The cramps she felt were nothing compared to the pain in her heart. "I want my baby!"

"Enough, Pam," John said, coming forward. "It's over. Done. The baby is gone. You can't bring it back."

"She needs time-" the doctor began in an undertone, only to be interrupted.

"She needs to be told the facts." John's eyes bore down on Pam with the anger that must have been festering inside him all along. "The baby's gone, and it's no loss. The pregnancy was a mistake from the start. You said it yourself; it wasn't planned."

"It was my baby, and Cutter's. You had no right-"

"You had no right-" John boomed, only to interrupt himself this time. To the doctor he said, "I'd like a few minutes alone with her."

"She shouldn't be upset."

"Give her a sedative."

"It's on the way. Still-"

"I don't want another sedative," Pam sobbed. "I want my baby!"

The doctor looked over his shoulder at the returning nurse. "Ah, there it is."

Pam rolled to the far side of the bed, only to be caught by John. "Get your hands off me!" she yelled.

"You'll hurt yourself. You're not well."

"I'm perfectly well. I'm pregnant." She made a choked sound. "Or was until you stopped it. I don't want that," she told the doctor, who held a syringe in his hand. She struggled against John's hold, but the needle found its mark. "You b.a.s.t.a.r.d!" she screamed between sobs.

"That's right," John goaded. "Call me names as much as you want if it gives you satisfaction."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Dirty, filthy b.a.s.t.a.r.d! You won't let anyone else have what you can't, and you can't have kids because no woman wants you near enough-"

John took her chin in his hand and squeezed hard, effectively stemming her flow of words. He looked at the doctor. "Leave us?"

"She'll be asleep soon," he warned.

"Then I'll just say a few things before she is. I want her in a better frame of mind by the time she wakes up."

"I don't think-"

"Don't," John ordered. The single word was enough to send the doctor from the room. John's glare sent the nurse along in his wake. By the time he looked back at Pam, her lids were heavy.

"I want you to listen and listen good," he said.

The pressure on her mouth was painful. She closed her eyes, but tears continued to seep from their corners; it seemed the only way she could express her defiance and blot him out.

But he wouldn't have it. "Look at me, dammit," he growled and gave her chin a painful shake. When her eyes flew open, he said, "You had no business seeing Cutter Reid in the first place. I told you not to. I warned you that he was nothing but s.h.i.t, but you thought you knew best, so you saw him. You let him touch you. You spread those lily-white legs and he screwed you." His teeth were gritted at the last. "And where did it leave you? In a big fat mess! How were you going to take care of a baby? Hmmm?"

Pam couldn't answer. He was hurting her jaw, preventing her from speaking. Her only sounds came from the back of her throat, against her will, from the crying she couldn't control.

"You're seventeen. Not even out of high school. Did you want to be a dropout like him?"

Pam grabbed his wrist and pulled with every bit of her dwindling strength. "You're hurting me," she whimpered, and he eased the pressure on her jaw.

"I'm doing what's best for you," was his answer. "Someone has to, since you can't do it for yourself. You got yourself knocked up. I solved the problem."

Her tears came faster. "It wasn't a problem."

"An unwed, pregnant teenager isn't a problem?"

"I wanted the baby!" she sobbed.

"You have no idea what having a baby entails. You don't know the work involved or the dedication or the expense," he stuck a finger in her face, "and don't say I don't know, because I have friends who have kids. And don't," the finger jabbed her chest, "say I can't get a woman, because if I wanted, I could have five women happily pregnant in a matter of months. I choose not to have a child. I don't have the time or the interest."

"I do. I wanted one."

"You wanted his, because you knew it would drive me wild." His face came lower. "Well, you can't have it. It's gone. Flushed down some toilet, or whatever it is they do with unwanted refuse around here."

She cried out at the cruelty of his words. Tears streamed from her eyes. She felt close to drowning and far too weak to save herself or even to try.

"You'll thank me someday. When you're old enough to realize what a favor I've done you, you'll get down on your knees and thank me."

"Never."

"When you're married to someone well known and successful, when you have a brick house bigger and nicer than the one in Timiny Cove, when you have a ski place and a Mercedes and three adorable kids who take gymnastics and soccer, you'll thank me."

The tears kept coming, despite the medication she'd been given, but her voice was losing strength. "I wanted Cutter's baby."

His eyes flashed. He took her shoulders and shook her. "Not another word. Not one."

"You can't stop me."

"I can come close. Haven't you learned that yet? Don't you know that I control things around here? I'm the one who determines what happens. Not you."

"But why?" she cried. She fought the heaviness of her eyes and the lethargy that slowed her weeping and threatened to drag her down. "Why does it matter what I do if I mind my own business? I'm not hurting you."

"But you are," he said and squared his shoulders. "What you do is a direct reflection on me. Why do you think I've ruled with such a firm hand all this time? If it didn't matter, I'd have thrown you out on your own a long time ago." He paused. "That might have been fun to watch. The little girl all by herself. Justice, after the way they always fawned over you."

He leaned toward her, propped his fists on the bed, and stared at her. "I've worked hard to make a name for myself. I've walked softly when I wanted to yell. I've kissed a.s.s when I wanted to spit. The St. George name is finally getting to be known and respected, and it had nothing to do with the old man and everything to do with me. You're a St. George. You do something stupid like getting pregnant by a miner and it's a mark against me. I'm the one they'll laugh at, and I've worked too hard for that. I want the recognition due me, and I'll be d.a.m.ned if I'll let you put the slightest blemish on it."

"I'm almost eighteen," Pam whispered weakly.

"Almost of age," he conceded. "But if you choose to make a fool of yourself, you'll do it without a cent from me. I don't give a d.a.m.n whether you're twenty-five or married, I'll fight you every way I can. You lucked out this time. I've cleaned up this little mess without anyone the wiser. But in the future, when you make a spectacle of yourself, things won't be so neat. The only way I'll be able to stay clean will be to publicly denounce you. And I'll do it. Act up, and I'll do it. Loudly and clearly. Understood?"

His face swam before her eyes, partly from the tears that clung to her lashes, partly from the medication she'd been given. In a last, token show of defiance, she turned away and denied him an answer.

Chapter 18.

PAM DREW THE BRUSH GENTLY through Patricia's long hair. She had just trimmed the ends, as she'd promised during her last visit, and she imagined that the brush moved more freely. Certainly the neat line it produced was more pleasing than the splits and straggles. Then again, much of Pam's pleasure was in the doing. She enjoyed visiting her mother, more so in the last few months than before. Being with Patricia was calming. The whole hospital setting was calming. She was beginning to understand how a person could retreat there and want to stay. It was a world unto itself, a haven when reality became too hostile.

Gripping the wheelchair handle, she leaned sideways to look a.s.sessingly at Patricia's face. "Bangs. You need bangs."

Patricia blushed and murmured a soft, "At my age?"

"You're only thirty-seven. It'll look great." She touched her own. "Just a few. We'll be twins."

They could well have been, Pam knew. Their features were alike, and Patricia's skin was still smooth and dewy. If there was any sign of her age, or of the mental anguish she'd suffered since the accident five years before, it was in the color of her hair. Once blond, it was now pure silver. Pam thought it was beautiful. But then, she'd always thought her mother beautiful, even during those awful times when Patricia had been in her own isolated world.

"No bangs?" she asked with a gentle smile. When Patricia mouthed an echo of the words, she said, "A French braid, then. Okay?" They'd done French braids before.

Patricia nodded.

Moving behind her again, Pam continued to use the brush for a little while before dividing the hair into thirds. She took her time. There was no rush here, no clocks posted on the grounds of the hospital. Instead, there were trees, tall pines and maples, lower-growing dogwoods and junipers separating one house from the next. There were eight houses in all, of differing sizes, for patients with differing needs. When Patricia had first come, she'd been in one of the larger houses that offered more intensive care. Now she lived in a small one for long-term patients with a degree of self-sufficiency. On warm days like this, she was free to enjoy the outdoors.

"Is school finished?" Patricia asked.

"Almost." Pam worked the silver plaits over and under one another. "Exams are next week."

After several minutes Patricia asked, "Are they hard?"

"Sometimes. But they don't matter much for seniors. Unless we botch them. But I won't." Not that she'd ace them, either. She would make just enough of an effort to pa.s.s. She didn't care about doing more. "Is the sun too strong? Want to move into the shade?"

"This is fine," Patricia said quietly.

Having reached the end of the braid, Pam needed something to hold it in. So she took a slim green ribbon from her own braid and tied it on. Standing back to admire her handiwork, she decided that it looked better on Patricia than it had on her. The contrast was there, green on silver. Green on brown was bland. But that was how Pam's life was. That was how she wanted it. She didn't have the emotional strength for more.

"Hey, you two!" came a voice from across the lawn. Pam looked up, saw Bob Grossman approaching, and smiled. He was a nice-looking man, lean, partially balding, but his manner was his strong suit. He was kind, gentle, surprisingly normal for a psychiatrist. "Hard to say which is the mother and which the daughter. You're looking more grown-up every day, Pam, while you"-he put an easy hand on Patricia's arm-"go the other way. Pretty braid."

Patricia's cheeks warmed. "Thank you."

"No thanks necessary. You brighten my day." To Pam he said, "How's it going?"

She shrugged. "Okay."

Taking her hand, he pulled her down to the gra.s.s in front of Patricia's wheelchair. "Just okay?"

Pam folded her legs. "Just okay."

"It's the end of your senior year. You should be having the time of your life, partying up the kazoo. No?"

Pam managed a small smile and rolled her eyes. "No."

"Why not?"

She shrugged. "I just want out. It's all pretty boring."

"Ahhh," Bob drawled to Patricia, "the world-weary woman. We should only be back in her shoes."

"I wouldn't wish that on either of you," Pam said with more force than she'd intended. She sighed. Resting her elbows on her thighs, she combed her fingers through the gra.s.s in the circle between her legs. There was an apology in the eyes she raised to Bob's. "Sorry. I shouldn't have said that."

"You felt it," Bob said quietly. "I'm glad you said it. We all go through rough periods. Sometimes it helps to talk."

Pam darted a quick look at her mother.

Bob leaned closer to Patricia so that his shoulder touched her knee. "You're afraid of upsetting your mother. But she's come a long way. Maybe it's time we see what she can take." He sought confirmation from Patricia, but she was looking at Pam.

After a very long moment and in a very soft voice, Patricia said, "Yes."

It wasn't exactly an inquiry into Pam's feelings, but it did imply an interest, which was so much more than what used to be. Pam's throat knotted up; she swallowed the tightness away and forced a self-conscious smile. "It's no big thing, really. I'm just feeling down. School is unequivocally uninspiring."

"Big words," Bob mused. "Sounds like you've outgrown it."

"Oh yes," Pam said. She felt years older than her friends. The frivolity of graduation didn't interest her in the least.

"When's the big day?" he asked.

"The fourth of June."

"Do you have anything special planned?"

Pam shrugged and pulled at the gra.s.s. "I've been invited to dinner with some of the other families after the ceremony, but-" She scrunched up her nose.

"Don't want to?"

"Nah."

Patricia's voice was low. "John should do something."

"Spare me that," Pam said, but the attempted joke fell flat when tears came to her eyes. Blinking them away, she looked at her mother. "I wish you could come."

Patricia pursed her lips and gave a short shake of her head.

"Then I'll come out here afterward with a picnic lunch." With a glance, she extended the invitation to Bob. She'd rather be with him than with John any day. "The three of us can celebrate."

Again Patricia gave that quick shake of her head.

Pam didn't push. She knew that Patricia still had problems. Bob explained that they had to do with security and real life, and while Pam didn't see how a picnic lunch on the hospital grounds posed a threat, apparently Patricia did. And that was what mattered.

"Have you heard more from Swarthmore?" Bob asked.

Pam nodded. "They sent me health forms and questionnaires to fill out about what kind of roommate I wanted. I'd rather have a single room, but freshmen don't often get that."

"A double would be healthier."