Again there is silence. I cannot think how to reassure her; it does no good to say, “Don’t be frightened. There is nothing to be afraid of.” The things of nature have to learn that for themselves. They take no one’s word for it.

“Do you know who I am?” she asks at last, almost whispering, sounding older that way, not so girlish.

I do not know who she is, and now I, too, feel uneasy. Should I know? I feel pressure from her, an expectation that makes me uncomfortable. I recognize nothing about her, cannot recall meeting her, am sure she can be no one from the town. But still, and again I cannot say why, it seems important to be polite.

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t recognize you. Have we met?”

“A long time ago, yes,” and she looks at me, hopeful. “I suppose you might not recognize me now. I’m Kate.”

It is evident that she expects me to know her by that, and to make some response. But I do not know her, cannot imagine what she wants from me, resent this unspoken burden of hers. I feel the beginnings of anger, for this is my place. I want her now to leave, and I am abrupt.

“Please go away,” I say. “I don’t know you, I think you must have the wrong person. I do not know anyone named Kate, I don’t know what you want from me. I can’t help you.”

I start to turn away. The sun is very high, very hot, and I want to work in my garden, to pull the cool earth from underneath and spread it around my plants, to dampen and comfort them. In such heat they can feel burned.

But she does not go. I can feel her standing there still, watching me, and then I hear her begin to cry. Even so, or especially so, for I can think of nothing I can do about her pain and I want to be away from it, I do not turn back. I am still moving slowly, carefully away, when she speaks again.

“Kate, Mother,” she says. “I’m Katie. Your daughter. I’m your daughter. My name is Kate Phillips.”

I stop, but I do not turn back to her, not yet. Daughter? Someone from so far away, so far back that the time she comes from is no longer with me? A daughter. I consider the word, a strange word; I roll it in my mind, explore what it means, and finally I remember “daughter”; it is child. A nine-year-old, very thin, with enormous eyes, like this young woman who is here now. Daughter was that little girl. Can this person also be daughter?