Someone sane would have waited for a stop sign, thrown themselves free.

Someone whole would have said no.

Get the fuck over here and don't give me shit.

I did as instructed. Worse, I liked that he told me what to do. It meant he cared, really cared.

Right? Whatever. "Did you score some bud?"

I asked, more to change the subject than anything.

Under the seat. Twist one up, okay?

We headed out Happy Canyon Road, only horses and cattle to mind our business. We could have gone home-- no one there--but I was still too mad for sex.

You know you want me. You'd take slimy seconds.

Gross. "Yeah, right. Like your pimply butt is such a turn-on." It isn't too pimply, and it's kind of a turn-on, but that was beside the point.

His hand brushed my left nipple.

You love it.

"Not while wondering who you're thinking about, Madison or me." I took a deep drag, held it. Took another without passing the joint, exhaling giant smoke puffs right in his face.

44.

Bogart. Pass that fucking thing over here.

So I did, and once we were totally buzzed he pulled off onto a dirt ranch road, parked.

No maid out here. Just birds and squirrels.

Defenses lowered by excellent bud, I said **

okay to a quickie. Totally in control.

45.

In Control Out of control.

Sometimes they're the same thing.

The trick is knowing that, realizing it's okay to feel out of control once in a while, as long as you're sure you can regain the upper hand when you absolutely need to.

And really, when it comes to my reclaiming control, it comes down to one simple little thing, something I sometimes have difficulty with: saying no.

46.

I've Got to Learn To say no, and not only say it, but mean it. In some situations, not always the right ones, I know, I'm strong.

Really strong. Tough, even. I guess, in a very odd way, I'm even something of a survivor.

But there are times when, much as I want to assert myself, know it's the right thing to do, I can't find the inner fortitude to follow through with a simple two-letter word. NO. One of the first words babies can understand, one of the first they learn to repeat. No. No, Mick, I won't let you treat me with disrespect. No, Mick, and I don't have to explain why I won't let you touch me this time.

Okay, so maybe I'm a little confused. Does being in control mean I have to cave in, have to crumble?

47.

Kaeleigh If Only I could say yes, Ian, get close to me.

But it's a place no one should ever be, and it would be cruel to let him think I'm strong enough to ever say yes, I need you.

I start toward the pink stucco building, see Greta at the window. She's a survivor, having defied the Nazis in World War II, smuggling Danish Jews into Sweden.

They almost caught us twice, she remembers.

But we outwitted them.

I can't comprehend that kind of courage.

Funny thing. My friends (what few real friends I have) don't understand why I work here at the Lutheran home. They think old people are lame. But they're not. They're awesome, and I know exactly why I think so. It's because they've lived entire lifetimes. Loved.

Laughed. Surrendered. Stumbled.

Weathered, beaten, still they don't crumble, not even as they inch toward death.

48.

I Work Part-Time Setting tables for dinner, washing dishes afterward, arranging flowers in vases, reading to those whose eyes no longer can. But the absolute best is when they share their stories.

There's Sam Lonnigan, who as a liberal-leaning broad- caster became snared by Joe McCarthy's communist witch hunt. Commie? No way, not that his true ideology ever came into play.

Miss High Fashion Spyre lost her modeling career when "skin-and-bones, raccoon-eyes Twiggy" hit the scene.

Till then, curves were hip, she complains.

Size subzero? Spare me!

Also sharing words of wisdom are a fifties test pilot, three retired doctors, one author, one poet, two politicians, one Olympic medalist, four domestic divas, and Greta Sorenson.

49.

Greta is my Faux Grandma It's nice having her take on the grand- parent role, because I never see my own.

Mom's father was killed in Vietnam.

Her mother, Grandma Betty, retired to Florida. She used to visit, but not since the accident. I don't blame her.

Daddy's father and mother divorced when Daddy was still in grade school.

The reasons were so ugly no one **

will talk about them. Other than a few creepy film noir-type scenes, I can hardly remember Grandma **

Gardella, can barely conjure her face. Daddy says she only ever came around looking for money.

When I asked what for, he clammed up completely, except to say he wasn't about to finance her binges.

Grandpa and Daddy haven't spoken in three decades. A few years ago I tracked Grandpa down,

50.

told him we were studying family genealogy in school. He had no clue Daddy was married, let alone about **

Raeanne and me. Sheesh. He sent us birthday cards for a year or two, until Daddy found out.

I'll never forget the fit he threw.

That sonofabitch better stay far, far away, or I swear I'll kill him.

When I asked him why, he had nothing substantial to say. I haven't heard a word from Grandpa since.

So I have a stranger for a grandma.

At least she was a stranger until we got to talking. And now it's like **