Lydia broke off, seeing Roger Older’s face suddenly transposed on the boy. And Roger Older looked hurt. He thought she was yelling at him. Oh, dear. What was he saying? She strained to hear.

But Roger Young yelled, “Okay, Ma,” and turned toward the kitchen, grinning; he was going to … going to … “Oh! no—”

“What is it, Mama?” Roger Older asked, bending down. She tried to say, “I can’t tell you now. You’re going to spill—”

“Oh!” Lydia cried. The pop spilled all over her papers. Were they ruined? She had to clean it up before the party. Her arm swung out, knocking a glass of water off the tray that was attached to the wheelchair.

“Oh!” Lydia cried again. The wetness shocked her. “Look at what you did.” She scowled at Roger Older. Again her words were garbled. In the hospital-like room she couldn’t make her tongue work right, although in the kitchen she had no trouble.

Anna laughed, almost hysterically. “I think she’s bawling you out for spilling the water—”

And Lydia thought: what the hell is going on? She’d seen this room before, but hadn’t realized that she was in it. Yet she was. Of course: she was seeing it through the eyes of the old woman in the wheelchair. But how could this be, when she was simultaneously a young woman in the kitchen, just before the birthday party for Anna? Her own thought made her grin. Now just how did you put a kitchen before a birthday party? Or in front of a birthday party? The party, then, had been years ago. Yet it was going on now. If she could do … what she’d been doing—whatever that was—then she could catch the party in progress.

“Don’t you know me, Ma?” Roger Older asked.

She glowered at him. Of course she did. What a stupid question. If he’d just stay one age at a time, it would make things a hell of a lot easier. Here she was, trying to figure out what was going on, and he wanted to know if she knew him. Just like him!

If she was losing her mind, she was certainly losing it in the craziest way, she thought; then she realized that she wanted a cigarette. “Smoke.” The word came out in a croak after she tried to say “Pall Mall” and “cigarette” without success.

They all stared at her. Ninnies. Patiently she made pantomime gestures of smoking. God, they were stupid. Didn’t they understand anything?

“You can’t have a cigarette,” Mrs. Only said, finally. “You might burn yourself.”

“Even if we watch her?” Roger asked.

“Well, all right.”

Roger—bless his heart—gave her a cigarette. Her fingers just wouldn’t do what they were supposed to do to hold it, though.

“Look out—she’ll burn herself,” Anna cried.