"Call me crazy or brain-damaged or drugged. Whatever. I saw her and she held my hand and she told me to tell you, 'You did fine and there's nothing for the kids to forgive you for.'"

He frowned.

"She thought you'd been kicking your ass about not being strong enough for her. You wish you'd let her tell you she was afraid. She said, 'Tell him he was all I ever needed and he said everything I needed to hear.'"

Tully reached over and held his hand, and there it was, between them again, all the years they'd spent together, all the times they'd laughed and cried and hoped and dreamed. "I'll forgive you for breaking my heart if you forgive me, too. For all of it."

He nodded slowly, his eyes glazed with tears. "I missed you, Tul."

"Yeah, Johnny boy. I missed you, too."

Marah threw herself into the decorations for Tully's homecoming, but even as she talked to her grandparents and teased with her brothers, she felt as if she were walking on eggshells. Her stomach was tight with anxiety. She wanted Tully's forgiveness desperately, but she didn't deserve it. The only other person who looked uncomfortable with the upcoming celebration was Dorothy. Tully's mother had seemed to lose mass in the past few days, to grow smaller somehow. Marah knew that the older woman had begun to pack her few things into a bag. While everyone had busied themselves with decorating, Dorothy had said something about needing supplies at the nursery. She'd been gone for hours and hadn't yet returned.

At Tully's homecoming, everyone cheered and clapped and welcomed her back to the house. Grandma and Grandpa hugged her carefully and the boys shrieked at her return.

"I knew you'd be okay," Lucas said to Tully. "I prayed every night."

"I prayed every night, too," Wills said, not to be outdone.

Tully looked exhausted, sitting there, her head cocked in a strange way; the clunky silver helmet made her look almost childlike. "I know ... two boys ... who have a birthday coming up. I missed a year. Buy two presents now." Tully had to work really hard to say all that, and when she was done, her cheeks were bright and she was out of breath.

"Probably matching Porsches," Dad said.

Grandma laughed and scooted the boys into the kitchen to get the cake.

Marah made it through the party on false smiles and mumbled comments. Fortunately for her, Tully tired easily and said her good nights at about eight o'clock.

"Roll me to bed?" Tully said, taking hold of Marah's hand, squeezing.

"Sure." Marah grabbed the chair's handles and wheeled her godmother down the long, narrow hallway toward the back bedroom. There, she maneuvered Tully through the open doorway and into the room, where there was a hospital bed, and flowers everywhere, and pictures cluttered on the tables. An IV stand stood beside the bed.

"This is where I've been," Tully said. "For a year..."

"Yes."

"Gardenias," Tully said. "I remember..."

Marah helped her into the bathroom, where Tully brushed her teeth and slipped into the white lawn nightgown hanging from a hook on the back of the door. Then she got back into the wheelchair and Marah maneuvered her to the bed. There, she helped Tully to her feet.

Tully faced her. In one look, Marah saw all of it: my job is to love you ... the fight ... you're my best friend ... and the lies.

"I missed you," Tully said.

Marah burst into tears. Suddenly she was crying for all of it-for the loss of her mom, and for finding her in the journal, for the way she'd betrayed Tully and all the wounds she'd inflicted on people who loved her. "I'm so sorry, Tully."

Tully brought her hands up slowly, cupped Marah's cheeks in her dry, papery palms. "Your voice brought me back."

"The Star article-"

"Old news. Here, help me into bed. I'm exhausted."

Marah wiped her eyes and pulled back the covers and helped Tully into bed. Then she climbed up into bed beside her, just like in the old days.

Tully was quiet for a long moment before she said, "It's true, all that going-into-the-light/your-life-flashing-before-your-eyes stuff. When I was in the coma, I ... left my body. I could see your dad in the hospital room with me. It was like I was hovering in the corner, looking down on what happened to this woman who looked just like me but wasn't me. And I couldn't take it, so I turned, and there was this ... light, and I followed it, and the next thing I knew I was on my bike, on Summer Hill, riding in the dark. With your mom beside me."

Marah drew in a sharp breath, clamped a hand over her mouth.

"She's with us, Marah. She will always be watching over you and loving you."

"I want to believe that."

"It's a choice." Tully smiled. "She's glad you ditched the pink hair, by the way. I was supposed to tell you that. Oh, and there was one more thing..." She frowned, as if trying to remember. "Oh. Yeah. She said, 'All things come to an end, even this story.' Does that make sense?"

"It's from The Hobbit," Marah said. Maybe someday you'll feel alone with your sadness, not ready to share it with me or Daddy, and you'll remember this book in your nightstand.

"The kids' book? That's weird."

Marah smiled. She didn't think it was weird at all.

"I'm Dorothy, and I'm an addict."

"Hi, Dorothy!"

She stood in the middle of the ragtag circle of people who had come to tonight's Narcotics Anonymous meeting. As usual, the meeting took place in the old church on Front Street in Snohomish.

In the cool, dimly lit room that smelled of stale coffee and drying donuts, she talked about her recovery and how long it had taken her and what a dark road it had sometimes been. She needed this tonight, of all nights.

At the close of the meeting, she left the small wooden church and got onto her bicycle. For the first time in ages, she didn't stop to talk to anyone after the meeting. She was too edgy to play nice.

It was a blue-black evening, full of swaying trees and tiny stars. She rode along the main street, indicated her turn, and headed out of town.

At her place, she veered down onto the driveway and came to a stop. Balancing her bike carefully against the side of the house, she went to the front door and turned the knob. Inside, everything was quiet. There was a leftover aroma in the air-spaghetti, maybe-and some fresh basil. A few lights had been left on, but mostly it was quiet.

She reslung her purse over her shoulder and closed the door behind her. The sharp, pungent smell of drying lavender filled her nostrils. She moved silently through the house. Everywhere she looked she saw evidence of the party she'd missed-the WELCOME HOME banner, the stack of brightly colored napkins on the counter, the wineglasses drying by the sink.

What a coward she was.

In the kitchen, she poured herself a glass of water from the sink and then leaned back against the counter, gulping the liquid as if she were dying of thirst. In front of her, the shadowy hallway unfurled. On one side was her bedroom door; on the other was Tully's.

Coward, she thought again. Instead of going down the hallway, doing what needed to be done, she found herself drifting through the house, heading toward the back door, going out onto the deck.

She smelled cigarette smoke.

"You were waiting for me?" she said quietly.