With every surgery, until the bandages were off and the bruising and swelling went down, Nola prayed very hard, and little by little, it happened. The tightened skin around the left eye relaxed, and the red patch across the nose and cheeks paled and smoothed. Jenna got better and Nola didn't even have to give up her voice. Like Dad had said, it helped to want something very much. Now Nola wanted very much to be a famous singer. When Nola was small, Mom said, people used music to convince the government to stop killing innocent people in Vietnam and sacrificing tens of thousands of American soldiers. Music could change people's opinions, Mom said. Songs like "Where Have All the Flowers Gone" and “Bridge Over Troubled Water” had moved governments. The power of music hadn't stopped with the Vietnam War, Mom explained. There were new causes for music to take on. Now it was about giving women equal rights, which was an amazing thing not to have if Nola just thought about it, Mom said.

One winter afternoon, when the sky was getting dark at four, the belly stove was sending its heat into the room, and Nola's parents were talking about the Equal Rights Amendment, Nola rested her head in her Mom's lap. Mom hadn't cried once since her return from the hospital the year before. Nola looked up at the pale cheeks, at the smile playing on her mouth. "Can Jenna move back home?" she asked.

Mom jerked and shoved Nola's head off her lap. "Jenna's fine where she is."

"But you don't even know her!"

Dad touched Nola's shoulder, and when she turned, she saw his eyes blinking fast, telling her to shut up.

"She's adorable and she's all better. No hospitals or anything," Nola gushed.

"We'll talk about it another time." Dad pulled Nola toward him.

It was so unfair. Even the social worker who came to talk to Dad said that Jenna was better off with Miss Helga. How could that be? Miss Helga was a witch. Secretly, Nola called her "Mini-Nazi." The woman had eyebrows that zigzagged when she spoke, and she never ever smiled.

Mom collected any old shoes and began working on a collage. She painted them in metallic copper and bronze, and after they were dry, placed paper flowers or river-polished pebbles or stuffed condoms in each. Dad said this was great art. Mom said it was self-expression. Nola didn't understand how anyone could express anything but her own self, but didn't say it because, with so many shoes to work on, Mom would be busy and smiling for a long time.