Miriam looks at me with eyes that show thoughts racing back and forth. Questions and doubts cloud her brown depths. It occurs to me that she has no reason to trust me.

"Miriam, I promise, I am as confused as you are. I truly have no real idea of what Karoline did or was up to or thought...I swear to you. I was kept in the dark and had my head too far up my own ass to look around."

My sister can't help but laugh. "Anne, after these last few days, my intuition tells me that you are completely trustworthy. To be honest, there was always a little voice in my head that warned me about Karoline. Something not quite right, a false note. But I ignored the signs. With you...we're part of a whole, you and I."

I turn and throw my arms around her. "I love you."

There's that L-word again. It's getting a little easier every time I say it.

"I love you, too, Sis," she says and I am filled with gratitude and joy.

"Let's go pretend we are interested in this alarm shit."

Several brochures and plans later, we make an appointment for the alarm company to return on Monday. We've decided to wire up the whole place and it's going to cost a fortune but I don't care. Despite her protests, we send Melody home.

"You've been working for nine straight days," I say. "And we need you for the powwow tomorrow. We can handle everything here for the rest of the day."

Finally, she concedes. Her car kicks up a huge spray from the driveway. A thick drizzle continues to plow into the wet ground. I wonder how on earth we're going to get to the powwow. Or if.

Miriam and I spend the rest of the day tending to our patients. Dembi sleeps through most of it, sucking on his fingers, regressed to infancy. Rolly curls up at his back. I am heartsick. My meddling has caused my brother's suffering. I wish I'd never found those fucking paintings.

We bring dinner but neither Dembi nor Meme eats very much. Miriam and I have sandwiches in the room as we watch them sleep. We are too overwhelmed and confused to even discuss the CoJon issue or Dembi's reaction or the powwow or Karoline. We just sit and stare off into our own spaces.

When it's dark I go to the parlor to call Ethan. The receiver feels even heavier when combined with tinny silence. The telephone is dead. I wonder if the storm last night has had anything to do with its malfunction. Miriam surmises that there's a line down somewhere. I feel so terribly empty, as though I am starving to death.

I go around the house checking locks before I head to my bedroom. Under the duvet I shiver and sniffle. My new awareness is not much fun. I try to remember if I ever felt depressed, sad or lonely in the past and I can't. I don't think I felt much of anything other than a flat level of satisfaction and smugness. I don't recall pure joy but I don't have any memory of this dreadful loss, either.

All at once I notice a profound silence. The rain has finally stopped. Now the creaks and groans of the dampened old house skitter back into my hearing.

I jump out of bed. My feet stick to the old hardwood and linoleum as I try to run on tiptoes up the hallways. At Meme's bedroom, I brake and peer around the half-open door. My mother and brother are sound asleep. The oxygen machine sounds like a third person.

I open Miriam's door. She turns over, blinking at my shadow, as sensitive to sound as I.

"Miriam," I whisper so she's not frightened.

She moves over and pats the other side of the bed. I crawl under the covers and snuggle up to her. She's warm and soft. I give a little mew of happiness. Being fully aware and fully alive is worth every low point. I am wrapped in my sister's arms, secure, loved. Strong together. I wouldn't trade places with anyone.

With a rush of insight I realize that I've never experienced this kind of relationship before. My 'sisterhood' with Karoline, or my friendship with Parris, never came close to my feelings for Miriam. When a sister is also your friend there is nothing like it. I know we didn't grow up together, but we shared a womb and that seems to erase all the lost years. My sister knows me better than anyone. She accepts who I am but helps me to aspire to my personal best, too.

I tamp down on the 'ifs', which threaten to keep me awake. If only Meme hadn't given us away. If only I'd never met Karoline. If only I hadn't gone out onto the balcony that night.

Once they are filed away, I drift off to a healing sleep, warm in the heat of my sister's body, wrapped in her unconditional love.

Dear Diary, Do you believe in the devil? According to a bunch of religions the devil is an angel that's been turned. A fallen angel. There's often some head guy who convinces everyone else to become a devil. Does this mean that angels are gullible and easily led? Why are they called angels then? Maybe they should just be called human, since human beings are, essentially, very stupid and easily duped.

Chapter 25.

The glorious morning speaks of a perfect day for a powwow. Not that I can truly picture what the word means. I step onto the porch with my coffee and breathe and listen. Squirrels rumble across the roof. Birds whistle and call from the willows and evergreens. It's a riot of noise, yet infused with a serenity that I've never heard from my balcony in L.A. I try to picture our apartment with Karoline alive in it and all I can see is a fuzzy glint. At my back the farmhouse pulses with life. With my new reality.

Dembi is quiet this morning, but his excited anticipation of the powwow appears to have overcome his anxiety.

Miriam and I tell him that we will take good care of the paintings. After the powwow we will all talk about them and decide what to do. We will protect him and Meme. He smiles slightly. Not his usual unabashed grin, but it's an improvement.

Dee arrives at ten and Meme is almost ready. The four of us are in her room, fussing over her dress, playing with her hair. Despite the paraphernalia that helps her breathe, she looks even more like herself, Elizabeth Johnston, the lovely Libby. Her face has signs of life that have been absent as of late. She has shape and substance again. Her eyes, a scant week ago sunken and dead, sparkle with joy.

Melody is astonished. She claps her hands and tears roll down her cheeks. I am amazed at her freely given emotions. It must be soothing to have such a gift. To never hold anything at bay.

"I can't believe the change in her," she says. "It's a miracle."

She puts a large, comforting hand on my shoulder. Her eyes say that she can't believe the change in me, too. I smile back at her and impulsively wrap my arms around her in as tight a hug as I can manage around her ample flesh. Dee is startled, but she returns the squeeze.

Meme wears a grey ponytail underneath a big red bonnet. The hat looks somewhat out of sync with her native dress, but it'll protect her from the sun. Her traditional garment's slightly musty odor speaks to the time it has spent unused in her closet. We have no idea where she got the outfit, but it's well made, hand-embroidered, and old. Squares of yellow, blue and white decorate the hem, sleeves and shoulders. A turquoise crest, bearing the outline of a bear on its hind legs, is sewn onto the front. She wears the turquoise moccasins that hung in the closet with the dress. Other than the oxygen tubes in her nose and the tank at her side, Meme looks resplendent in traditional native garb. She has crossed back into her matriarchal heritage.

Miriam and I wear sundresses, mine turquoise and hers pink. They're remarkably close in style considering we bought them in different countries. We represent the traditional mass consumer.

Dembi produces a fancy shirt that looks hand-painted. It's light cotton, streaked with red, yellow and white circles and flowers, matching Meme's colors. Accompanied by Dee in her voluminous green-leaf smock, I am sure we make quite the parade.

Dee has arranged for the rental of a large van to escort us to the powwow. It's well equipped for transporting a wheelchair. Our driver is a tall thin black man with long curly locks. The native influence is evident in his high cheekbones and long, narrow nose. His name is Viho, he says, as he effortlessly wheels Meme's chair onto the lift and tucks her skirts fastidiously around her.

"It means 'chief'," he laughs in response to our quizzical looks. "My parents really wanted to keep the native culture alive. Unfortunately, I'm not a chief in any way, shape or form."

We all laugh with him. Viho is immediately likeable.

Miriam decides to take her car, too. We are uncertain of Dembi. His behavior has not returned to normal. If he wants to come home early, or has a meltdown again, we want the freedom to return to the farmhouse. Or even race off to the nearest hospital.

Dee sits up front with Viho. Dembi buckles into the bucket seat beside Meme. I am in the middle. We wave excitedly to Miriam, turn left out of the driveway and take the new road into town.

It's quite a distance to the fairgrounds outside of Burford. All the fields we pass are full of puddles from the recent rains. Crops show their appreciation for the sun by pointing straight at the sky. Everything is a deep green, lush and thriving. All they need now is for the rain to go away for a while and let them grow.

There's a mix of beauty and ugliness in the scenery. A huge auto graveyard mars the land with rust and brokenness. Power lines thrust themselves through clumps of huge evergreens, cedars and pines, unsightly steel cable as umbilical cord to modernity. Purple flowers glow in the sunshine. Willow trees bow in their beautiful green dresses. A disused factory stares through leaded windows, its piles of brick, tin, rusted parts and empty trailers reminders of industrial hubris. Yellow wild grasses tickle the edges of the fields. Light green cabbages look like crayon lines. A small airport has shaved the land to replace it with strips of pavement. Yet the shiny silver bird that flies overhead through the rays of sun looks gorgeous.

I watch a graveyard whiz past my consciousness. Rounded, scraped, ghostly sentinels, the graves are spotted, aged, green with fungi. Maple trees, clover and dandelions paint the landscape. Somewhere a church bell rings. I am mesmerized and almost forget our destination.

A long line of cars on a dirt road alerts us to the proximity of the site. We're lucky with parking, however. A van for the handicapped has priority. Viho assists with the disembarkation. To my surprise, he plans to stay right with us, push the wheelchair over difficult spots and help with whatever we need.

I notice that he's especially interested in Miriam. As we follow Meme from the parking lot to the entry point, he maneuvers the chair so he is walking beside my sister. He talks animatedly about the powwow and its history. But I think he only does that so he can be near her.

The very large Indian fellow at the gate looks like an L.A. bouncer with his thick arms and massive head. I notice the signs warning against bringing alcohol into the park. I guess he's here to ensure compliance to the rules.

He makes a fuss over Meme.

"Libby! I'm Charlie's boy, Anton. Do you remember me?"

Meme nods and smiles her crooked grin. I'm not sure she really understands. Her lined brown hand reaches out to pat his, though.

Anton stares at the three-ness of us but he remains polite despite his obvious inquisitiveness. So it goes as we traverse the wooden planks that lead to the stands. Friendly Canadian greetings cannot quite mask the astonishment, shock and curiosity as our odd little group passes by.

Dee makes it easier. She knows everyone. Introductions are fast and numerous. I doubt that I'll remember any of the names or even the faces.

There is a huge crowd. Families, moms and dads with little ones, elderly parents, teenagers, young and old people are everywhere. Many are dressed in shorts and t-shirts but lots display traditional dress and wild colors. To my overloaded senses it's a sea of feathers, paints, beads and emblems.

The sun is already hot but it's not humid. The air is clear, rich and scented with damp flowers and leaves. Most of the water has run off this area, as it's surrounded by a dip in the land that leads to the river. The Grand rushes past, happily full, gurgling with contentment.

The stands form a circle around an earthen track. There are lots of entrances between the rows of seats, with one large one to our left. In the middle is a mound of very green grass and empty flagpoles. The bench on which we sit is in the first row, where Meme's wheelchair provides perfect sightlines without being in anyone else's way.

Viho sits next to Miriam with me on the other side. Dembi stays close to Meme. Dee disappears to find Tommy.

The air is charged. Everyone chatters away. The boards bend as more people hoist themselves onto the seats. Light little people spring all the way to the top, proud kings and queens of the castle. There's a feeling of anticipation that connects all of us.

Even Dembi is cheered by the excitement. Though he has not said anything, he stops flapping and his smile is genuine. Miriam points out that he has clamped a hand onto Meme's chair. As though he is anxiously hanging onto her. We are still worried about him. I feel that knot of guilt again.

Dee returns with Tommy. He's a foot shorter than she is, bald and bespectacled, but his smile is generous and fun. In his eyes we can see that he adores his wife.

Suddenly the ceremony transports us away from our worry about treasures or illnesses or the darkness of night.

First, the drummers enter the ring. One of them is a round, short native man. An aging wrestler who carries his drum like a featherweight. His fat fingers fly over the canvas, sending up a rhythm in perfect time with our collective heartbeats. He sports a beautiful white and orange-feathered circlet, cocked toward the back of his head. His vest, shirt, fringed pants and moccasins are lined with bright orange embroidery and beads. He looks fierce and magnificent. His face is a frown of concentration.

The second musician is a very tall black man who taps two bongos that add a lighter sound to the beat. He's scantily dressed, showing off his naked well-muscled chest already shiny with sweat. His only attire is a thick red and blue cloth that covers his rounded buttocks and obviously generous frontage. I try not to think of pulling on the string that holds these pieces in place. He is a breathtakingly beautiful male.

Next come two people who must be officials. One is dressed in a white t-shirt and modern grey slacks. The other is clad in a black t-shirt, pants and a baseball cap. Both are older but tall and trim, one black and one brown. Each of them carries an emblem perched on wooden poles. Next, a young woman in a red dress carries the Canadian flag.

On their heels come the dancers. They are all ages and shapes, male, female, black, brown and white. Babies in arms. Children traipse after parents or older siblings who know the routines.

The colors are astonishing, so vivid are they in the bright morning light. Deep reds, sea blues, fierce yellows. Bells and beads and shells and embroidery all mounted with artistic abandon. Feathers decorate heads or are carried as fans that are not just fans but part of the ceremony.

A melodious wave rolls into the circle, gathering strength as the number of people increase. I realize that they are chanting along with the drumbeat. The sound becomes a pleasant rumble that resonates in my blood. Miriam feels it, too. She grasps my hand in exhilaration. Perhaps everyone here experiences the same thing. The vibrations course through our bodies to connect mind and soul.

The dancers feel it most. They ride it. Dip forward in moccasined feet. Sway. Twirl. Tap the ground. Bring the chant from stomach to throat to air.

I close my eyes so the color doesn't sap any of the emotion. Every beat echoes in my heart. The wooden benches pulsate.

The parade spirals in on itself. There are layers of dancers now. They all follow the leaders. A chain that hops, leaps and steps. I open my eyes when the seats underneath us begin to spring up. People head for the track, summoned by both lead dancers. A deep voice reiterates the invitation through a microphone.

"Come celebrate with us. Join the chain. Join the dance of peace."

We can't take Meme's wheelchair onto the gravelly, muddy track, so the three of us stay near the benches. Viho, Dee and Tommy join the group. We're on our feet, though. We sway and hop around our mother. Meme smiles and moves her body from side to side as much as she can. We mimic the bend and step of the dancers in the center.

Briefly I wonder what my L.A. cohorts would think of me right now. Ethan and Parris would probably join in. As for the reaction of the rest of sin city, I put my head back and laugh with pure delight.

At first we don't notice that Dembi has halted all movement. He becomes a solid in our fluid motion. When Miriam stops and puts her hand on his shoulder, he goes into a frenzy again. This time he doesn't screech. His breath is pulled inward, mouth wide open. A mournful sound moans from his chest. He flaps and begins to slap his own face.

Goosebumps sprout all over me despite the heat. I look around for Viho but he has disappeared into the crowd. The chants and drumming continue to rise all around us. Dembi is frantic.

"Home?" Miriam asks loudly in our brother's ear. "Home?"

Dembi stops to look at her. She grasps his chin and forces his eyes to focus on hers.

"Home?" she repeats.

His head wags up and down in time with the beats. Continuous nodding replaces self-flagellation.

Miriam takes his arm and pulls her keys out of her shoulder bag. "Anne, I'll take him home. You stay with Meme. Take your time."

"As soon as I find Viho, we're coming, too."

I won't stay here while our brother is in distress. Especially since it's my fault.

She gives me a smile in return. The two of them disappear behind the benches. I look down at Meme and realize she hasn't actually registered the commotion. She's fixated on the dancers. She sways slightly. Conducts with her hands, thin arms in the air, a gesture of praise and joy. I decide she deserves a few more moments of happiness.

The chain of dancers forms into two large circles. Everyone faces the center grass where the flagpoles wait. I know that Meme can't see what's happening there but I'm unable to do anything about that. Until several large men, one of them Viho, arrive with grins and strength. They lift Meme, wheelchair and all, and carry her to the front of the crowd.

"Where's Miriam?" Viho asks.

He doesn't mistake me for my twin. The man is quick to notice the difference between my sister and me. He's definitely smitten. I have to put my mouth close to his ear to be heard.

"She took Dembi home. He's not feeling well. Once this part is over, I think we'd better head back, too. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all."

And I know why he doesn't mind.

We're in the middle now. There are three poles, thin sentries high enough to reach above the stands. The entire crowd can hear because of the microphone attached to several overhead speakers. As the drummers become silent, the chants begin to die. That same deep voice from the previous announcement enters our ears with precise, rounded syllables, a sound that both soothes and captivates.

"Today we celebrate this historic gathering through the rituals of the powwow. Three cultures, three faces, join the dance of life as brothers and sisters."

The short native leader, who has been standing very straight with the flag at his side, moves toward the pole and begins to winch it. Slowly the bright blue and white cloth catches the sunlight and moves toward the sky.

"The Mohawk flag of peace is more than appropriate for this occasion. White is the symbol of peace and goodness. Blue to signify the importance of this meeting. The eagle sits atop the tree of peace to guard against those who would bring evil. The silver chain represents our circles here today. We are strong and powerful when we remain together. We must continue to polish this silver with communication, respect and responsibility."

The flag now towers above us. A fluffy white cloud covers the sun briefly, bringing the colors and symbols into better focus.

Next, the tall black man clad in a loincloth begins to raise his flag. The voice directs our attention to the yellow wheel in the center of the purple cloth. Its spokes resemble the rays of the sun that is now almost overhead.

"The wagon wheel is the perfect symbol for today. Not only does it give tribute to the slave symbols sewn into quilts in the past, but it also represents our circle of peace and friendship in the present."

Lastly, the woman in the red dress begins to hoist the Canadian flag. She is tall, fair-haired and white.

"The Canadian flag proclaims our nationhood. We must all join together in community, law and good governance."

I notice that she says, "must all join", instead of "are joined". Even in Vera's 'perfect country', there are problems. People, I suppose, are flawed wherever we live.

"The inception of Vryheid was inspired. The African word means freedom. Former slaves and native people joined together to create a place where all men and women, black, brown, white and all shades in between..."