Finally at just past eight o'clock in the evening, I hear the crunching of tires on gravel.

I straighten.

The door opens and I see my mother for the first time in almost three years. Her skin has the wrinkled gray cast that comes with years of hardscrabble, drunken living. Her fingernails are brown with dirt. Clawing your way through life will do that.

"Tully," she says. It surprises me, both the strong, even tenor of her voice and the use of my nickname. All my life she has called me Tallulah, which I hate.

"Hi, Cloud," I say, standing.

"I'm Dorothy now."

Another name change. Before I can say anything, a man comes into the house and stands beside her. He is tall and whipcord-lean, with wrinkles in his tanned cheeks that look like furrows. I can read his story in his eyes-and it is not a pretty one.

My mother is high, I'm pretty sure. But since I don't think I've ever seen her sober, how would I know?

"I'm so glad to see you," she says, giving me an uncertain smile.

I believe her, but I always believe her. Believing her is my Achilles' heel. My faith is as constant as her rejection. No matter how successful I become, ten seconds in her presence will always turn me into poor little Tully again. Always hopeful.

Not today. I don't have the time-or the energy-to step on that Tilt-A-Whirl again.

"This is Edgar," my mother says.

"Hi," he says, giving my mother a frown. Her dealer, probably.

"Do you have any family photographs?" I say, a little impatiently. I am beginning to feel claustrophobic.

"What?"

"Family photos. Pictures of me as a girl, that kind of thing."

"No."

I wish it didn't hurt, but it does, and the hurt pisses me off. "You took no pictures of me as a baby?"

She shakes her head, saying nothing. There is no excuse and she knows it.

"Can you tell me anything about my childhood or who my dad was or where I was born?"

She flinches at each word, pales.

"Look, missy-" the pot dealer says, moving toward me.

"Stay out of this," I snap. To my mother, I say, "Who are you?"

"You don't want to know," she says, sounding scared. "Trust me."

I am wasting my time. Whatever I need for my book, I won't find it here. This woman isn't my mother. She might have given birth to me, but that's where her commitment to me ended.

"Yeah," I say, sighing. "Why would I want to know who you are? Who I am?" I grab my purse off the floor and push past her and leave the house.

I pick my way over the furrowed, upended piles of dirt and get in my car and drive home. All the way back to Seattle, I am replaying the scene with my mother over and over again in my head, trying to glean meaning from nuance, but there is nothing there.

I pull into my building and park.

I know I should go upstairs and work on my book-maybe today's outing will be a scene. At least it is something.

But I can't do it, can't walk up into my empty condominium. I need a drink.

I call Marah-she sounds sleepy when she answers-and tell her I'm going to be home late. She tells me she's already in bed and not to wake her when I get home.

I exit the elevator and go straight to the bar, where I allow myself only two dirty martinis, which calm my racing nerves and steady me again. It is almost one o'clock in the morning when I finally go upstairs and unlock the door to my condo.

All of the lights are on and I can hear the TV.

Frowning, I close the door behind me. It clicks shut.

I walk down the hallway, turning off lights as I go. Tomorrow I will have to have a talk with Marah. She needs to understand that light switches flip both ways.

As I pass her bedroom door, I pause.

Her light is on. I can see the strip of it beneath the closed door.

I knock gently, sure she has fallen asleep watching TV.

There is no answer, so I open the door quietly.

I am unprepared for what I see.

The room is empty. There are Coke cans on both nightstands, the TV is on, and the bed is unmade from this morning. Rumpled sheets are heaped in the middle of the bed.

"Wait a second."

Marah is not here. At one o'clock in the morning. She lied to me about being home and in bed.

"What do I do?" I am talking to myself now, or maybe to Kate, as I rush from room to room, flinging open doors.

I call her phone. There is no answer. I text: Where are you??? and hit send.

Should I call Johnny? Or the police?

It is one-ten now. I am shaking as I pick up the phone. I have dialed 9-1 when I hear a key jiggling in the lock on my front door.

Marah comes in as if she is a cat burglar, trying to tiptoe, but even from here I can see that she is off balance, and she keeps giggling and shushing herself.

"Marah." My voice is so sharp I sound like a mother for the first time in my life.

She turns, trips, hits the door hard, and starts to laugh. Then she clamps a hand over her mouth and mumbles, "Shorry. Thass not funny."