"I don't think she enjoys it."

"No, no-you're right. Enjoyment doesn't really apply in Vera's case. You know, your mother used to call every day at Bakunin."

"Really? No one told me!"

"Mimi took the calls. She'd rea.s.sure your mother that you were okay, then after about three minutes she'd start clicking the b.u.t.ton and moving the receiver away, pretending they were losing the connection. Your poor mother never caught on. I don't know how you came out so together, living with her."

"My grandmother lives with us too. And I'm not together. You saw how not together I am, when you left me that letter."

"Yes, the story of my miraculous conception. Dad always communicated that way, through letters and notes-even when he was living with us. He'd hide them in books he thought Vera would read, or under her dinner plate ... I guess they couldn't communicate directly-Vera was like on Morse code or something. Dad got really drunk once, when we were up here, and he went out naked in the canoe ... but that's another story."

"Did you ever ... you know, look for the notebook?"

"What do you think?"

"I wouldn't..."

"You would, if Vera was your mother."

"But Patrick never did," I said. "I hope you don't mind that I asked him."

"Did he know about it?"

"Yes, he knew, but he has no interest in reading it. He says he never will ... Why is Patrick so untouchable?"

You stared into s.p.a.ce and ashes from your cigarette fell on the bedspread. "I don't know. He was like that even when he was really young. Once, we were all sitting around the Christmas tree, our grandparents were there too-they flew in from London. Dad was being friendly, and he put his hand on Pat's thigh. Pat jumped as though he'd been electrocuted. He went all white and I thought he was going to strangle poor Dad. Instead he left the house, took a taxi to the SPCA, and came home with Woofie."

"That's strange."

"Yes. He was always easily embarra.s.sed, though. Always shy. Maybe he got it from Vera. I can't remember her ever kissing or hugging us. She probably did when we were little, but I can't remember it. She was nice to us, but it was Dad we went to for affection. We climbed on his lap. At least I did. I remember that, climbing on his lap, inspecting his ears and his beard."

"You know, Patrick pretends the two of you aren't close. But when I see you together ... you act like brothers."

"I never know what he's thinking. No one does, he doesn't open up."

You stubbed out your cigarette on one of the rails of the bedstead. Then you removed the damp towel, which in any case had come loose, and slid under the sheet, lay flat on your back again. Something dark and foreign had flapped around between your legs for a second, before I averted my eyes.

"You read plays together?"

"Yeah, he was a smart kid. I took him to movies, taught him pool ... we did things together. Then Dad left, and I left right after. That was probably hard on him, both of us leaving around the same time. Just him and Vera and that creepy Davies in the huge house."

"Your mother once interpreted a dream for me."

"Really? What did you dream?"

I described the fox dream-the creatures gutted out in the opening shots of a movie, the instruments on the table, the evolutionary progression from creature to creature until at last I was the one on the table, blonde and unfreckled, and then the t.i.tle of the movie coming on the screen: The Fox The Fox. I added a part I'd neglected to tell Dr. Moore-the cinema I was sitting in: I was the only one there, and the seats alternated between sickly light blue and primary red, and they were made of a revolting, absolutely revolting, kind of plastic.

"You mother said I wanted to have guts, and fun, and to be foxy."

You shook your head and said, "Poor Vera, she tries so hard, but she always gets it wrong. That dream is about your future, Joan. You're going to be looking inside people, inside yourself. You already do that. You don't realize how different you are-everything with you is on a level most people don't even know exists."

"I know I'm weird," I sighed. "Where's your father now?"

You shrugged. "Who knows? He ran away, he could be anywhere. Vera wouldn't let him in, she wouldn't let anyone in. She drove him mad, in the end. Maybe that's what Pat's so angry about-that she hurt Dad so much. Even though he'd probably be lost regardless. That's just the way he is."

"My mother's the exact opposite. She's nothing but emotions," I said. I, too, lay down, suddenly tired, but I didn't slide in under the sheet. I didn't want to touch your naked body.

"You know, not saying a word, like Vera, and going on and on like your mother-it comes down to the same thing. What I can't figure out is why they decided to stay alive. What's the point of living, if it gets bad enough? Why torture yourself? Maya, can I touch you? Would it freak you out?"

"I don't know."

"Can I try?"

"Yes."

I shut my eyes and sank into waves of pleasure. With my serviceable scarf I'd only ever managed to quell the sensations brought on by dreary homework and imagined rescues. It turned out there was more to it.

You said, "I've never seen anything like this. You were born to come. Here, I'll show you how to do it yourself." And like someone outlining the features of a car, you gave me a lesson in anatomy.

"I didn't know it was so easy," I said.

"The things they don't teach in school ... Will you touch me too?"

I shook my head. "I can't. I'm sorry. I had a boyfriend, Earl-it was such a disaster. We never even kissed."

"It's okay, Maya. Not all women like guys. Are you in love with Rosie?"

"Yes. Maybe we should try. Maybe I should try."

"Be sure first."

"I'm sure. I want to try."

I didn't mind kissing you, it didn't feel like s.e.x. It felt like saying h.e.l.lo, only more intimate. I didn't mind your hand on my body either, or letting you see me naked. But when you tried to come closer to me, you were suddenly as alien and frightening as the reflection in a mirror of someone you know is not there.

I can't change the plot. I can't change that moment. The moment that could have saved you, saved everyone-maybe. When I felt your leg against mine, I moved away involuntarily and, covering my face, I began to cry.

"This is terrible, Maya," you said, drawing the white bedspread around your body as if protecting me from contamination. "Don't cry. Come on, don't cry. Everything's fine."

"There's something wrong with me."

"No, there isn't. There's no plan, there aren't any rules."

"I'm a total misfit in every way! Starting with my height, my family, and now this. I can't even have s.e.x properly."

"I promise one day you will. It just has to be the right person."

"I'll never find that person."

"Of course you will. You're just a kid."

We were silent for a while, though it didn't feel like silence. Then you said, "Let's kiss again. You don't seem to mind that."

You were right, I liked how you kissed me.

"I'd be afraid to do drugs," I said. "Aren't you?"

"It doesn't matter any more."

"What do you mean?"

A strangled sob shook your body. I didn't know what to say. You were suddenly very far away. You sat up, swung your legs over the bed, walked to the window.

"Dark night of the soul," you said in a low voice.

"You're too thin," I said. "You should eat more."

You didn't answer. Then you said, still looking out the window, "I have something to tell you."

"What?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow."

"Where are you going?"

"To find out what Calley did in My Lai," you said.

"Can't you stay a while longer?"

"I don't think so. I thought I could, maybe, but I can't."

"Don't go too far. I think Gloria will be back."

"Even if she came back, I have nothing to give her," you said.

"That's crazy," I said. "That's just not true."

You turned around and said, "You want to connect to others on a deep level, Maya. Most people don't want that-they're too afraid."

"Yes, I like to be close."

You said, "You almost make me want to stick around, just to see what happens to you."

I said, "Yes, you should stay. Didn't you say you have three weeks off work?"

"Let's get some sleep."

"Okay."

I don't know when you fell asleep. I turned on my side and you draped your arm around my waist, as you did long ago in my room, and I dozed off instantly. I dreamed I was planting flower seeds that turned into paintings when they blossomed, and I was mixing them in interesting ways to create the effect I wanted. I was happy. I thought you loved me and that you'd always be my friend.

But if you'd really loved me, Anthony, if you'd cared about any of us, you wouldn't have been so heartless.

I woke up to the sound of voices calling out to us. I dragged myself over to the window and squinted into the morning light. Two cars were parked on the road, a station wagon with imitation-wood side-panels and a small, two-door car-a Fiat, I think it was-that looked like a toy, with its white body and bright red crescents above each wheel. Jean-Pierre, the lead singer with the tanned midriff, was conferring with his friends next to the station wagon. I recognized most of them from the supermarket parking lot and the band at Cheri. They were holding towels and bags of pretzels and bottles of soda water and beer.

I dressed as quickly as I could and ran downstairs.

"Hi, there-we thought to visit," Jean-Pierre greeted me with a shy, cajoling smile. Did he know the shyness was charming, and could only help his cause, or was he really unsure?

"Great," I said. "We're not all up, but why don't you go down to the beach-we'll join you there. You know, we saw you at the nightclub. You were really good."

"Thanks, man."

They dropped the drinks and bags of pretzels on the front steps and made their way down the gra.s.sy slope to the beach. I heard them whooping as they splashed into the water.

I was heading back inside when someone behind me chirped, "Let me give you a hand!" A girl holding two tall bottles against her chest trotted up to the porch. "We'd better put these in the fridge, if there's room. We can go on tiptoe, so as not to wake anyone. I'm Karen-Glenn's sister. We're visiting from Toronto-Jean-Pierre's our cousin. Glenn went down with the other guys. They're such frisky puppies."

Karen hadn't been on the joyride with her brother Glenn and the rest of the gang. She distanced herself from hippie culture; she had no interest in it. She was sixteen or seventeen, square-jawed, practical. Even her bare, mosquito-bitten feet looked practical, with their long, ungainly toes. Her auburn hair was tied in a ponytail and she was wearing a denim wraparound skirt and a canary-yellow blouse. Under the blouse her b.r.e.a.s.t.s seemed ready for reproduction and children without the complications of desire. Though I'd never met anyone like her, I knew she was the more common specimen, not me. Everything about her was designed to rise above obstacles; life was merely a series of tasks to be tackled with good humour. And I wondered, almost in awe: was it really that simple, after all?

"What's your name?" she whispered, as we picked up the bottles and brought them inside.

"Maya. It's okay, you don't have to whisper. I'm sorry it's such a mess here."

"Oh, this is nothing compared to Glenn's room," she a.s.sured me. "I can help you clean up."

"I'll be right back," I told her. I hurried upstairs to brush my teeth and wash up. I didn't want to leave Karen by herself for too long-she was an energy conduit, and I was afraid of what she might do on her own.

She had already started collecting dirty dishes when I came down. "You don't have to clean up," I told her. "You should go swimming with everyone else."

"It won't take a minute. It'll be fun. Is there a broom somewhere?"

Together we collected garbage, piled dishes in the sink, let them soak in hot, soapy water. Watching Karen I understood for the first time the satisfactions of efficiency. It was mesmerizing, the way she lifted rugs, shook them out, then swept thoroughly. Unlike my mother's achronistic campaigns, Karen's tidying had a beginning and an end.

"This house is great," she said, emptying the dustpan into a plastic grocery bag. "Does it belong to Patrick?"

"It's his mother's. How long are you here for?"

"Oh, we always come for five weeks. We pack up as soon as school's over and stay until the end of July. Our mom misses her sister and the family. We have five birthdays close together so we celebrate them all together in a big party. You should come." She began pulling plates out of the soapy water, wiping them with a wet cloth, and setting them on the rack. I wondered why she didn't mind that the dishes on the rack were still dotted with soapy foam.

"Anything around here to dry with?" she asked.

I found a dish towel in one of the drawers and began drying the unrinsed dishes. Maybe the towel would absorb the soap along with the water.

"Thanks for the help," I said.

"It's nothing."