“May I please have some water?” she asked one of the doctors, hovering above her with a light shining in her eyes. She realized that they were the first words she'd spoken in some time. The image of the desert was still with her, and her mind flickered with mirages of Mara.

“Sure thing, in just a minute. Can you tell me your name?”

“Maeve Jameson,” she said.

“Do you know how old you are?”

“I'm eighty-three years old.”

“Very good,” he said. Now he took her pulse, holding her hand for a maddeningly long time. Didn't he know what it was like to be terribly thirsty? And to boot, Maeve had an awful, chemical taste in her throat.

“Do you know where you are?”

She pursed her lips. He had her there. Last she remembered, she'd been at the Point. She had been in the garden, clipping roses. Clara had been there, and someone else. But then the wind had picked up, and the rain had started, turning into one of those blustery nor'easters when there was really nothing much to do but stay inside, warm and dry, while the storm battered the coast. She remembered pulling on a shawl because she was chilly. She'd gone to pick out a good book to read by the fire, but then she'd noticed how dusty the shelves were, and she'd started to dust. . . .

She looked around now. White walls, fluorescent lights, sterile environment. She decided to take a stab in the dark. “The hospital?” she ventured.

“Yes,” he said. “One more question. Do you know why you're here?”

She couldn't help herself; she nearly began to cry. Suddenly she remembered the dreams she had had of Mara. It was as if Mara had been right here, beside her. Holding her hand, whispering in her ear, giving her a sponge bath. Maeve thought Clara had been here too. But that was probably real. Of course Clara would come.

The dreams of Mara, though . . . such sweet dreams of love. Their special bond, as close as can be, all the secrets they'd shared through life, all the gardens they had planted, the years when Maeve had watched Mara growing up. The most beautiful feelings Maeve could remember having, right here in this hospital bed, dreaming of her granddaughter. But that's all they were—dreams.

“Young man,” she said, and her throat was so dry she sounded raspy and horrible, like a witch in the movies. “You're treating me as if I'm crazy.” She felt a terrible wave of fear. She probably was out of her mind. In and out of dreams, such longed-for reality, trying to pull Mara out of thin air. Had Maeve gone round the bend without knowing it? She could think of almost nothing worse.

“No. I'm sorry if it seems I've been vague. I'm giving you what's called a mental status test. You see, you've been in a coma.”