She traced her quivering fingers along her face, down her chin and throat. She had developed the infamous old woman’s turkey neck.

“It’s not me,” she said again. Tears spilled out of the corners of her eyes.

She cupped her breasts through the thin fabric of the nightgown. Both of the girls, as she used to proudly call them, sagged like deflated balloons.

Hot tears ran down her face and plopped onto the sink.

She was seriously ill and needed medical attention. She needed to be admitted to a hospital. Her mother’s home remedies were failing her. Why hadn’t she been able to see that? Why was she allowing herself to waste away?

She sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

She also needed to shower, but she feared she couldn’t manage the task without some assistance. Her mother would have to help her.

Afterward, she would put on a good wig, and lots of make-up. Then get out of the house and take in some fresh air, try to feel somewhat human again for a little while, and get to a hospital.

She was sick of being stuck inside, like a prisoner in her own home.

She ingested her daily dose of anti-inflammatory medicine, and shuffled out of the bathroom on achy knees and swollen feet.

Troy had already left. She didn’t remember seeing him go; she must have been asleep. The clock read half-past nine in the morning. How long had she slept? Thirteen hours or so?

She couldn’t remember any more. When she tried to focus intently on any one thing, her thoughts got fuzzy, as if her brain lacked the power to concentrate.

The bedroom door swung open. Her mother entered, pushing a cart laden with covered dishes.

“Good morning!” Grace said. “It’s time for breakfast in bed for my sweet, lovely daughter.”

Monica’s stomach churned with hunger, but she was distracted by how fabulous Grace looked. She wore a tight yellow kimono-style outfit with green highlights, and matching heels. Her thick, jet-black hair cascaded to her shoulders in luxurious waves. Her complexion was radiant; save for her ruby-red lipstick, she wasn’t wearing any makeup.

I don’t understand how she does it, Monica thought. It makes no sense.

Slivers of memory surfaced in her thoughts. Something from last night, involving Grace and one of her children. Something Grace had said to her. She couldn’t recollect any of the details, but the fragmented memories gave her a vague sense of discomfort.

“Last night,” Monica said, her voice cracking on the words. “You said something to me . . . can’t remember . . .”

Grace clucked her tongue. “Bad dreams, my dear, only bad dreams.”

She wheeled the cart alongside the bed. She began lifting lids off plates. The delicious aromas of eggs, bacon, biscuits, and hash browns filled the air.

“I want to go to the hospital,” Monica said.