Marah. She looks like she used to, beautiful and healthy. "Tully?" she says cautiously, as if I am a spirit or an illusion.

If I am dreaming, I welcome it. I am back. "Marah," takes me forever to say.

I try to hold on, to stay, but I can't do it. Time falls away from me. I open my eyes-see Marah and Margie-and I try to smile, but I am so weak. And is that my mother's face? I try to say something; all that comes out is a croak of sound. And maybe I imagine it.

The next thing I know, I am asleep again.

CHAPTER Twenty-eight

Dorothy sat in the hospital waiting room, hands clasped in her lap, knees pressed together so closely the knobby bones bumped each other every time she moved. They were all here now: Johnny and his twin sons; Marah, who looked glazed and nervous and couldn't seem to sit still; Margie and Bud. It had been three days since Tully opened her eyes and tried to speak. They had immediately moved her back to the hospital, where the waiting game had begun again.

It had seemed like a miracle, at first, but now Dorothy wasn't so sure. She knew better than to believe in miracles, anyway, didn't she?

Dr. Bevan assured them that Tully was truly waking; he told them that it often took time to become fully conscious after so long a sleep. He warned them that there would probably be some lasting effects, and that certainly made sense. You couldn't sleep for a year and then wake up and ask for coffee and a donut.

For months, Dorothy had prayed for this. She'd knelt at her daughter's bedside every evening. It was uncomfortable, painful on her aging joints, but she was pretty sure that the pain was part of the price. So she knelt and she prayed, night after night, as autumn darkened into winter and then brightened again into spring. She prayed while her vegetables put down their roots and gathered the strength to grow; she prayed while the apples budded on her trees and began to ripen. Her prayer was always the same: Please, God, let her wake up.

In all that time, through the journey of her desperate words, she'd never allowed herself to really think about this moment. She'd been afraid to imagine an answer to her prayers, as if her need could jinx it.

That was what she'd told herself, anyway. Now she saw that it was another in the long string of lies she'd told herself over the years. She hadn't dared to imagine this moment because it terrified her.

What if Tully woke up and wanted nothing to do with her?

It was certainly a likely scenario. Dorothy had been a terrible parent for so long, and now, when she'd finally learned to be better, finally dared to let herself tumble into motherhood, it was not real. Not for Tully, anyway, who had slept through the whole thing.

"You're humming again," Margie said gently.

Dorothy pressed her lips together. "Nervous habit."

Margie reached over and held Dorothy's hand. It still surprised her sometimes, the easy intimacy she'd found with Margie; it surprised her, too, how much it could mean to simply be touched by another human being who understood you. "I'm afraid," she said.

"Of course you are. You're a mother. Fear is the job description."

Dorothy turned to look at Margie. "What do I know about motherhood?"

"You're a fast learner."

"What if she doesn't want anything to do with me when she wakes up? I don't know how to go back to who I was without her. I can't just walk up to her bed and say hi."

Margie's smile was sad, as tired as the look in her eyes. "She always wanted something to do with you, Dorothy. I remember the first time she asked me what was wrong with her, why you didn't love her. It broke my heart, honest to God. I told her that sometimes life didn't work out the way you expected, but that you never gave up hope. She was seventeen then. Your mother had just died and she was afraid of where she would live. We took her in, gave her a place to live. That very first night, when she was in bed in Katie's room, I sat down beside her and told her good night. She looked up at me and said, 'She'll miss me someday,' and I said, 'How could she not?' and Tully said-so quietly I almost couldn't hear: 'I'll wait.' And she did, Dorothy. She waited for you in a thousand different ways."

Dorothy wished she were the kind of woman who could believe a thing like that.

Time passed for Tully in blurry images and nonsensical vignettes-a white car, a woman in pink saying something about feeling better now, a moving bed, a TV tucked up in the corner of a white room, voices that were a distant drone. Now there was only one voice. Sounds came at her, breaking apart, forming ... words.

"Hello, Tully."

She blinked slowly and opened her eyes. There was a man standing beside her. A man in a white coat. She couldn't really focus on him; the light in here was so dim. She missed light. What did that mean? And she was cold.

"I'm Dr. Bevan. You're in Sacred Heart Hospital. You got here about five days ago. Do you remember?"

She frowned, trying to think. She felt as if she'd been in darkness for hours, years, lifetimes. She couldn't remember anything. Just something about a light ... the sound of running water ... the smell of green spring grass.

She tried to wet her lips-they felt painfully dry-and her throat was fricking on FIRE. "Wha..."

"You were in a car accident and sustained a serious head trauma. Your left arm was broken in three places, as was your left ankle-though that was a clean, simple break. Both bones healed nicely."

Car accident?

"No, Tully, don't try to move."

Had she been trying to move? "How ... long?" She didn't even know what she was asking, and by the time he said something-she had no idea what-she was closing her eyes again. She would just sleep for a minute ...

She heard something. Felt something. She wasn't alone. She took a deep breath, released it slowly, and opened her eyes.

"Hey."

Johnny. He was here, beside her. Behind him stood Margie and Marah and ... Cloud? What was her mother doing here?

"You're back," Johnny said quietly, his voice uneven. "We thought we'd lost you."

She tried to find her voice, but even with her best effort, her words came out garbled. She couldn't think clearly.

He touched her face. "We're here. All of us."

She worked hard to focus, desperate suddenly to tell him something. "Johnny ... I..."

Saw her.

What did that mean? Saw who?

"Don't worry, Tul," he said. "We have time now."

She closed her eyes and drifted back to sleep. Sometime later, she thought she heard voices-Johnny and some other man. Words drifted toward her-remarkable recovery, brain activity normal, give her time-but none of it meant anything to her so she let it go.