Frank Lloyd Wright may have been Mr. Harmony-with-Nature, but our tour guide was wearing mascara an inch thick and gold strappy sandals. I guess if it’s your job, being natural must get tiring. Her name was Laura. She said her words of welcome, and off we went down some steps that had a birch railing, to a dirt path leading around to the house. To give her credit, Laura glanced once at the scarf on my head, knotted at the side like a pirate’s, and after that she treated me like everyone else, except I could see her deliberately slowing down and waiting for the three of us to join the group before she started her next talk. We were always the last ones.

July had been the month of hugs, starting from the moment Dr. Osterley said this new treatment might be doing the trick, and my mother exploded laughing and weeping at the same time. As for me, I searched Dr. O’s brown eyes for, I don’t know, some kind of sign that meant my body was mine again, but his were the eyes of a man who had seen everything and knew to hold himself back. Sure enough, halfway through August, just when I was daring to think about eleventh grade, the fevers started. The night sweats started. The bruises came. I was as tired as I’d ever been, tired as I would always be.

Robin had a very natural way of helping me. He put his hand on my shoulder as we descended, or around my back when we were on level ground, and he took my arm when Mom was on the other side. He carried the folding stool for when I needed a rest. He set it up, clowning around like I was a queen and he was a servant waiting on me hand and foot. I had no idea if Antonio was the kind of father who put his hand on your shoulder, or whether he would even want to visit a place like Fallingwater, let alone help me down the steps. Antonio would be much taller beside me, and when people saw us together they would know we were father and daughter. But the fact was, I liked Robin and sometimes I even loved him. There was no use wishing things were some other way.