And breathlessly, joyfully, she saw the transition taking place. She’d imagined a trailer by the ocean; herself, fairly young, there alone, writing poetry (not, as in her last life, marrying and having children, with poetry second-best), but going it alone as—funny, she thought—Josef wished sometimes that he had.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, for the trailer grew up around her, formica-topped table in front of wide windows, a fake geranium partially faded but so homey, notebooks piled on the leather built-in benches. She peered out the window: The trailer was only feet from the water. “Oh, God!” She ran out, twenty and barefooted, so delighted that she thought she was—well, alive, and that the ocean would be visited by tourists at least occasionally, just when she felt like company. And she’d pretend that she had just one space and time to contend with. And she wasn’t going to budge, she told herself, until she was good and ready.

Chapter Thirteen

Between Ages: Lydia Meets Tweety and an Old Love

Lydia sat in her trailer, glowering. The ocean at her doorstep sparkled in sunlight. A few palm trees were visible in the distance; she was drinking coffee and she smelled the aroma. She was gloriously, triumphantly young, having chosen to be twenty-three after hours of changing back and forth, studying the subtle differences between each age from twenty to thirty. She was inspired enough; at least she’d been writing poetry. The scene, her own image—everything was perfect, the epitome of everything she’d always wanted. But she wasn’t happy.

Who would read her poetry, for one thing? She was lonely. Between worlds. She felt dissatisfied with herself, as if she were still wanting a certain kind of understanding; as if she were really only half aware of the realities about her. Now and then she sensed vast activity, all around her, but beyond her reach or perception.

Yet to be born again seemed to demand more courage than she possessed, she thought, and her pilgrimage to the gods was dependent upon Seven’s help (for without him, she seemed to get nowhere in her search), and Seven had disappeared once again. She suspected that he was letting her stew in her own juices.

She had sons and a daughter still living, but it was difficult to understand that now, Lydia thought. They seemed like storybook people. That was because she related better to poetry and to the natural world than she did to her own family; it had always been hard for her to take people seriously.

“You’d better hurry up,” a child’s voice said.