“Yes. What time is it?”

“Six o’clock or so. Aren’t you hungry, Mother? You didn’t have any dinner.”

“I’m fine. I have a headache, that’s all.”

“That’s from not eating. Can’t I get you something?”

“No, thanks. Go back to bed.”

“What was your nightmare about?”

“I don’t remember. What was yours about, the one you had the night of Dad’s accident.”

He smiled. “I’ve forgotten now.”

“There you are. Nightmares are so ridiculous and meaningless that they don’t even stay with us for very long. Did I wake your dad and Franny too?”

“I don’t think so. I haven’t heard them moving around down there.”

“All right. Try and get another hour’s sleep.”

I touched his cheek. It was smooth. Had he shaved recently? He was shaving once or twice a week then. My own cheeks were still burning, as though they had been in contact with rougher ones.

“Do I seem any different to you, Duff?”

“You look a bit feverish. Do you want me to get you some aspirin?”

“No, I guess not.”

“Why do you lock your bedroom door, Mama?”

“Nerves. A strange house.”

“It shouldn’t be that strange now.”

“I’m still getting used to it.”

He left and I closed the door, but didn’t lock it again, afraid that he would hear. Then I sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, trying to work up enough courage to go to the mirror.

What I saw when I managed it was not much different, I was certain, than what I could have seen eight hours before. My cheeks were reddened, and my chin, but that could’ve been because of my state of excitement. Also, there were the marks of a restless night—bloodshot eyes with bags under them. But there was nothing else, nothing like what I had seen before in the mirror.

What had I seen then? Was it really someone so unlike me? The nightgown was the same—even in my terror I had noticed that—though it hadn’t fitted me as well as it did now. The woman who had worn it then was bigger boned, with broader shoulders and larger breasts.

Her face was nothing like mine either. Hers was wider and her nose was longer and less tilted. Her lips were fuller, more sensual, her eyes were dark brown and so was her hair. Also it was longer, much longer than mine.

It was Margaret Dorn, I was sure of it. I wondered if there was a portrait or photograph of her anywhere in the house, but then I knew I didn’t want to find any such thing. I didn’t want proof. I told myself I couldn’t be certain. Probably I had been thinking of Margaret Dorn, worrying about her possible presence in the house, and then my fear could have caused the hallucination.