed, and so were dreams. But now the area seemed to be surging with an abundance of shops and malls, offering everything from clothes to electronics to karaoke-infused happy hours and barbecue a la Seoul. The Koreans had survived the fires of 1992, and in the process they'd internalized an American mantra: A setback is just a setup for a comeback.

It was a lesson few of the looters had learned.

As we sat down, Clyde appraised the restaurant and the waiters bustling back and forth. "Now see," he said, leaning across the table toward me, "I'll bet you anything that everybody here is a family member. That's why Koreans are so successful. If black people would just-"

"Clyde." I wasn't in the mood for one of his "Up, up, ye mighty race, you can accomplish what ye will" speeches, but he ignored me.

"-stop complaining and learn from these immigrants, they'd be better off."

"They?"

Clyde sighed. "The secret of Korean success is hard work and unity." He sat back in his chair and gave me a self-satisfied smile. "Do you still like eel?" he asked.

"Love it."

"Okay, we'll get the elephant roll," he said, marking off a tiny square. "How about yellowtail?"

I nodded, glad his diatribe had ended, watching his fingers as he held the pencil; he clenched it. When he looked at me, he seemed awkward, as though he'd spoken out of turn and regretted it. The waitress appeared; he ordered, didn't say a word, and began eating as soon as the food came. I didn't feel uncomfortable with the silence. Even when we were married, Clyde wasn't much of a talker. He was too busy hanging out in his own head to let me in.

"Do you want to know how Trina's doing?" I asked.

"Yes, of course." He looked sheepish, as though I'd caught him in a lie.

If I tell him the truth, we'll just argue, I thought. "She's fine; she's just fine." He nodded absentmindedly; he hadn't been listening. "What's on your mind? Why did you invite me to lunch?" When he looked at me, his face was troubled. "What?" I asked. "What's wrong?"

He stared at me a long time. "Aurelia wants to leave me."

"I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"A lot of stuff happened. She wanted a baby, I didn't. That was major. But I told her I didn't want kids when we got together. She hates all the functions and appearances that I have to make because of the job. She says I don't give her enough of me."

"You can't be in a relationship with someone if you're chasing dollars and fame twenty-four/seven."

"She knew what my life was like when we got together."

"Aurelia is your fourth wife. Doesn't that tell you something?"

He grew quiet. I knew he was going through the roll call of ex-wives in his mind.

"Yes, it tells me something."

"Have you tried marriage counseling?" Clyde had refused to get help for our marriage, but I hoped he was more open now.

"I'm not into that," he said. "I was hoping maybe you could talk to her."

"Me?" I said, feeling angry all of a sudden.

"Aurelia likes you. She respects you. She'd listen to you."

"And what am I supposed to be saying?"

"That I'm a good person. That she should stay."

"Clyde-"

"She and Trina have always gotten along so well. It might be difficult for them to have a relationship if Aurelia and I aren't together. You know how that goes. I don't want Trina to have another loss."

So many conflicting emotions bombarded me. I felt sadness and a rush of excitement, but mostly I felt angry that once again Clyde was asking me to pick up the pieces. "Will you at least consider therapy?"

His face darkened. "I told you. I'm not into that."

"Your kid sure had to get into it."

"That's because you forced her to go."

"And if I hadn't, do you know where she'd be?"

"She'd be fine. Probably better off without some shrink putting weird ideas in her mind."

"You're a piece of work, you know that? Trina needs counseling, and she needs medication. And you-"

"All right. All right. We can talk about that later. Will you just do me this one favor? Please."

To end the argument so soon was a letdown. Venom was still coursing through my veins. Once Clyde tapped my rage, it was hard to stop the flow, but I swallowed my retort and ate my sushi. Neither digested well.

Home is the place where, if you have to go there, they have to take you in. Was I still home to Clyde? Was that why he'd come to me?

We were young together, Clyde and I. We were poor together. In our time we made love that set the roof on fire. The memory of it warmed me still. But I didn't want to remember. I was Clyde's first wife. There had been three others. Our time had passed. That's what I had to keep reminding myself.

When I returned, the store was full, phones were ringing, and Adriana had one question after another for me. Frances informed me that both Dr. Bellows and Trina's therapist had left messages. And, of course, when I called them back, only their answering services were available. I stayed in my office, returning calls and hoping to hear from anyone on Trina's health team. Frances popped in from time to time, pretending that she was looking for something, trying to act busy when her real intention was to check on me.

Elaine from Beth Israel's Weitz Center was the first person actually to speak to me. Trina was where she was supposed to be and hadn't gone AWOL during her cigarette break. Elaine listened quietly as I described Trina's behavior the previous night, her irritability and insomnia. I didn't say I suspected that Trina had been smoking weed, however, because Elaine might have kicked her out of the program.

"Look, Keri," Elaine said, when I had finished talking. "Your daughter has a brain disease. Every day isn't going to be the same for her."

"How has she been acting today?"

"She's been absolutely fine. Maybe a little bit hyper, but you're going to have to relax, dear. Her healing is her job, not yours."

I didn't feel quite as dismissed by Dr. Bellows, when we finally spoke later that afternoon. I told him about my suspicion that Trina had been smoking pot.

"Could it send her into an episode?" I asked.

Dr. Bellows sighed. "Yes." He was quiet for a moment; then he proposed increasing her antipsychotic from five milligrams a day to ten for the next few days. "Get her to her psychologist as soon as possible, so she can talk about whatever it is that's bothering her."

It was a good plan, and I hung up feeling relieved. My relief gave way to frustration when I learned that her therapist would be on vacation for the next two weeks. Trina was really attached to her. It would be very unlikely that she'd open up to anyone else, including me.

Frances poked her head inside my office.

"You okay?" she asked.

She didn't wait for me to answer before sitting down on the chair next to my desk. "When my nephew was on drugs, every night was crazy. I can't even remember the number of times me and my sister would get in the car and go riding around looking for his dumb butt. Delores started beating on him in the middle of the street one night, just as he was coming out of some get-high place. She tore him up. But you know what? He was right out there the next night doing the same damn thing. All Delores did was make herself crazy, along with a few of her family members. And for what? When the drugs kicked his ass to the point where he couldn't stand himself, that's when he got clean."

She looked at me and smiled.

"Trina's gonna do what she's gonna do. And you can't stop her." She leaned over the desk and put her hand on mine. "She's going to be all right. You need to stop worrying about her and live your own life."

Why did people always tell me that everything was going to be all right with Trina, as if their saying it could make it come true, as if the sheer force of their good wishes would eliminate even the possibility that my child's illness wouldn't cut loose and boogie her right into an irreversible tragedy?

"You're right," I said. "Now get to work. You're not getting paid for therapy."

Sometimes even the best intentions got on my damn nerves.

A LITTLE AFTER FOUR O'CLOCK, ADRIANA WALKED INTO my office. A customer had asked to speak with me. I didn't recognize the thin, weak-looking person she pointed out, but the woman smiled when she saw me walking toward her. Her smile was familiar.

"Keri," she said, extending her hand, "I'm Rona. It's been a few years."

"Oh, Rona," I said, trying to place her while she hugged me. There wasn't much to hold on to. Her emaciated body felt as light as a clump of rags in my arms. It occurred to me that she'd been one of my massage clients. A flash of memory revealed her body as once strong and powerful. Something had taken her way down.

"I've been sick," she said when I let her go. "I'm on chemo."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Your store is lovely," Rona said. "When I get my weight back, I'll buy something. But I came by today to ask if you still do massages. I've been feeling so bad, and I remembered your golden touch."

"Oh, Rona, I haven't done a massage in so long. I'm so busy with the shop-"

She began nodding, as though agreeing with my decision. "I understand, I understand," she said.

Adriana was suddenly there, her hand on my arm. "You have a telephone call," she said.

"Excuse me," I said to Rona, who watched me walk back to my office.

Elaine spoke in clear, short sentences, the way she'd been trained to do. Trina had started escalating not long after we'd spoken. She'd cursed a counselor and hit another patient. She had run through the first floor screaming that they were all a pack of devils. Elaine had called security. Two guards had escorted her to the upstairs ward, where she had been placed on a seventy-two-hour hold.

I remembered when Trina had wandered off at the flower mart, the homeless man she had been speaking to, the quick furtive way she had slid her hand into her pocket. What had she hidden there? Was it the joint that undid her? Or maybe Melody was the source. Weed from da 'hood. That fit. It didn't much matter now.

"With mental illness, you have to allow for setbacks. The way is rarely smooth," Elaine said.

"I know."

"Once Trina is stabilized, she can resume the program. This isn't the first time something like this has happened," Elaine said. "Be glad she was here."

Yes. Be glad.

"It's probably for the best. Maybe this stint in the hospital will teach Trina once and for all that she has to be vigilant about taking care of herself."

I thanked her and clicked off the phone. Adriana was still standing there, closer than before.

"Uh-" I began, then stopped to concentrate on my breathing: in . . . out . . . in . . . out. "Trina's had a relapse. She's in the hospital."

"Go see her. Frances and I will take care of everything here," Adriana said.

All the months of healing seemed to fade away, like the end of a really good movie. I rushed past Adriana, past Rona, who was still standing right where I'd left her, out the front door onto the parking lot. Only when my key was in the ignition did logic began to kickbox with my emotions. The hospital had her insurance information. Afternoon visiting hours had ended long ago, and the next visiting time wasn't until seven. Going before then would be useless. Even if they let me in, my presence wouldn't change a thing. My presence wouldn't cure Trina. My head pounded against the back of the seat. Once. Twice. It wasn't hard enough to evoke the sweet release of weeping. Whatever tears I had left remained lodged inside of me. I thought about calling Clyde, letting him know what had happened. I actually dialed his number on my cell phone but then changed my mind.

That other bad time, fourteen years ago, came back to me. "Clyde, the baby, the baby-" I had to start over and over. He kept shouting, "What? What? What?" Louder each time, more afraid each time. Each shout made me take longer until I had gagged up the words. "The baby died."

Clyde wouldn't look at me after I said it; he shook his head as if he hadn't heard me correctly. He began shaking right in front of me, his body quivering with spasms he couldn't control. He wouldn't go with me into the bedroom where the baby was lying. When the ambulance came, too late, I had to talk with the men, listen as they told me what to do next. Clyde went into his office and closed the door. I came in later, to check on him, to let him check on me. I was holding Trina. Clyde wouldn't look at us. I remember he wasn't crying or talking; he was working.

I got out of the car, slammed the door hard, and went back inside.

As soon as I entered, Adriana was next to me. "I'm going home," I said. "The visiting hours aren't until later. Don't you have a test tomorrow?"

"Yes."

I stared at her.