"But I am a widow," she repeatedly told her psychiatrist.

"You weren't really married, and you were manipulated into an unhealthy and abusive relationship. You won't improve until you accept that."

"I knew him far better than you ever could. And I loved him. And he loved me. Those are the facts."

"Your delusions are standing in the way of your improvement." Dr. Hildebrand was extremely tall, extremely thin and grey all over. Grey hair, grey eyes, greyish skin-except in ski season or once when he took off to the Caribbean for two weeks, when his face turned paprika red. They detested each other. She guessed she represented something that irritated him, maybe a daughter? He had two, she could tell from a photo on his desk. She knew why she detested him: he was trying to force her to revise her life, to turn against Blake, to forget she had been for a time really loved. He considered her attempt at suicide a sickness; she thought it common sense.

She glanced at the fading scars on her wrists. She liked to wear sweaters with sleeves short enough so she could see her razor cuts. If they ever faded completely, she would feel she had lost her last link with Blake and the visible proof of her suffering, her shame. They would not let her wear her wedding ring-it had been taken from her.

At first when she was shut up here, she fantasized about escaping so she could finish the job. That would prove to everyone that she had really loved Blake, that they had been meant to be together, that she saw herself as the outlaw she was and that she knew she was doomed. As time passed, she thought about suicide less, but it was still a scenario she cherished when she was more than usually bored. Karen promised that when she finally got out, she could live on the farm in Vermont. Melissa appreciated the invitation, but what would she do there? What would she do anyplace? It would not be fair to kill herself on Karen's farm-her aunt would suffer and be blamed-but she had not come up with a better idea of where to go and what to do with herself. Not that the decision was imminent. She was not getting free soon. If she could go anyplace she chose, then she wanted to be with Emily. Emily was in her senior year, but they could still live together after Emily's commencement.

No one, not even Karen, would understand that her life was over. She had lived it all in a year and a half-meeting Blake, falling in love, getting married, losing him, burying him. She had done it all. She was really much older than the others her age in Mountain View. How could Jon interest her? He was just a kid from Cambridge, Massachusetts, who had taken too much Ecstasy and freaked out his parents, both college professors. He had kissed her once when she was too surprised to stop him, but he had no idea how thrilling that wasn't.

She dreamed about Blake often, and when she woke up, she recalled the dreams in as vivid detail as she could, over and over, until she had memorized them. After a while, she was not sure whether a memory that surfaced was from her life before the institution or her dream life here. Last night she had been with Blake in a forest with tall evergreens, needles underfoot like carpeting. They had been lost, but it had not mattered. If she was with Blake, how could she be lost? She was only lost without him. She wished they would let her have a photo of him, but that too was forbidden, as if she didn't have a right to a picture of her own husband. He had loved her, no matter how much they all wanted to deny it.

At some point, Dr. Hildebrand told her, she must face what she had done and come to terms with it. He was a fool. She had been done to. Her husband had been shot in front of her and died in her arms. She did not think about the other stuff. She had nothing to do with that. Sometimes she saw her father lying on the floor bleeding from his chest, with Rosemary holding him, but she veered from it at once. Twice when she had not pushed it away quickly enough, she had thrown up. No, she had done nothing wrong but try to bring her husband and her family together. It was like Romeo and Juliet, the Montagues and the Capulets, the way Emily and Nadine had said. And she, like Juliet, was supposed to die. She saw that clearly, saw her own death before her like a stage play she could watch over and over again, the way she replayed her favorite videos like My Little Pony when she was a child. If they caught her talking to Blake, they would increase her meds again till she was a zombie. She was on four different meds anyhow. She was numb sexually and she hadn't had a period in three months. She had briefly hoped she was pregnant, but no such luck. She so did not need any heavier meds. She had known she could not be pregnant after so long, but she hoped for a miracle, as if her body might have secreted some of Blake and hidden him within.

In the meantime, she had five minutes to get ready for the attendants to march them to food service. She brushed her hair hard and reapplied lipstick and checked herself out in the mirror. She always sat with Jon and Boo, so she wanted to look good. She'd heard too that there was a new guy just out of the preliminary solitary where they kept new "residents" for the first weeks. Then they'd watch MTV together and maybe dance. She was getting to be a better dancer. Blake and she used to dance together. She would imagine him watching her. Jon and the new guy would eye her, because she and Boo had worked out this new step that was really sexy. There wasn't much else to do in here, except work out new ways to wear her hair, new ways to dance, try to bring up memories so vivid that she wept, secretly. Study with the lame tutor who was supposed to be teaching her history or something. She had been coaching tennis, thanks to all the lessons she'd had from Karen when she was growing up, but soon it would be too cold to play. They had a tiny indoor pool reeking of chlorine, but she wasn't allowed in it. They thought she might try to drown herself. It looked about as exciting as swimming in a sewer.

Death and trivia, she said to herself, as she gave her hair a last brush. That's all we have. But at least she had her gang of friends here and that was something. They were all in rebellion from their parents, so she wasn't an outcast, no matter how bad Rosemary and Dr. Hildebrand tried to make her feel. Everything had gone wrong, but she had only wanted to bring her two families together. That was all she had wanted. It wasn't her fault, that terrible dying, the blood, the two of them suddenly gone and never to be again, even if sometimes, when she woke up at night, she shook with the pain of it. Maybe it was better she was on all those drugs. They kept bad things a little distance away, even if they didn't always work. She brushed her hair harder. Guilt was like a slimy pit, but she would not fall into it. No. She would go downstairs and eat with her friends and then dance and maybe watch TV later. That would be okay. Guilt was outside pushing in, but she would not let it in. Not yet.

About the Author.

MARGE PIERCY is the author of fifteen novels, including Gone to Soldiers, The Longings of Women, and Woman on the Edge of Time, as well as fifteen books of poetry, including The Art of Blessing the Day, The Moon Is Always Female, and Circle on the Water. She lives on Cape Cod with her husband, Ira Wood, the novelist and publisher of Leapfrog Press.

Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.

PRAISE FOR MARGE PIERCY.

"A rich, insightful, and disturbing morality tale.... The Third Child is Marge Piercy at the top of her form, writing full stream ahead."

-John Nichols, author of The Milagro Beanfield War "Riveting-extraordinarily magnetizing characters-a bold and galvanizing story."

-Booklist.

"A compulsively readable storyteller."

-Library Journal.

"A biting, contemporary take on Romeo and Juliet and an acidic commentary on Washington political culture."

-Publishers Weekly "Piercy never writes anything less than first-class novels with a great deal to say about how we live now."

-Bookaholic.

"Promising blend of romance-shallow political commentary, and bang-bang thriller."

-People "Piercy-knows how to keep the reader intrigued."

-Hartford Courant.

"The pull of the narrative is strong-absorbing."

-Los Angeles Times "A phenomenal story-very provocative and resonates with passions."

-Bookreporter.com.

"The story's magic takes hold."

-Newark Star-Ledger.

* ALSO BY MARGE PIERCY *.

Poetry.

Colors Passing Through Us The Art of Blessing the Day.

Early Grrrl What Are Big Girls Made Of?

Mars and Her Children.

Available Light My Mother's Body.

Stone, Paper, Knife Circles on the Water (Selected Poems) The Moon Is Always Female.

The Twelve-Spoked Wheel Flashing Living in the Open.

To Be of Use.

4-Telling (with Bob Hershon,

Emmett Jarrett, Dick Lourie).

Hard Loving.

Breaking Camp Novels.

Three Women Storm Tide.

(with Ira Wood).

City of Darkness, City of Light.

The Longings of Women He, She and It Summer People Gone to Soldiers Fly Away Home Braided Lives.

Vida The High Cost of Living.

Woman on the Edge of Time Small Changes.

Dance the Eagle to Sleep Going Down Fast.

Other.

So You Want to Write:.

How to Master the Craft of.

Writing Fiction and the Personal Narrative.

(with Ira Wood).

The Last White Class: A Play.

(with Ira Wood).

Sleeping with Cats, A Memoir.

Parti-Colored Blocks for a Quilt: Essays.

Early Ripening: American Women's Poetry Now: An Anthology.

end.