"No, Andrew, I want you to understand. And there's more: there are things in there about you, from when we first met. . . well, it's not all flattering, but I wanted you to know, to have a record, of how important you've been to me."

I got it then, what was troubling me: this was a going-away present. "Penny," I said. "You are coming back to Autumn Creek, right?"

She bit her lip. "For a while," she said.

"A while," I said. "And then what? You're moving away? This. . . this isn't because of the way I was acting, is it? You're not --"

"No! No, Andrew, this is something I have to do for me, kind of the last step in my therapy: starting over in a new place, as a new me."

"What new place?"

"California," she said. "I'm not sure what city yet, but. . . maybe San Diego. One of the other residents at Orpheus had some really good things to say about it."

San Diego: southernmost California, over a thousand miles from Seattle. I felt hollow. "When would you go?"

"I was thinking after Thanksgiving."

"Three months." My voice got husky, and my eyelids started blinking. "Wow. . . wow."

"Andrew?" Penny said. "You are going to be OK, aren't you?"

I wanted to say no, but after all the grief I'd given her over the reintegration, I thought I'd pretty much used up my selfishness quota for the year. "It'll be. . . hard," I told her. "But if this is what you need to do. . ."

She reached out and took my hand, and that gesture, the feel of her small palm in mine, was all Penny. "It's still three months," she said. "We'll spend lots of time together until then. And I will come back to visit."

"Good," I said, tears tracking down both cheeks now. "OK, that's good. . ."

Penny drove me back to Autumn Creek that night, and from then on until she left, we spent pretty much every free moment we had together -- but of course, it wasn't enough. To make three months go by faster, you'd have to lose time.

It was long enough for me to get a better sense of how Penny's reintegration had changed her, although in trying to describe it I find myself drawn to the same contradictory locutions that she used: Penny was different, but she also wasn't. I eventually got used to the "new" Penny, the one who exhibited characteristics of as many as half a dozen souls simultaneously, but she wasn't always like that: there were times, most often in moments of stress or great emotion, but occasionally in calmer moments too, when a single soul seemed to predominate, so that I would have sworn I was in the presence of Maledicta -- the "old" Maledicta -- or Loins, or Duncan. Or Mouse. I said nothing about this -- if they were content, I wasn't going to spoil it for them -- but I did take comfort in the thought that reintegration wasn't so scary after all. My best friend, all of her, still existed.

And then it was the end of November. We said good-bye in the parking lot of the Harvest Moon Diner, following a last breakfast together. It was a drawn-out farewell, with pretty much everyone insisting on coming out to wish Penny a safe trip, and I got worried she wouldn't have anything left for me. But she did. We hugged each other a very long time, and then Penny got in the car.

"You'd better write," I told her, hanging on the driver's door. "And call."

"I will," Penny promised. She drew my head down and kissed me on the lips. "Sweet thing," she said, and winked. "Don't take any s.h.i.t from anybody." Then, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other reaching over to thumb the b.u.t.ton on the cigarette lighter, she drove away.

A month later, I stayed up with Mrs. Winslow to welcome in the year 2000. We moved my TV out to the kitchen so we could watch the fireworks in color, and when midnight came we opened a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice. I was happier than I'd been for a long while, but my happiness was still tinged with a melancholy I couldn't conceal.

"You miss her, don't you?" Mrs. Winslow said.

"Every day." Then, not wanting to spoil the evening: "It's OK, though. I still have you."

"Well. . . it's funny you should mention that. . ."

"Why funny?" I said. "You're not. . . oh my G.o.d, Mrs. Winslow! You're not dying, are you?"

She laughed. "No, not dying. Just the opposite, I hope. I don't suppose you've noticed, but lately I haven't been waiting on the mail as much."

I had noticed, actually -- or Adam had. For the past several weeks, after seeing me off on my way to work in the morning, Mrs. Winslow had been going back inside the Victorian instead of taking up sentry on the porch. "But I thought, I don't know, maybe you were just cold . . ."

"My creaky old bones not able to handle the winter anymore?" She smiled. "I'm not that old yet -- but I will be. This spring will be fifteen years since Jacob and the boys died; almost a decade since the last note came. It's time I moved on."

Oh no, I thought, not you too. "That's great!" I said. "That's wonderful!"

"You're a lousy liar, Andrew," Mrs. Winslow said, not unkindly. "I know this is going to be hard for you, and if I thought it was more than you could handle. . . but it isn't. You've had some difficult times this past year, but you've held up well. I think you're ready to go on without me."

"Sure," I said, not sure at all.

"Good. Because I'm going to need your help."

"Sure," I said, more certainly. "Anything. What do you need me to do?"

"I should probably make a clean break with the past, but I don't think I'm strong enough to do that -- not all at once. So if I do leave this house, I'm going to want somebody I can trust to stay behind and keep an eye on the mailbox for me. Just in case. It wouldn't be forever. A year at most -- if I didn't come back -- and then I'll be ready to let it go for good."

"I can do that. I mean, it'll save me having to look for a new apartment, so that works fine."

"You'd have the run of the whole house, too," Mrs. Winslow said. "And of course I wouldn't charge you rent anymore."

"Oh no, Mrs. Winslow, you don't have to do that."

"It's all right, Andrew. I'd prefer you put the money into savings, and start thinking about what you want to do next. As I say, this won't be forever -- in a year, maybe two, I'll want to sell this house."

"All right then," I said. "I'll keep it for you until you're ready to get rid of it."

Like Julie, Mrs. Winslow also left me her car, but it was a true gift and not just a temporary loan.

She insisted I get a license, too, so when she left town on the first day in May, I was able to drive her to the airport. She was headed to Galveston, Texas; she had people there, old college friends who'd been trying to get her to move down for years. "Mostly it's to get me moving somewhere," Mrs. Winslow said. "If I don't like Texas, there are other places."

After Mrs. Winslow's plane took off, I got back in the car and went for a very long, aimless drive around Puget Sound. It was well after dark by the time I returned to Autumn Creek. My plan had been to go straight to bed, so I wouldn't have to think about how empty the Victorian was, but I couldn't get to sleep. I went into the kitchen and made both tea and warm milk. I fixed the tea the way Mrs. Winslow liked it, and set the mug at her place at the table. Then I sat in my own seat, drank warm milk, and cried.

I survived the night, though. And in the morning I made my own breakfast. Adam's bacon strip was a little crispy, and my scrambled eggs had too much salt, but I knew that I'd get better with practice.

A week later I got a letter from Mrs. Winslow. Galveston was very hot, but she'd found a nice place, an air-conditioned bungalow right on the beach by the Gulf of Mexico. "Swam all afternoon yesterday," she wrote, "& last night, for the first time in memory, I slept until dawn. . . I believe I may stay here awhile." And so she has.

Which just leaves me to account for.

It is now the middle of June, 2001. I am thirty-two years old -- or six years old, depending on how you want to count it. I still live in the Victorian in Autumn Creek; I have spread out a bit since Mrs.

Winslow left -- the kitchen is more cluttered than she would ever have tolerated -- but I have refrained from taking over any of the upstairs rooms. In my mind that is still Mrs. Winslow's domain, and besides, with more s.p.a.ce comes the temptation to get more stuff, and I am trying to save money.

I still get up every day at the same time, and still go through the same morning ritual. I drive myself to and from my job at Bit Warehouse, and in the evenings, if I'm not out somewhere with friends from work, I come home and dole out time to those souls who want it (contingent, as always, on good behavior).

My therapy with Dr. Eddington concluded -- successfully, we both think -- late last year. I still see him about once a month for the mental-health equivalent of a check-up, but these sessions are extremely informal: usually we'll meet at his office and then go out to eat somewhere. Last time we got together we took the ferry to Bainbridge Island for Sunday brunch at the Streamliner Diner, and then went up to Poulsbo to put flowers on Dr. Grey's grave. We also stopped in to see Meredith; she's living in a new house, with a new partner. She seems happy.

Inside Andy Gage's head, there have of course been some changes. I am in charge of the house now; I still go to my father for advice, but the final say on all official matters is mine. I sit at the head of the table during house meetings. I handle house discipline. It isn't always easy, but on balance I would say the responsibility has been good for me.

The house is emptier than it once was. Over the course of my therapy, I absorbed all but a handful of the Witnesses, making their memories my own, and in the process learning more than I ever wanted to about Horace Rollins and Althea Gage. Like taking charge of the house, this was hard but ultimately beneficial; if I am somewhat less carefree than I used to be, I am also more mature, closer to my nominal age. And for better or worse, I know my own history.

Perhaps the most surprising change is that Gideon now has the run of the geography. After what happened in Seven Lakes, my father wanted to send him to the pumpkin field; one of my first acts as new head of the household was to issue a stay of execution. I did keep Gideon confined to Coventry for several months, but after talking it over with Dr. Eddington, I decided I wanted to take another shot at socializing him. I reopened the escape tunnel between Coventry and the house bas.e.m.e.nt, and later on, after I'd cleaned out some of the junk down there, turned the bas.e.m.e.nt itself into a sort of guest bedroom for Gideon to stay in when he wanted to.

This attempt at rehabilitation has proved a mixed success. Gideon remains the single most disruptive force in the house. On his worst days, he continues to deny that the rest of us are real; on his best days, he is still a huge pain, constantly making trouble. He and my father refuse to speak to one another at all; on the rare occasions when Gideon attends house meetings, the two of them will only communicate through third parties.

It can be very difficult sometimes, but Gideon has made no further attempts to seize control of the body. I doubt I will ever be able to trust him enough to allow him out voluntarily, but the fact that I have "reintegrated" him into the household even this much is a source of some pride to me; and as good a proof as any that the house is, finally, in order.

Three letters came this week.

The first was from Mrs. Winslow, letting me know that she was finally ready to sell the Victorian.

"It won't happen right away," she hastened to make clear. "My plan would be to come back to A. Creek around Labor Day, look the house over & see what repairs need to be made, contact a realtor, pack up my remaining things, &c. With the downturn in the economy it will probably not sell quickly, in fact I probably should not try to sell it right now at all -- but that becomes a temptation to keep hanging on forever. . . in any case, you still have plenty of time to decide where you are going next."

The second letter was from Gordon Bradley, the now ex-police chief of Seven Lakes, Michigan.

No, he did not write to me from prison; despite his confession, Chief Bradley never served a day in jail for the murder of Horace Rollins. He'd been allowed to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter, and was sentenced to eighteen months' probation. As for what he'd tried to do to me and Penny, that was written off as temporary insanity and/or a huge misunderstanding, and he was never even charged.

I knew he was a free man, but I was still surprised to get a letter from him. After a largely incoherent opening paragraph -- which, I eventually figured out, was an attempt to apologize for almost drowning me in Two Seasons Lake -- Chief Bradley said that he'd heard from Oscar Reyes that I had finally established my ownership of the old Gage property. (This is true. A year ago, as a peace offering to Gideon, I contacted Oscar Reyes -- who else? -- and asked if it was still possible for me to inherit Althea Gage's land. He arranged it for a small fee.) "While I can well understand that you might not want to deal with me," Chief Bradley went on to say, "I am still interested in purchasing the property. Please let Oscar know if you would be willing to hear my offer."

Adam suggested I write back and tell Chief Bradley I'd sell the property to anybody but him, but the truth is, even after what happened, I don't feel especially vindictive towards him. I don't know what I feel towards him, frankly. I think what I am going to do is ask Oscar Reyes to sell the property for the best price he can get, and just not tell me who the buyer is. If Chief Bradley really wants to pay to own the ruins of my mother's house, so be it. The third letter I got this week, actually an e-mail, was from Penny in San Diego.

Subject: July 15th OK?

Date: Thu, 21 Jun 2001 8:08:51.

From: Penny Driver

.

To:

Andrew, Finally got a commitment for some time off so I can come visit. How does eight days starting on the 15th of July sound? Let me know so I can book the ticket.

Love, Penny.

Following this there was a break of about ten lines, and then: PS teLl Sam I f.u.c.king said hi. . . M "Well," said Adam from the pulpit, "this should be an interesting little get-together."

Sunday, June 24th, 2001, 7:35 A.M. (give or take a couple minutes): I am sitting in the Victorian's porch swing, drinking my morning coffee. I am not waiting for anything -- there's no mail today, and Penny isn't due for another three weeks -- I'm just watching the day get started, and thinking, not too urgently, about what I want to do next with my life.

I have my fantasies, of course, about what may happen when Penny finally does get here. I am grown up enough now to know that they are only fantasies, however, and thus cannot be relied on. The truth is it's been over a year and a half since I've seen Penny face to face, and while we have tried to keep in touch during that time, I don't have that good a sense of what she is like now (and if that P.S.

from Maledicta isn't just a joke, it may be that Penny doesn't know herself that well these days). So while I may dream of her inviting me to come join her in San Diego, I am not going to count on it.

Maybe we can do some fun things together while she is here, though.

As for farther in the future, after Mrs. Winslow sells the Victorian, I think I might travel for a while -- deliberately, this time. I'd like to see some more of the country, see if there's anywhere else I might enjoy living, maybe someplace where land is cheap enough that I wouldn't have to rent.

I find myself thinking about New Mexico. I know that's Aunt Sam's dream, and so maybe she's just found some way of sneaking her desires into my subconscious -- although Aunt Sam wants to live in Santa Fe, and I don't think I could afford to buy property there. Outside the city, though, out in the desert -- maybe there I could have a few acres. Build my own house out of adobe: why not?

"Oh yeah," says Adam, "and if you grow straw you can make your own bricks. You could get Julie Sivik to fly down from Alaska and help you."

OK, so maybe it's not a practical idea.

Still, I can picture what the house might look like: small -- one story would do, I think -- but with a big porch or a patio facing east, a place to take my breakfasts in the morning sun. Some s.p.a.ce around it, enough to plant a few trees, and a long open driveway that always lets me see who's coming. A garden out back. And inside, protected but not hidden, lots of shelves and cabinets and closets, so that everything I own, and everything I have yet to acquire, can find its rightful place.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

As always, I owe a lot of people, but by far my greatest debt is to my wife, Lisa Gold, who helped so constantly and in so many ways that she really deserves her own acknowledgments page. She acted variously as muse, sounding-board, critic, editor, proofreader, research a.s.sistant, best friend, cheerleader, business counselor, and general handler of things practical. Thanks, Lisa.

Thanks also to Michael B., whose questionable taste in women provided the initial inspiration for this story.

Thanks to my agent and second-greatest supporter, Melanie Jackson.

Thanks to my three editors: Dan Conaway, who got me going, Jennifer Hershey, who liked where I went, and Alison Callahan, who did a great job finishing up after Jennifer was lured away by a strange house.

Thanks to Brenda Cavender, for providing me with a truly amazing home to live in while I finished this book.

Thanks to Josh Spin, Greg Delaney, Neal Stephenson, Ellen Lackermann, Harold and Rita Gold, Susan Weinberg, Lydia Weaver, Elliott Beard, Olga Gardner Galvin, Michael McKenzie, Andrea Schaefer, Cynthia Geno, Lee Drake, Michael Alexander, Noah Price, Karen Carr, Lisa Fogelman, Jonathan Jacobs, George Coulouris, and Christodoulos Litharis. Thanks finally to the librarians, Web authors, and Usenet posters who helped answer my many research questions.

end.