He looked up her, surprised. "Sometimes," he said. "Not just my skin. The way I look, generally," he said, with his hands on his belly. It wasn't nearly as big as he imagined.

"But I love you how you are," she told him, then reached her hand across the seat and pulled the wool fabric of his trousers between her fingers. His voice was hoa.r.s.e. "Thanks."

She veered off the highway at Lincoln but kept her hand in his lap. He picked it up and squeezed. The moment felt too good to ruin with words, so she didn't.

This was the first time they'd driven in a car together, and it felt more real than anything they'd ever done. Like the two of them had sloughed their city sh.e.l.ls, and the skin underneath, unaccustomed to exposure, was soft and easily bruised.

Ten miles down, the road narrowed. Farmland stretched in every direction. There weren't any cars anymore. Only the sound of wheels on cement.

"What's that smell?" Saraub asked.

She smiled, because it had been a long time since she'd smelled air this sweet. "Corn. The combines do the threshing right there in the fields. Farmers, they'd get squirrelly in summer if a couple of weeks went by without rain. Whole towns would be on edge. You could practically hear them collectively grinding their teeth at night like crickets. They prayed for rain, then when it came, they prayed for it to stop. That's why my mom called it G.o.d's Country."

"G.o.d's Country. I like that."

They were still holding hands. Warmth threaded through her stomach, and in this quiet car, on this dark road, on the way to visit her sick mother, she felt safe. She wondered if she'd lived for so long without happiness, that now that it had found her, she couldn't recognize it. "Why do you punch walls?"

He let go of her hand, then pressed his nose against the pa.s.senger window, so she couldn't see him. "What do you mean?"

"The walls in your study. You punched them. I saw the marks. There were holes." It seemed important to her now to know. Maybe she'd driven him to it, with her endless bleaching and straightening. Maybe she'd driven Betty to her red ants, too.

"I guess I get mad," he said, still showing her the back of his head.

"At me?" She was close to crying all over again. Surprising how hard this question had been to ask.

He nodded. "Yeah." The tears came fast to her cheeks. He didn't notice them. "But not just you. A lot of things...I've always done that. Punched things when I'm alone. So no one knows when I'm mad. Did it scare you?"

She waited a while, until she knew her voice wouldn't break. "Yeah," she said. "I don't think I realized it until now, but it did." By the glare of the windshield's reflection, she could almost see the skittish kid with greasy hair that she used to be. They weren't so different as she liked to pretend. They'd each kept their fear, a gnawing thing.

"Is that why you left?" Saraub asked.

She shook her head, and the tears returned. "It's not you-"

"-It's me." He finished for her, then laughed a bitter, humorless laugh that let her know a part of him, at least for now, had changed for the worse because of what she'd done.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Yeah."

Three miles later, at the intersection of Main Street and the Nebraska State Psychiatric Hospital, was a Super 8. She thought she'd stayed in it before, but she couldn't remember for sure. These motels all looked the same. She waited in the car while he checked in. Together, they drove to their room. Silently, they unpacked their clothes into separate dressers, ate vending machine Snickers bars instead of dinner, talked on their cell phones with work from separate sides of the room, and fell asleep in separate beds.

19.

Your Black Wings Are Showing Nebraska State Psychiatric was a hulking, impersonal monolith the size of four Manhattan blocks. A sterile, industrial-park-style Walter Gropius box construction, its tripod of wards stretched out from the main administration area. The wards were long halls with block rooms on each side. Common areas at ward vertices consisted of two couches, two coffee tables, and mounted televisions that the patients could not reach and which the orderlies tuned to comforting old programs that didn't require much thought-Andy Griffith and and Bewitched. Bewitched. Though she'd been lucky to place Betty here (it was one of the few inpatient hospitals that accepted disability), Audrey hated it, and she didn't like coming back. Though she'd been lucky to place Betty here (it was one of the few inpatient hospitals that accepted disability), Audrey hated it, and she didn't like coming back.

First thing Wednesday morning, Audrey and Saraub were sitting in general administration executive office A3. The fluorescent lights inside the cheap gypsum drop ceiling emitted a sallow, nauseating glow. On the other side of the desk, Dr. Burckhardt wrote something in Betty's chart. He was about six feet tall, and though he was still young, his thick head of hair had gone completely white. She'd met Burckhardt when she'd signed Betty's commitment papers, and had pegged him as a blandly pleasant man with too much on his plate to help anyone in particular. Her impression of him had not changed. Since being shown into his office, they'd been waiting at least five minutes.

She counted the words on his Creighton University Medical School diploma (106), then looked up just as Dr. Burckhardt closed his chart. "Well, then," he said.

Audrey waited, and reminded herself not to get so nervous that she blurted.

"Betty Lucas, you're her daughter, Audrey. We've met, yes?" His voice was monotone and without affect. Her new name for him was Captain Bland.

She nodded. "When I had her committed. But were you her doctor? I thought it was some guy from Texas."

Burckhardt doodled with his pen while he spoke. Up-and-down lines that intersected, but no curves, which tended to mean no imagination. "She was never my patient. I'm an administrator. State agencies like this have high turnover. Your mother has had several doctors."

She nodded, and neither of them acknowledged that if she'd called once in a while, she'd be more up to speed on her mother's care.

He looked at his pen, then his doodles, then put the pen down. "Your mother overdosed," he said.

"Yes," she said.

He continued. Blandly matter-of-fact. "A combination of lithium, Valium, and Depakote. One of our orderlies discovered her late Sunday night. She lost her ability to breathe without intubation Monday morning"-he looked in his chart-"5:18 A.M. A.M."

Something about that time sounded familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"She's on life support," Burckhardt said.

"How likely is it she'll come out of the coma?" Saraub asked.

"She won't. After you see her and say your farewells, I'd like your permission to terminate," Burckhardt answered.

She cleared her throat. "I read up on this online last night. When people come out of comas, it doesn't usually take more than a month. So I think we should wait, just to make sure." She squeezed her knuckles tight, unaware that she was showing both men her fists.

Burckhardt picked up his pen again. A Silver Cross with smooth, blue ink. He touched it to the paper, but didn't draw. "That's a very large expense. You have to consider the chances, and I'm telling you, they're slim to none. Her quality of life won't be the same, either." His voice was low but still without emotion. Possibly rehea.r.s.ed. Maybe people at this place overdosed all the time.

"So there's a chance?" she asked.

Saraub covered her closed fists with his palm. She shook him off. Maybe Betty would wake up. Maybe they'd made a mistake, and it wasn't even Betty in the f.u.c.king coma, so why the h.e.l.l were they having this conversation at all? What did this a.s.shole doctor know about Betty Lucas? She'd survived fire, bad boyfriends, drunk weekends, hepat.i.tis C from a dirty tattoo-parlor needle, a husband who left, parents who didn't care, a daughter who abandoned her. Surely, like a phoenix, she would survive this.

Burckhardt put down the chart and looked directly at Audrey. "Ms. Lucas, there is a slim chance she'll wake up. One in a thousand. There is absolutely no chance she'll regain brain function. Would you like to see her CAT scan?"

"I don't understand. It just happened two days ago. It's a coma. People wake up all the time. I read about it."

Burckhardt rubbed his temples with his thumbs. She wanted to grab the wooden chair she was sitting on and smash it over his head.

"I'll show it to you," he said, then reached behind him and flicked the built-in light against the wall, illuminating the CAT scan film on top of it. It looked like an X-ray, only with more resolution, and it showed the outline of a double-layered sphere-the brain. Two long ovals overlapped inside the sphere like black b.u.t.terfly wings. He pointed at them. "As you can see, there was a lot of internal bleeding, then swelling. All of these neurons are dead."

Audrey closed her eyes, but the light had burned a temporary impression into her retina. In the dark she saw the outline of wings, and thought, nonsensically: she tried to fly away, but her wings were heavy iron, and trapped her here. she tried to fly away, but her wings were heavy iron, and trapped her here.

"No," she said. Her voice was pleading.

Burckhardt didn't understand. He was looking at the film and not at her. "Yes. There was a brain hemorrhage. You can see it clearly. Her entire frontal lobe. She'll be a zombie. No language. No inhibition. No basic reasoning. She won't know you. She won't-"

Saraub let go of her hand and sat up. "Turn it off," he barked.

Burckhardt turned away from the screen. "What?"

"-She doesn't want to see it!"

Both men looked to her, and waited for her to speak for herself. She thought about that, then sat forward in the chair and put her head between her knees. Counted back from ten.

Burckhardt flicked the light and pulled down the film. His voice finally showed an emotion: contrition: "Now you know."

"Give me a sec," Audrey answered. She closed her eyes and willed back the tears. Reminded herself that her mother needed attending. There was work to be done. Still, in her mind, she saw those heavy wings. Below her, the chair wobbled, like the floor underneath it would soon open, and red ants would pour forth. She wished she was back at The Breviary, where everything was dark, and still. She wished she was building a door.

She patted her thighs. Once, twice. Blinked away the X-ray light. Cleared her throat. Took a breath. Okay. Good. Enough? It would have to be.

"Where is she?" she asked.

Fl.u.s.tered, Burckhardt took a second to answer, and Audrey knew she'd judged him harshly. He was the chief of psychiatry here and had to oversee more than two hundred patients. If he was any good at what he did, he saved his compa.s.sion for them.

Still, her new name for him was f.u.c.khead.

"Room 27, Ward B1 of the ICU. You should be prepared. She doesn't look the same, physically, as when she checked in."

Audrey stood. Saraub followed. Burckhardt handed her his card. "My number's in there, if you have questions." Then he handed Saraub a short stack of papers with two yellow signature stick-its attached to the last page. With a lowered voice, he added, "And if you reconsider. For Miss Lucas to read over and sign. In my judgment, she should be taken off life support."

Audrey averted her gaze. They started out the door. She thought Burckhardt might remember himself, and offer his sympathies, but he didn't.

20.

The Hull The desk at Ward B1 was unattended. Audrey buzzed the bell, but no one came. She wanted to see her mother and couldn't wait. She kept walking. The sound of the respirators preceded her. Like a vacuum turning on and off. It reminded her of iron wings, struggling to flap.

There were two beds jammed close together in the small room, and a body lay in each of them. During their Omaha years, the medicine had made Betty slow and round, so Audrey headed for the large woman lying in the near bed. But this woman's lips were thick, and her hair was dyed brown. Audrey cupped her mouth with her hand: a mistake? Betty, alive?

She headed for the other bed, where she found a skinny woman aged far beyond Betty's fifty-eight years. Folds of skin pooled in the crook of her neck like rippling water. Her jaw hung slack. Someone had recently given her a quick, jagged haircut (before, or after the coma?) so that her Brillo-like silver bangs were crooked and high up on her forehead.

Audrey leaned in closer. Thin lips, wrinkles where once, there had been dimples. On her shoulder, a faded Playboy Bunny tattoo, and along her forearms, needles secured with gauze-colored tape. A breathing machine pumped, slow and predictable. Audrey swallowed, patted her thighs.

"Momma," she said.

She took Betty's hand. It weighed heavy. The sockets of her eyes were hollowed out and skeletal.

Betty Lucas, a madwoman, who'd spray-painted trailers, set her own s.h.i.t on fire in front of a bar to p.i.s.s off the patrons, and yes, once tossed all of Audrey's belongings into the street because she'd been so ungrateful as to complain that she had nothing to wear.

But it hadn't been all bad, had it? No. She never let herself admit this-it was too painful, but it hadn't been all bad. It was no coincidence that, growing up, not a single stranger had ever laid a hand on Audrey. Like a heat-seeking missile, every place they'd lived until Hinton, Betty had befriended the most large-hearted neighbor. In her absence, that neighbor had kept Audrey safe from harm. At night, they'd almost always shared a bed. Betty's arms had always banished the nightmares, even if she did squeeze too tight. Betty had taught her to draw and read, too. Two skills that had proven very handy.

And here was the other thing. The big thing that she had pushed so squarely to the back of her mind that she'd forgotten it. She'd been lonely at the University of Nebraska. Two separate roommates had kicked her out. At night she'd sat inside her small studio and listened to the kids playing their games in the halls. Sometimes, she'd come out, pretending to need to take a shower, hoping they'd invite her to watch television or take a swing at beer pong. Instead, they got quiet and waited until she was gone. Weird Audrey Lucas, who reported them to RAs for talking after quiet hours and wore flip-flops and panties in the shower. Her wrists were scarred like damaged goods. Before Betty came back into her life, she'd been on the verge of dropping out. Without that Russell Stover cherry candy appearance her senior year, she would have done it.

She sat down in the fold-out chair and watched her mother. An hour pa.s.sed, then two. Saraub got coffee, then came back, then got lunch, then came back. Nurses shuffled in and out, shouting baby talk to the slumbering women, as if to show they cared, they really did: "Time for your penicillin, sweeties!"

The day pa.s.sed and visiting hours ended. She kissed Betty's cheek and rested her head in the crook of her bony shoulder. Betty Lucas, hometown beauty. Talented artist. Saucy heartbreaker. Mother. Psychotic.

And now she knew the answer to the question she'd been asking for the better part of three decades. It wasn't her mother she hated. It was the disease. That f.u.c.king disease had cheated them both.

21.

Where Do They Go When The Light Leaves Their Eyes?

Betty's old room was in Ward C4. After Audrey collected herself, they headed there. The scenery was familiar, only more depressing. Apparently, recessions. .h.i.t hospitals, too. Over the last four years, the white walls had turned dingy gray. Instead of clean Lysol, the entire wing smelled like cream of corn.

While Betty got adjusted to hospital life, Audrey had visited once a week. They used to watch television in the community room, which had been tuned to soothing programs like Golden Girls Golden Girls and and Seinfeld. Seinfeld. "Why can't they just shut up about their stupid problems?" Betty would ask while dipping an IHOP b.u.t.termilk biscuit into packaged margarine. "I want to watch cowboy movies, Lamb." "Why can't they just shut up about their stupid problems?" Betty would ask while dipping an IHOP b.u.t.termilk biscuit into packaged margarine. "I want to watch cowboy movies, Lamb."

Saraub flipped through the doc.u.ment Burckhardt had given him as they walked. "I read this over. It's fine, but it says you won't sue them for wrongdoing. The thing is-how did she get all those pills? And by the way, what kind of doctor uses the word 'zombie'?"

The corridor was long. At least a thousand feet. They were halfway down, and the only window was at the far end. It was quiet in Ward C. n.o.body was screaming they were Marie Antoinette, or fleeing from their rooms because big black spiders were chasing them. She peeped inside the doors that were open and saw something even more disturbing: patients sitting quietly. Perfect-posture erect, gazing at nothing. Wearing open-backed hospital gowns, street clothes, jeans, and frumpy dresses. It didn't matter how they looked, they each acted the same way. They stared at the gray walls ahead of them with dead eyes. Biding their time until the inevitable big black.

"It was a suicide," Audrey whispered. "I'm not going to sue. She wasn't old enough for Medicare. Most places wouldn't have taken her at all."

The administrator in blue scrubs propped open the door to C438 for them, then hurried off to answer a ringing phone.

Audrey stopped short in the doorway. She could smell her mother. Winston cigarettes and cheap, baby-powder-scented pink perfume. There were two beds. A heavyset woman wearing Betty's orange-and-black geometric muumuu sat farthest from the door. Her hair was a wild white tumble.

"Oh!" Audrey cried. "Momma?"

The woman turned, and Audrey saw she'd been mistaken. This was not Betty. Her skin was too pale and her face too long. Thick dandruff crumbs dusted her shoulders. "Who are you?" Audrey asked.

The woman took some time to answer. Coa.r.s.e white whiskers poked out from her chin, and her eyes were doped-up vacant. It was possible she wasn't even stoned on meds. A whole generation of these older patients had been lobotomized, and a lot of them wound up in inst.i.tutions for the rest of their lives. Back in the forties, doctors across the country had shoved ice picks into the corners of their patients' eye sockets, then sc.r.a.ped wing-shaped pockets into both temporal lobes, leaving them incontinent, childlike, and occasionally, soulless. Brain abortions, all the rage. Even Rose Marie Kennedy got one.

The woman turned to her. Audrey noticed the white scars in the corners of her eyes and shivered. Yeah, lobotomy. "We lived here together, in this beautiful place," she said with a dreamy smile.

"My mother? That's her dress." Audrey pointed.

"There's television here, and black walls where nothing scary ever happens, and that sweet air you like so much. You can stay here forever, Lamb. All you have to do is build it. She's waiting. We all are."

Audrey swallowed once, twice, three times. She patted her left leg with her left hand, her right leg with her right hand. Looked at the adjacent empty bed, upon which a pile of Betty's shapeless muumuus were neatly folded. Next to that was a bric-a-brac of odd items in a box. Effects.

"What did you just say?" Audrey asked. The woman smiled, but didn't answer.