I fumbled in the dark until I found the bathroom and, oblivious to the exposed window, turned on an overhead light.

For five minutes, I hunched on the toilet, chilled, head between my knees, until the last wave of nausea passed.

I staggered back to Dr. Schmidt's office and propped myself against the doorframe, afraid to enter, scared of what more we might find.

Weakly, I said, "Did Lauren see her mom kill herself, too?"

Fran gathered the materials and began to pace. "No. According to this, she went upstairs, found Patrice, and hightailed it to the doghouse."

"Read me all of it," I said, reclaiming my spot on the couch. I put a pillow over my eyes to block the glare of the light.

"You sure you're up to it?"

"Yes," I said feebly.

"Okay. Looks like she told Dr. Schmidt this six months ago."

"It took her that long?"

"Apparently. Now, don't interrupt. Here goes verbatim: 'Brother Brian cried all night. Probably sick. Early in morning, after father left for work, mother brought infant down to kitchen. Ironing Lauren's dress. Two-year-old Patrice upstairs asleep. Lauren sitting at kitchen table eating cereal. Waiting to give mother birthday present she made in school. Brian in playpen in kitchen screaming. Mother calls for quiet several times, each time becoming more agitated. Approaches child and hits iron against playpen walls, yelling for quiet. It works. Baby stunned silent by violence. Mother returns to ironing board five feet away. Crying starts again. Without warning, mother hurls iron at 10-month-old child. Hits him in stomach.'" Fran gulped and stopped to catch her breath.

When she resumed, her voice was soft. "'He wails even louder. Lauren runs to playpen to stop mother. Mother crosses room, picks up iron and beats child on head and chest until there is no sound. Lauren clutches mother, afraid to make any noise. Mother brushes off daughter and returns to ironing. Lauren runs upstairs, wakes up Patrice, stuffs pillow over her head to quiet her crying, and goes outside. Confused as to what to do. Knows she'll get in trouble for missing school, but too frightened to go back inside house for clothes, and doesn't know what to do with sister. Hides both of them in the doghouse. Shivering cold. Tries to cover Patrice with her body. Calls dog, Beau, in to keep them company. Hears sirens late in the afternoon, but won't come out. Night falls. Father comes home and drags her out. Policeman says her mother and brother are dead.'"

A few moments after Fran stopped reciting, I removed the pillow from my head and blinked rapidly. Fran, stunned, had returned to her seat behind the desk.

"How did she ever survive?" I asked, a hitch in my voice.

"She didn't, kiddo. That's why we're here, because she killed herself."

Our tear-filled eyes met. "You think this is it, this is the answer?"

"Could be."

"But why a month ago? Why not ten years ago or twenty years ago? And what about her recent contentment? Where did that come from? Why did she celebrate a two-year anniversary the week before she died? What was that about? Clearly, her childhood affected her, but it can't be what pushed her over the edge, not after all these years. Is there anything in those notes, anything at all that refers to suicidal thoughts?" I asked desperately.

"Not a word."

"Something doesn't make sense." I flopped onto my side. "It all seems related, but therea""

I never did finish the sentence. The blare of a car horn startled Fran and me into new positions.

"Jiggers, that's Ruth!" Fran tore out of the room, down the hall, and into the kitchen, and I followed, struggling to match her breakneck pace. When we reached the side window, we crouched below it and listened carefully. Hearing nothing, we slowly lifted our heads to peer out. Fran raised the glass.

"What's up, Ruth? Uniforms?" Fran hissed.

Her lover rolled down the window. "I'm bored, and you said we'd be home in time to watch the news."

Fran turned to me and shrugged. "Give us a few more minutes, and no more honking, or I'll be getting a pacemaker installed tomorrow."

"Whatever you say, dear."

Fran lowered the window. "Better speed it up, or she'll drive off without us. Done this to me before. One time at the video store, told me I took too long to pick a flick and left me there high and dry."

"You go. Get her calmed down before we're both arrested. I'll straighten up the office and go out the front."

"Can't lock it, you know."

"So what! I'm not about to jump out the window. We'll hope whoever opens up in the morning thinks someone forgot. Now, go! And you better damn well wait for me!"

"I'll stay, even if that darn Ruth takes a powder." She handed me the flashlight and jogged down the dark hall.

The last sound I heard was the door creaking shut.

I crept back to the office and put everything in order. Before I returned Lauren's file to its resting place in the bottom drawer, though, I held it to my chest.

I could almost feel her heart beating next to mine, and it made me ache. From the therapist's meticulous notes sprang the story of a lifetime of pain, more than anyone should have endured.

Maybe Cecelia, the ex-lover who seemed to know her better than anyone else, was right. Maybe Lauren's death was a blessing, a chance to be free.

That's what I contemplated as Ruth and Fran drove me home and right before I went to bed that night.

For the first time in weeks, I enjoyed a deep, sound sleep. The slumber of the innocent. Or maybe of the guilty who no longer care.

Unfortunately, it only lasted about two hours. The rest of the night, I flopped around, unable to escape the cold, stark images of Lauren and Patrice, crouched in the doghouse on the worst day of their lives.

14.

The next day, I couldn't stop fantasizing about napping.

Through meetings, proofreading, and bike riding, my thoughts drifted toward sleeping.

I ate dinner with Destiny and dreamed of dozing.

Finally, at nine, Destiny and I went to bed. Within minutes, she fell asleep, and I tried but couldn't. I tossed and turned and watched the hours cascade by on the digital clock on the night stand.

I was beyond exhaustion, eyes burning from lack of sleep, but I couldn't rest. I couldn't slow my mind enough to stop thinking about David or imagining Lauren. In between, I worried about Destiny's proposal, Patrice's grief, and Ashley's future.

Every time I closed my eyes, I watched events of the recent past flash across my lids, but I had lost all ability to concentrate. Before one thought could be completed, another replaced it, causing me to try frantically to retrieve the lost images. If only I could have organized them, perhaps I could have brought a semblance of sanity back to my life.

At midnight, I felt on the verge of imploding.

Careful not to wake Destiny, I rose, picked up clothes from the floor, and went into the living room to dress in an outfit that wouldn't have won any awards, but at least contained one of everything: underwear, T-shirt, shorts. I rounded out the wardrobe with an old pair of tennis shoes I retrieved from the hall closet.

I grabbed a wad of money, keys, and my driver's license and left, not sure where I would go or when I would return.

Outside, the chill in the night air made me wish I had taken an extra second to grab a jacket, but within minutes, I had the car moving and the heater blasting.

I drove for miles, in a circuitous route that took me all over the uncommonly quiet city, but eventually drew me inexorably to Denver Health Medical Center, to my brother.

I parked on Bannock Street and cut through the mostly empty lot, ever conscious of the dark surroundings.

On the eighth floor, a compact woman with smooth brown skin and hair cut short, almost square, blocked my passage to David's room. The nurse's professional demeanor was marred only by the red high-top sneakers that poked below her lab coat. The depth and seductiveness of her voice surprised me. "Hold it there, honey, where you going?"

"To visit David Ashe."

Her bright eyes scanned me from head to toe, "You're coming by mighty late."

"I didn't realize there were set hours," I said, contrite. "I couldn't sleep."

"Are you his sister?"

I nodded. "Is it that obvious?"

"You're a dead ringer. The eyes and the freckles."

I grimaced. "I don't have quite as many as him. When he was little, we used to kid him about the ones on his ears."

"They're still there." She chuckled and extended her hand. "I'm Rose."

"Kris."

"I hear he's got a pack of sisters."

"Four."

"Have the others been by?"

"Not yet. Two of them live in California. They're on standby right now, but one's in school, and the other's expecting a baby."

"That makes three of you," she said, one eyebrow raised.

"The other one's in Denver," I said, shuffling my feet and glancing downward. "She doesn't want to see him."

Rose nodded knowingly. "Some folks can't, and maybe shouldn't."

"Is it okay if I go in?"

"Sure thing, but I don't want to hear any loud partying in there." She punctuated her admonition with a wink.

"Don't worry, I'm too tired for that," I sighed. "I thought I'd read to him."

"What's on the menu?"

I pulled an Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine from under my arm.

"Whoo-ee. That might be a tad frightful for the boy."

I laughed. "The scarier the better. He loves these things, but I'll be careful," I promised.

"You better. I don't want his first sound to be a scream. It's bad for business," she said, chuckling. "You go on in now. Holler if you need anything."

She walked toward the nurse's station, rocking from her own humor, and I entered David's room. I closed the blinds on the window that faced the other patients and opened the ones that looked out on Denver's twinkling skyline.

I set the tin of nuts I had brought next to a package of diapers on the dormant heat register below the glass. I pulled a chair closer to his bed and sank into it.

"Hey, Dave," I said quietly, squeezing his hand.

In recent years, I had been afraid to look directly at my brothera" unable to face his greasy brown hair and acne- and whisker-covered cheeks. That night, though, he seemed cleaner. I studied him, trying to picture the resemblance Rose had seen, hoping it wasn't there.

My brother and I shared intense blue eyes, thick eyebrows, and freckles, as if we came from the same cutter, but every feature of his was exaggerated. His eyes were more sunken, his eyebrows bushier, and his freckles more dense. He also had lush eyelashes, gaunt, angular features, and a perpetual cowlick I didn't possess.

I had spent years trying not to get too close to him, repulsed by the smell of his breath and the state of his teeth and gums. Medications had caused halitosis and deformed his gums to the point that his teeth barely protruded.

By a curious twist, he looked healthier in a coma than out of it. The nails on his long, thin fingers were clean and trimmed, and his hands weren't shaking. Absent were his thick, black-framed glasses, the helmet he wore during periods of frequent seizures, and the heavy, tattered coat he favored even in warm weather.

"I know it's late, but I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come read to you."

I curled up, knees propped on the bed, and in carefully pronounced, whispered words, read a six-page mystery about a man who murdered his only friend.

My mind wandered constantly: to Lauren and her last day, to Ashley and the rest of her life, and to the happy moments I had shared with my brother when we were young.

As children, David and I had been great friends and companions, but as we grew, so did the manifestations of his illness, and with it, my fear and discomfort.

There was a day, when I was fourteen and he was eleven, that marked the beginning of the end of our closeness.

It was fall, and we had ridden our bikes to the library and checked out books, mysteries and adventures for me, Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory for him, a story he had read a hundred times. After, we went to a nearby Burger King to eat.

There, at the counter, in the middle of a lunch-hour throng, David had started to seize. He crashed to the floor, and customers scattered. I knelt next to him, made sure he wasn't choking on anything, and settled in to wait it out.

A woman behind the counter yelled for the manager to call 911.

I tried to explain to her, and the sea of adults surrounding David, that there was no need to panic, that my brother had epilepsy, that he'd be fine. After a few minutes, the convulsing subsided, but not the strangers' anxiety. An ambulance came, and over my protestations, the paramedics insisted on placing David, who had recovered completely, on a stretcher and transporting him to the hospital. For legal reasons, they said.

I called my mom, who, after bawling me out for the medical bills that were sure to follow, left to retrieve David.

Alone, I wheeled our two bikes home, crying all the way.

What if he had seized five minutes earlier, as he and I had zipped across the busy four-lane street? What then? I couldn't have prevented it. He would have died.

I had never before felt so helpless or hopeless.

I had always protected him from the taunts of other kids, but this was worse. I couldn't block the image of a crowd of horrified grownup faces looming over me, judging my brother, judging me.