we've known each other forever.

Not that she knows everything, a fact that she's quite aware of.

Pretty young woman like you, spending so much time with an old lady like me, instead of out

51.

with your friends? That can only add up to one thing --.

you're hiding from something.

Said with a sparkle in her ice blue Scandinavian eyes. But her tone was 100 percent serious.

That's okay, honey. You know you're safe here with me. And if you ever want to talk about **

it, I'm a hell of a good listener.

Meanwhile, why don't I teach you to crochet? It's a lost art.

Sometimes, mid-slip stitch, I'll catch those sharp blue eyes poking at me, as if trying to pierce **

my armor. So far, they haven't succeeded. But, to tell the truth, once in a while they come close.

52.

Once in a While I catch something in her eyes, something not meant for me to see.

Something very close to what she sees in mine: fear.

Once, I gathered up all my courage, asked, "What are you afraid of?"

She sat very quietly for several long minutes.

fear.

Finally, she took a long, deep breath. Cleared her throat.

Nothing. Now. But I used to be afraid all the time.

I met evil when I was only child.

53.

It followed me for many years, through adolescence, into adulthood. I married evil, but it was nothing new and so I accepted it. It was wrong thing to do. Never accept evil as something you must walk with, something you deserve. Somehow. Do you understand what I mean?

I nod, because I do understand. I'm just not sure how to go about divorcing myself from the evil I've already accepted.

54.

This Afternoon Greta is in her room, napping.

Unusual. The pre-dinner hour is generally noisy, busy with afternoon activities designed to keep older minds exercised.

Card games. Sing-alongs.

Classes on memoir and poetry.

I almost always find Greta smack in the middle of it all.

Today she's under the weather.

I bustle around, doing assorted duties, every so often poking my head through her door. Shades drawn, her room is dark as a coffin.

And why did I think that, exactly?

That pulls my thoughts toward something she told me once, how she never really rested until she saw "that no-good son of a bitch"

laid down in the hard, cold ground.

I asked her who, but she was lost in reverie, stuck in some horrible memory, unable to extricate herself.

I saw something in her eyes, though.

Something that made me afraid for her.

55.

Hello? Miss Gardella? Sam calls from the confines of his wheelchair.

Would you mind giving me a push To the rec room? The arthritis is acting up something awful today.

I turn away from Greta's sleeping form, softly close her door. "No problem, Sam. Sorry about the arthritis." I give the brakes a nudge.

"Hold on tight. Here we go."

56.

One Problem About Caring For someone, especially someone who's getting on in years, is the likelihood you'll lose them too soon.

The nurse says Greta has a flu bug, nothing major, but just the thought of her giving in to death makes me indescribably sad.

I want to wake her, soothe her fever, tell her how much she means to me before it's too late.

Don't worry, says Psychic Sam.

No damn flu gonna take Greta down.

I nod, thinking about going "down," no last shot at redemption.

That will likely be my fate.

Done in by some viral villain, sent straight to the fiery pits, shackled by my silence, sentenced to spend eternity locked in a hot red chamber, no way to claim innocence and avoid an eternal dance with the devil.

57.

RAEANNE.

Mick Picked Me up And I made sure he kept me out extremely late. It's always desirable not to get home too soon.

I can't always manage it, though.

Daddy doesn't always cooperate, drink himself to a state resembling death.

Tonight Kaeleigh and I are in luck.

The bitter perfume of bourbon smacks me as I stumble in. It makes me thirsty. It's late, but never too late for one last shot. I tiptoe past Daddy's snoring, ease the Wild Turkey from the table. Can't really blame him for choosing redemption in a bottle. Two bottles, actually.

One holds 750 ml of amber liquid.

The other is small enough to fit in a pocket. Daddy has been sentenced to pain abatement a la OxyContin.

The accident was eight years ago and his doctor keeps refilling, like he doesn't know about Daddy's dance with the devil.

58.

Like I Care Truth is, I borrow a little Oxy every now and then too. Not often, though. It's expensive.

Daddy would miss it, even if his dimwit doctor didn't. I have to admit it's tempting.