It was her first realization that she, Kate, wasn't the center of the universe.

She still couldn't understand, now that she had started looking back over the accumulated impressions of years, why nobody had noticed anything. The days dragged along one after another, and she felt she was walking in her sleep, walking in a nightmare that had been going on since before the beginning of time and had no end. There was the exhausted sinking to sleep every night and the waking to terror every morning. The unasked questions. How did you know if you were getting a baby? She had seen neighbor women rounding up and swelling out—but she had heard, too, the guesses about wives who were still board-thin. How did you know in the beginning? Would other people know before she found out what was happening to her?

Then the scary thing happened to her. At first she thought it was part of having a baby. Or maybe it was a punishment, something terrible that was the matter because of what she had done. Maybe God hated her and made this happen so she would be ashamed and guilty in front of everybody. It scared her so much that on the second day she told Ma about it. She had to, even if it meant Pa would beat her to death—and Paul, too.

Ma was as embarrassed as she was, but she didn't seem to think anybody was to blame. She explained that this happened to all girls when they started to grow up and become young ladies. Kate would understand it better when she got older. "You must never let a boy touch you in a way that isn't nice," she said, not looking at Kate, "because after this happens, you might get in trouble and have a baby. Young people are tempted sometimes—"

"Not before it happens?"

"No, why?"

"I just wondered."

She felt weak and shaky. All the furniture in the room looked dim and far away. She started to cry. Ma frowned at her. "Don't be silly. It's nothing to make a fuss over. Just remember it's not nice to talk about it. Now come on and I'll give you some things to use."

She was saved. She felt the same hollow lurching feeling that had hit her when Martha pulled a chair out from under her, once.

The grown-up Kate stood up, moved mechanically to the window and looked out at the vague shapes in the night. Nothing to look at, she thought, catching at anything that might turn her thoughts away from that troubled child. But they kept on, blinding her to the world beyond the window.

So that's it.

How did I forget it for so long?

Liebermann told you, remember? The last time you went—the time before you had to quit going. When a thing gets to be more than you can bear, you push it into the back of your mind and forget about it. People forget what they want to forget. But it's there all the time, waiting for you to open the door on it.