"I've never seen you in pain," she says to my body. Her voice is almost a whisper. "I never saw you fall down the stairs or scrape your knee or fall off a bike." Tears are falling from her eyes.

"I'll tell you everything. How I became Cloud, how I tried to be good enough for you and failed. How I survived all those bad years. I'll tell you everything you want to know, but I can't do any of it if you don't wake up." She leans over the bed, looks down at me.

"I'm so proud of you," my mother says. "I never told you that, did I?"

She doesn't wipe her tears away. They fall onto my face. Leaning closer, she is almost close enough to kiss my cheek. A thing I can't ever remember her doing. "I love you, Tully." On this, her voice breaks. "Maybe you don't care, and maybe I'm too late, but I love you."

I have waited my whole life to hear those words from my mother.

Tul?

I turn to Kate, see her glowing face and her beautiful green eyes. In them, I see my whole life. Everything I've ever been, and ever wanted to be. That's what your best friend is: a mirror.

It's time, she says, and I understand at last. I have been coasting with Kate, drifting lazily down the river of my life with her beside me, but there are rapids up ahead.

I have to make a choice, but first I have to remember. I know instinctively that it will hurt.

"Will you stay with me?"

Forever, if I could.

It is time, at last, to face why my body is here, broken and hooked up to machines in this white, white room.

"Okay, then," I say, gathering my courage. "It starts with Marah. How long ago did she come to visit me? A week? Ten days? I don't know. It's late August of 2010, well after my mother's so-called intervention, and honestly, time is not my friend. I have been ...

trying to write my memoir, but it isn't working. A headache seems to be my constant companion.

How long has it been since I left my condo? I am ashamed to admit that I can't do it anymore. I can't open the door. When I even touch the doorknob, panic washes over me and I start to tremble and shake and hyperventilate. I hate this weakness in me, am ashamed by it, but I can't make myself overcome it. For the first time in my life, my will is gone. Without it, I have nothing.

Each morning, I make a vow to myself: I will stop taking Xanax and I will leave my home and venture out into the world. I will look for Marah. Or a job. Or a life. I imagine different scenarios in which I go to Bainbridge Island and beg Johnny for forgiveness and receive it.

Today is no different. I wake late in the day and realize instantly that I must have taken too many sleeping pills. I feel terrible. My mouth is tar-pit-sticky and it tastes like I forgot to brush my teeth last night. I roll over in bed, see my bedside clock. I smack my lips together and rub my eyes, which feel gritty and bloodshot. No doubt I cried in my sleep. And again, I have slept the day away.

I get up and try to focus. In my bathroom, I find a mountain of clothes on the floor.

Yeah. Yesterday I tried to go out. I thought it was the outfit stopping me. Makeup lies scattered across the counter.

This is really getting out of control.

Today I will change my life.

I start with a shower. The hot water pounds down on me, but instead of washing away my lethargy, it somehow makes me feel worse. In the steamy enclosure, I relive too much: Johnny's anger, Kate's death, Marah's running away.

The next thing I know, the water is cold. I blink slowly, wondering what the hell has happened to me. Freezing now, shaking, I get out of the shower and dry off.

Eat.

Yes.

That will help.

I dress slowly, in sweats I find on the floor of my bedroom. I am shaky and headachy. Eating will help. And one Xanax.

Only one.

I walk through my dark condo, turning on lights as I go, ignoring the mail scattered on my coffee table. As I am pouring a cup of coffee, my cell phone rings. I answer it quickly. "Yes?"

"Tully? It's George. I've gotten you a ticket to a screening of The American, with George Clooney. I'll e-mail you the details. It's a charitable event at a theater in downtown Seattle. The network guys will be there. This is your chance to wow them. September second. Eight P.M. Don't be late, and look good."

"Thanks, George," I say, smiling for the first time in days.

I feel hope stir inside of me. I need this so much. I'm cried out, as dry as sawdust. I can't live this way anymore.

Then it hits me: I have to leave my condo and go out in public. I start to panic, try to tamp it down.

No.

I can do this. I can. I take another Xanax (I will quit tomorrow) as I head back to my closet to pick out some clothes for the event.

I will need ...

What? Why am I standing here in my closet?

Oh. A hair appointment.

"Tully?"

Am I imagining Marah's voice? I turn so quickly I stumble, bang into the door of my closet. I am unsteady on my feet as I make my way through the condo, toward a voice I don't really believe is even there.

But she is there, in my living room, standing in front of the wall of windows. She is dressed in black, with her hair short and spiked and pink; she has silver charms hanging from her eyebrow. She looks dangerously thin; her cheekbones are like knife blades above her pale, hollow cheeks.

She is going to give me another chance. "Marah," I say softly, loving her so much it hurts. "I'm glad you're back."

She shifts nervously from foot to foot. She looks, not scared, exactly, but uncomfortable.

I wish my head were clearer, that this damn headache would loosen its grip. I feel restless, a little impatient for her to speak.

"I need..." she begins.

I move toward her, a little off balance. I am embarrassed by my unsteadiness. Does she notice?

"What do you need, baby girl?" Did I say all of that, or only think it? I wish I hadn't taken that second Xanax. Is she running away from Paxton? "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Pax and I need money."

I stop. "You came to me for money?"