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Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. Epigraph
  4. I.
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. II.
  13. 1
  14. 2
  15. 3
  16. 4
  17. 5
  18. 6
  19. 7
  20. 8
  21. 9
  22. 10
  23. III.
  24. 1
  25. 2
  26. 3
  27. 4
  28. 5
  29. 6
  30. 7
  31. 8
  32. 9
  33. IV.
  34. 1
  35. 2
  36. 3
  37. 4
  38. 5
  39. 6
  40. 7
  41. 8
  42. 9
  43. 10
  44. 11
  45. 12
  46. 13
  47. 14
  48. 15
  49. 16
  50. 17
  51. 18
  52. 19
  53. 20
  54. 21
  55. 22
  56. 23
  57. 24
  58. 25
  59. 26
  60. About the Author
  61. Also by Joyce Carol Oates
  62. About the Publisher

Finally, after a pause, Monica spoke.

She said, gripping the receiver tight, that she very much doubted that Sheila wanted to be dead. “Think of how dull it would be,” she added.

Sheila agreed. But the problem was how to get through the next hour, the next half-hour, the next five minutes. “If I can manage that I can manage anything,” she said slowly. “One breath and then another and then another. . . .”

“Yes,” said Monica. “One breath and then another.”

“And once the show is over . . .”

“Yes.”

“Then, then . . .”

“Yes.”

“Then I’ll be free,” Sheila said. “And I’ll make it up to you, all you’ve endured for my sake.” She paused; Monica could hear her harsh quickened breathing. “I’ll be able to love you then,” she said. “I can’t love anyone now. But then . . . If you don’t betray me . . .”

14

Monica took an entire day off from school—her excuse being, quite legitimately, she thought, a sick friend—a friend who needed her help—and drove Sheila to Philadelphia, to her doctor; but, as Monica was parking her car, Sheila informed her suddenly that she couldn’t see the man; she wouldn’t see him. He would only tell tales about her, making out that she was sicker than she was, and, in any case, she wasn’t sick: she felt fine.

So they sat in the car and quarreled.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. And Monica’s voice shook, and Monica began to cry, and Monica screamed at her, finally, why hadn’t she thought of any of this before, back home.

“. . . I wanted to please you, Monica,” Sheila said softly. “I know you’re angry with me and I wanted to please you, it was all for you.”

Monica made an appointment with a young doctor in Edgarsville whom someone at school recommended highly, but, this time, she was shrewd enough to make the appointment without telling Sheila. And, promptly at 9:00 in the morning, she arrived at Sheila’s studio to tell her that she was scheduled to see a doctor at 10:00 so would she please get ready, they were leaving immediately. Sheila protested feebly, but acquiesced. And this time she actually saw the doctor: Monica waited a good forty-five minutes while she was examined: and when she finally emerged she was smiling, reproachful, triumphant: she told Monica that it was as she’d expected all along, she was in exemplary health.

“Don’t you have to go to a hospital for tests?—for a blood test, at least?” Monica asked doubtfully.

“Not at all,” Sheila said. “My blood is fine.”

“You’re sure—?”

“My blood is fine and I am fine,” Sheila said.

Driving fast along the curving country roads, her head ringing, her eyes glazed over with fatigue, Monica thought suddenly: Both of us might die.