"I still can't see you," the figure in the bed said to Bonnie. "You'll have to come closer."

Bonnie inched her way up the side of the bed. But someone was directly in her path, blocking her way, a young woman she knew intimately, she realized, stepping into the woman's shoes, a.s.suming her wary posture, the woman's breath tightening in her chest.

"I'm getting married," she announced, then waited. "Mother, did you hear what I said? I said that Rod and I are getting married."

"I heard you. Congratulations."

"You don't sound very pleased."

Her mother bit down on her lower lip. "So, you're deserting me too," she said.

"No, of course not. n.o.body's deserting you."

"You're moving out."

"I'm getting married."

"Who will look after me?"

"Dr. Monson said that you're well enough to look after yourself."

"I'm no longer seeing Dr. Monson."

"We can get a housekeeper."

"I don't want strangers in my house."

"We'll work something out. Please, Mother, I want you to be happy for me."

The woman in bed turned her head away and cried.

"Don't cry, Mother. Not now. Now is a time to be happy," Bonnie said, her voice ricocheting back and forth between the two mirrors, echoing against the stillness of the room. "Can't you ever be happy for me?"

"Sit down, Bonnie," her mother said.

The young expectant mother replaced the nervous bride-to-be. She perched nervously on the side of the flowered spread.

"We have to talk," her mother said.

"You should rest, Mother. Dr. Bigelow said-"

"Dr. Bigelow doesn't know a d.a.m.n thing. Haven't you learned anything in all these years?"

"He said you had a stroke, that it was worse than the last one-"

"I want to talk about my will."

"Please, Mother, can't we talk about it when you're feeling better?"

"I want you to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why I've done what I've done."

"What are you talking about?"

"I'm leaving the house to Nick."

"Mother, I don't want to talk about this now."

"He needs something to ground him."

"You're going to be fine. We can talk about this when you're stronger."

"He's not as strong as you are," her mother said, using Bonnie's words. "That's why he's always getting into trouble. You have to help him."

"Nick's a big boy, Mother. He can take care of himself."

"He isn't guilty of trying to kill anyone. You know that. You'll see, he'll be acquitted. Just like the last time. He won't have to go to jail. It's all been a horrible mistake."

"Mother, you have to stop worrying about him. It's not doing you any good to worry."

"He was always a handful," her mother said, almost proudly. "Not like you. I could always count on you to do the right thing. You're my good one." A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but the stroke had rendered much of her face immobile, and the smile refused to stick. "But, oh, how he made me laugh with his silly games. All the time shooting his gun. Bang, bang," her mother said, her eyes smiling even if her lips could not. "You understand, don't you, Bonnie?" her mother repeated. "You already have a house, and a husband, and a baby on the way. Nick has nothing. He needs something to ground him."

"Do whatever you want, Mother," Bonnie heard herself say. "The house doesn't matter to me. None of it matters to me."

"You lied, didn't you?" the figure in the bed asked now, reaching out to grab Bonnie's hand, to force her back into her own reflection. "You were always such a bad liar."

Bonnie tried to pull away, but the hand was too quick, too strong. She felt herself being tugged inexorably toward the figure on the bed. "No," she protested. "Please leave me alone."

"Look at me," the woman ordered.

Bonnie immediately shielded her eyes. "No. No."

"Look at me," the woman commanded again, skeletal fingers prying Bonnie's hands away from her face.

Bonnie's hands fell to her sides. She opened her eyes, stared directly at the woman in the bed as all the shadows of the past fell away.

Her mother stared back at her, thick brown hair pulled back and secured with an antique silver clasp, eyes as deep and as cold as an arctic sea, pale skin stretched tight across proud cheekbones, delicate upturned nose over an unconvincing smile. "You look tired," her mother said, securing the top b.u.t.ton of her white-quilted housecoat.

"I haven't been feeling very well," Bonnie told her.

"Have you seen a doctor?"

"Yes." She paused, swallowed. "I thought maybe you could help me."

"Me? How?"

"I'm not sure."

"Why did you come?"

"I wanted to see you."

"What is it you think I can do for you?"

"I don't know," Bonnie told her honestly, searching the walls for answers, finding none. "Did you know that Nick sold the house to Daddy right after you died?"

"He needed money for lawyers."

"You gave him money for lawyers."

"The house was too big for him. And besides, he loved to travel. Remember how he took off after college, went across the country on his own...."

"Stop making excuses for him."

"He's my son."

"I'm your daughter!"

Her mother said nothing. Bonnie found herself gazing into the mirror, confronting the endless repet.i.tions of mother and daughter that refracted back at her. Generations of mother and daughters, she thought, as close as their own reflections, and as unreachable.

"I didn't realize the house meant so much to you," her mother said.

"It isn't the house," Bonnie cried. "I don't care about the house."

"Then I don't understand."

"I care about you. I love you."

"I love you, too," her mother said evenly.

"No," Bonnie argued. "There was only room in your heart for one child, and that child was Nick."

"That's ridiculous, Bonnie. I always loved you."

"No. You depended on me. You counted on me. I was your good one, remember? I was the good little girl. The good egg, you used to call me. You relied on me. But it's Nick you loved."

"This is nonsense, Bonnie," her mother protested, aggravation tightening each word, like an elastic band. "I expect more from you."

"You always expected more from me," Bonnie told her. "And I always provided it. Didn't I? Didn't I always come through? Didn't I always go that extra mile?"

Her mother said nothing.

"All my life, I tried to make you happy. I tried to please you. I tried to make you feel better. When I was a little girl, I used to think maybe you were sick because of something I'd done, and I thought that if I could just be the perfect little girl and not give you any trouble, then you'd get better. Even when I was older, and I understood intellectually that your problems had nothing to do with me, I still thought I could make you well again. I made bargains with G.o.d. I promised Him everything if He'd just make you well again, if He'd make you happy. And after Daddy left, I felt even more responsible. I tried even harder. I cooked, I cleaned the house, I made straight A's in school. When Nick started acting out, I acted good enough for both of us. But no matter how hard I tried, no matter how much or how long I prayed, no matter how good I was, you didn't get better. You never left the house except to go to the doctor's. Do you realize that you never once came to see me in a school play? That you never met any of my teachers? That you never even came to my college graduation?"

"I was sick!"

"You were always sick!"

"And you blame me?"

"No!" Bonnie cried, then, "Yes! Yes, I blame you." She let out a deep anguished cry. "What kind of life was that for a child? We couldn't have friends over. We couldn't speak above a whisper. We couldn't play the radio loud or have pets or even fight. We had to be careful of everything we said or did in case it might upset you and you took a turn for the worse. The doctors kept urging you to get out of bed, to get out of the house. They told you you could lead a normal life, that you weren't an invalid who had to be confined to her bed...."

"Doctors," her mother scoffed again. "What good are they?"

"Well, you should know. You had enough of them. You changed every time one told you something you didn't want to hear. You always found someone new who'd listen to your litany of aches and pains, someone who'd prescribe more pills. Did you ever think it might be the combination of all the pills you were taking that contributed to your stroke?"

"That's nonsense. You know as well as I do that I had a heart condition...."

"A heart murmur. Millions of people have heart murmurs. They lead full, productive lives."

"I had allergies; I had migraines."

"You had a husband and two children who needed you."

"I tried my best."

"You didn't try at all!" Bonnie closed her eyes, felt the room spin. "You abandoned us long before Daddy ever did."

There was silence.

"It isn't the house I cared about," Bonnie said finally, corralling her thoughts into words, trying to make sense of all she was feeling. "I understood on a rational level why you left the house to Nick. I did. It's just that it made me feel so left out. So abandoned all over again."

Bonnie stood up, walked to the dresser, stared back at her mother through the layers of gla.s.s. "When I found out I was pregnant, I couldn't wait to tell you. It had been a lousy few months. Nick had been arrested. You'd had your stroke. And I thought my news would save you." Bonnie laughed. "After all those years, after everything that had happened, I still thought I had the power to cure you. And if I didn't, my child surely could. My baby would pull you through, give you the strength you needed, the will to live, the desire to see her first smile and take her first step. I convinced myself that you'd be there for my child in a way you'd never been there for me, that you'd be the perfect grandmother, knitting sweaters and baking apple pies." Reluctantly, she pictured Adeline downstairs in the kitchen. "But you couldn't even do that, could you?" Bonnie pressed on. "You had to go and die before Amanda was born. You never even allowed me the pleasure of showing you my child."

"You think I did that on purpose?" her mother asked.

"I don't care if you did it on purpose," Bonnie told her. "I only care that you weren't there, that you've never been there. Not for Daddy, not for Nick, not for Amanda, and certainly not for me."

Her mother folded her hands one inside the other, stared into her lap. "What's happened to you, Bonnie?" she asked bitterly. "You were always such a good girl."

"I wasn't such a good girl!" Bonnie screamed, watching the mirrors shake, jarring loose past reflections-the anxious adolescent in her white dress, the worried teenager, the concerned young woman in her early twenties, the nervous bride-to-be, the agitated expectant mother-watching them cower, cover their ears. "Do you know how many times I wished you were dead?" Bonnie cried out. "Do you have any idea how many times I wished your heart would simply give out?" she demanded, feeling her own heart rip, then tear, with the admission. "Do you know that as often as I prayed for you to get better, I prayed you'd go to sleep and never wake up? Oh G.o.d, I'm not a good girl. I'm not good at all." Bonnie collapsed by the side of the bed. She lowered her head into her mother's lap and sobbed.

After several minutes, she felt her mother's hand on the back of her hair, her fingers stroking her neck. "I love you," her mother whispered, her voice going faint.

"I love you more," Bonnie cried softly.

"It's all right," a voice was saying. "It's all right, Bonnie. Everything's going to be all right."

Bonnie slowly lifted her head, saw Adeline standing beside her, her fingers gently stroking the back of her neck. Bonnie looked at the bed, felt the sky blue bedspread flat beneath her fingers. The bed was empty. Her mother was gone.

"Your father and I heard you crying," Adeline said. "We were concerned."

"I'm sorry," Bonnie told her, wiping her eyes. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"No, don't be sorry. It's all right to be sad. It's all right to cry."