Monica had been mistaken, she wasn’t recovering, she was getting sicker, rapidly, deliriously. It intrigued her to think that her bones would soon poke through her skin—pelvic bones, collarbone, ribs. It intrigued her to think that that protective envelope of skin, her skin, might soon dissolve; and all of the world would rush in.

Now she might have telephoned for help but she was too weak.

A call placed to the Jensens in Wrightsville, Indiana—but she was too weak.

Too weak also to defend herself against Sheila Trask: Sheila towering over her: forcing her way into Monica’s solitude where she wasn’t wanted.

For, suddenly, Sheila was here; and the very air quaked.

For, suddenly, Sheila was running up the stairs, shouting Monica’s name, frightened, angry, banging into the room. Monica, Monica for Christ’s sake?—what have you done!—she sat heavily on the edge of the bed, her weight was a shock, her hand on Monica’s forehead unnervingly cold. “Are you sick?” Sheila cried. “You are, you are!—oh God,” staring at Monica incredulously, “—how could you have done this to yourself!”

Sheila’s hand was cold and dry and forceful but Monica shrank from that terrible accusing voice.

“I’ve been hearing such things— I’ve been in New York— Why didn’t you ever answer your telephone, God damn you—” Sheila cried. “You’re a virtual skeleton, you’re burning with fever, you must be dehydrated,” she said, panting, as Monica regarded her through sleep-gummed eyes, too exhausted to defend herself. Sheila’s face was dark with blood, her eyes very nearly glittered with rage, with disgust, she leaned over Monica saying, “Why didn’t you answer your fucking telephone don’t you know I’ve called and called and now—now—now when I haven’t any time to spare—”

Monica made a feeble gesture of dismissal and Sheila seized her thin wrist and squeezed it hard, hard. How she would have liked to pummel Monica, how she burned to slap that burning face, hard—!

26

Monica would protest, Monica would insist that Sheila go away and leave her alone, but she is too weak; and in any case Sheila is too excited to listen.

For Sheila Trask must have her way, no matter the grief and shame to Monica.

Such theatrics, such melodrama: an ambulance speeding along the sleepy country roads, spinning red light, siren sounding intermittently, Monica bundled in white and strapped securely in place, tears scalding her cheeks. She is going to die, she is not going to die, not if Sheila Trask has her way, and Sheila Trask must have her way.