"You can be her again," Dr. Moody had said.

"I want that," she'd said, realizing right then how true it was, how long it had been true, and how scared she was that it couldn't be.

"I know it's scary," Dr. Moody said. The bobbleheads in group nodded, murmured their agreement.

"I'm Dorothy," she'd said slowly, "and I'm an addict..."

That had been the beginning, maybe the only real one ever. From then on, recovery had been her addiction; honesty her drug of choice. She talked and talked and talked, told anyone who would listen about her blackouts and her mistakes and the men she'd been with-they were all the same, she saw now, a string of mean drunks with something to prove. This pattern came as no surprise when she thought about it, which she did. Endlessly. But even with her new sober-zealotry, she never named her daughter or talked about her youth. Some pains ran too deep for sharing with strangers.

"Are you ready to leave us?"

She heard Dr. Moody's kind voice and Dorothy turned.

Dr. Moody stood in the doorway. In her high-waisted, straight-legged jeans and ethnic-embroidered tunic top, she looked like exactly who she was-a woman who gave all her time and energy to helping others. Dorothy wished she had money to give to this woman who had saved her.

"I think I'm ready, but I don't feel like I am. What if-"

"One day at a time," Dr. Moody said.

It should have screamed cliche, like the words of the Serenity Prayer. Both had once made her roll her eyes. Now she knew that some things could be cliche and true at the same time.

"One day at a time," Dorothy said, nodding. She could do it that way, she hoped. Break her life into bite-sized pieces.

Dr. Moody held out a small envelope. "This is for you."

Dorothy took it, stared down at the picture of bright red cherry tomatoes on it. "Tomato seeds."

"For your organic garden."

Dorothy looked up. In the past weeks, this "plan" had come to her. She'd studied it, imagined it, dreamed it. But could she do it? Could she really move back into her parents' old investment property on Firefly Lane and rip up the overgrown rhododendrons and junipers and till the small plat of land and grow things?

She'd never successfully cared for anything in her life. She'd never succeeded, period. Not at anything. Panic began its slow, popping bubbling up inside of her.

"I'll come out on Friday," Dr. Moody said. "I'll bring my boys. We'll help you start clearing."

"Really?"

"You can do this, Dorothy. You're stronger than you think."

No. I'm not. But what choice did she have? She couldn't go back again.

"Will you contact your daughter?"

Dorothy released a heavy sigh. A parade of memories sidled into the room. All the times "Cloud" had abandoned Tully. She could change her name back to Dorothy, but Cloud was still a part of her, and she had broken her daughter's heart more times than she could count. "Not yet."

"When?"

"When I believe."

"In what?"

Dorothy looked at her counselor and saw the sadness in her dark eyes. It was understandable. Dr. Moody wanted to cure Dorothy; that was her goal. In pursuit of that cure, the doctor had put Dorothy through detox, talked her through the worst of her withdrawal, and convinced her to go on medication for mood swings. All of it had helped.

But it wasn't a cure for the past. There was no pill that offered redemption. All Dorothy could do was change and atone and hope that someday she would be strong enough to face her daughter and apologize. "In me," she said at last, and Dr. Moody nodded. It was a good answer. Something they talked about in group all the time. Believing in yourself was important-and hard for people who'd perfected the art of disappointing their friends and family. Truthfully, Dorothy said the words and tried to sound sincere, but she didn't believe in the possibility of redemption. Not for her.

One day at a time, one breath at a time, one moment at a time. That was how Dorothy learned to live this new life of hers. She didn't lose her craving for drugs and alcohol and the forgetfulness they offered, nor did she forget the bad things she'd done or the hearts she'd broken. In fact, she made a point of remembering them. She became evangelical about her change. She reveled in her pain, swam in the icy waters of clarity.

She started slowly, and did things in order. She wrote to her daughter's business manager and told him she was moving into her parents' old rental house on Firefly Lane. It had been vacant for years, so she saw no reason not to claim it. As soon as she'd mailed the letter, she felt a slim thread of hope. Each day when she went to the mailbox she thought: She'll answer. But in January of 2006, the first year of her sober life, she heard a businesslike, I'll forward your monthly allowance to Seventeen Firefly Lane, from the manager and not a word from her daughter.

Of course.

Her days that first winter were a confusing mix of despair, discipline, and exhaustion. She pushed herself harder than she'd ever pushed herself before. She rose at dawn and worked in the big, flat field until nightfall, when she fell into bed so tired she sometimes forgot to brush her teeth. She ate breakfast (a banana and an organic muffin) and lunch (a turkey sandwich and an apple) in the field every day, sitting cross-legged in the tilled black earth that smelled like fecund possibility. In the evenings she rode her bike into town and attended meetings. Hi, I'm Dorothy and I'm an addict. Hi, Dorothy!

As odd as it sounded, the roteness of it soothed and comforted her. The strangers who stood around after the meeting, drinking bad coffee in Styrofoam cups and eating stale store-bought cookies, became friends. She'd met Myron there, and through Myron, Peggy, and through Peggy, Edgar and Owen and the organic farming community.

By June of 2006, she had cleared a quarter of an acre and rototilled a small patch of earth. She bought rabbits and built them a hutch and learned to mix their droppings with dying leaves and what little food leftovers she had into compost. She stopped chewing on her fingernails and traded her obsession for marijuana and alcohol into one for organic fruits and vegetables. She had sworn off much of the world, thinking that a life without modern choices would suit her newfound self-discipline best.

She was kneeling in the dirt, tilling with a gardening trowel, when she heard someone call out.

She put down her trowel and stood up, brushing the dirt off her oversized gloves.

A small, older woman was crossing the street, coming toward the gate. She was dressed in dark-washed jeans and a white sweatshirt that had been bedazzled to read: WORLD'S BEST GRANDMA. Her black hair had a skunklike streak of stark white along the part, and framed a round, apple-cheeked face with a pointed chin.

"Oh," the woman said, stopping abruptly. "It's you."

Dorothy peeled the gloves off and tucked them into her sagging waistband. Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she walked to the fence line. She was about to say, I don't know you, when a memory struck.

I'm lying on the sofa, spread-eagled, with a mound of weed on my stomach. I try to smile at the do-gooder who has just walked into the house, but I am so high all I can do is laugh and swear. Tallulah is bright red with embarrassment.

"You're oven-mitt-girl's mom," Dorothy said quietly. "From across the street."

"Margie Mularkey. And yes, to my daughter's horror, I sent her over here with a hot casserole in about 1974. You were ... indisposed."

"High. And probably drunk."

Margie nodded. "I came to see what was going on over here. I didn't know you'd moved in. The house has been empty for a long time. I should have noticed, but ... we've had a tough year. Been gone a lot."

"I could keep an eye on the place for you. Collect your mail." The moment the offer slipped out, Dorothy felt exposed. A nice woman like Margie Mularkey, who welcomed neighbors and probably quilted, would never accept help from someone like Dorothy.

"That would be nice. I'd appreciate it. There's a milk box on the porch. Maybe you could put the mail in there."

"I could do that."

Margie glanced away. She was looking down the empty road, staring right into the sun through her big tinted glasses. "The girls used to sneak out at night and ride their bikes on this road. They thought I didn't know." At that, her legs seemed to give out on her and Margie crumpled to the ground.

Dorothy opened the gate and went to the woman, helping her to stand. Holding on to her elbow, she guided the woman down to the patio area in the backyard, and into a dirty birchwood chair. "I ... uh ... haven't cleaned the outdoor furniture yet."