"Well, thank G.o.d for that," he said. "You kids always loved my special sauce. How about I grill this weekend?" The question hung like darkness in the air as Myla watched Jane's back flinch at "you kids." Myla wanted to stand up and put her hand on Jane's shoulder, to tell her not to worry, that she could hear these things, but Myla didn't move.

"That would be great," said Myla, smiling.

Steve leaned back in his chair. "You're looking good."

Myla looked down at herself, cased out her grown-up body. Her arms seemed too long, so she folded them against her. "Yes. I've been fine."

"See, that's the problem, Myles. You haven't been good. You've been fine."

She opened her mouth to justify the habitualness of the phrase, but Steve put up his hand. She'd forgotten how hard it was to argue against him. "Where've you been?" he asked. Myla could see that Jane was focusing her whole attention on the chopping of the knife against the wooden board. Jane wasn't going to interfere, and each chop seemed to resound with her determination.

"I'm sorry." Myla looked down at her folded, too-long arms.

"Don't apologize, Myla. Just tell me what happened."

She waited for a way to explain it. She'd rehea.r.s.ed this conversation for over a dozen years, and it had always started with her proudly standing up for her decisions, glancing Steve's questions off her shiny sh.e.l.l of self-confidence. In her imagination, the conversation hadn't gone like this. "I changed my name."

Steve nodded. "Well, we figured that much out." He turned to Jane. "Didn't we?"

Jane was turning on the stove. "We looked for you. When we heard you'd left college, Steve was certain you'd transferred somewhere else."

"I knew you wouldn't give up on your smarts," he said.

Myla nodded. "Well, you were right. I've been telling Jane, I teach medieval English. I'm trying to write a book. I guess that isn't much of a shock."

Steve laughed. "Well, we weren't hungry for a shock. We just wanted you to come home." He reached across the table and freed one of her hands. "Now that you're home, you can explain it all to us."

Now Jane came forward, and Myla could see that she was speaking to Steve, directing him, even though she was looking at Myla. "You must be wiped. I'm whipping dinner up, and then you can relax." She knew Jane was giving Steve her a.s.sessment of the situation: Myla would be here for a while, so Steve should stop pestering her.

Steve took the hint. "You've always known you have a home here, Myles." He stood and pecked Jane on the cheek. "I'm going to go freshen up," he said.

Once they sat down and ate, Steve didn't ask any more big questions. The windows in the dining room were open, so in drifted the late-spring sounds of kids biking home from the park, of people barbecuing on their back porches. Jane related all of Myla's news to Steve. He listened politely to Jane's rendition, then asked Myla some questions about her research. She obliged. The candles became the only light, flickering against the walls. Then it was nighttime, and Steve told stories about his Dumpster-diving adventures for the recycling firm, Jane talked about her students and their literature projects, and Myla saw the evening from outside. From outside, this gathering would not look unusual. Someone would see a family, and after all, this was family, and not just anyone's. This was her family. They wanted to be this for her. The solidarity was foreign, yes, but it gave her back her name. Jane and Steve said "Myla." They said "Myles." She liked this. She liked it all the way to bed.

RUTH CALLS US ONE SAt.u.r.dAY and says, "Guess what, guys, I've got a show!" There's a gallery downtown interested in her photographs. She says they're interested in everything: the first portraits of horses and jockeys she took when she was living in Kentucky, and the ones she's taken since she's lived in Oregon, and now the photographs of Myla and me. "My camera girls," she says to me when I'm on the phone.

Myla takes the phone from my ear and asks, "Does everyone at the gallery wear black and talk like the Beats?" Then she laughs at whatever Ruth says back. I don't hear it. But then Myla puts the phone to David's ear and says to him, "Ruth wants us in the show, David."

David's face is all listening. He keeps the phone by his ear and smiles down at me. He says, "Wow, Ruthie. I'll talk to them, see what they say. Great. And Ruth? Congratulations! You've hit the big time! Okay, bye now." Then he looks at us. "Well, it looks as if your mugs might end up in Ruth's show. How about that?"

Myla sticks out her tongue. "Don't call them mugs." Her nose wrinkles up. "Call them countenances, call them visages." Then she giggles.

"So what do you think, Pru? Do you think it would be okay to have your picture hanging in a gallery?"

"Like a van Gogh portrait, Pru-y, think of it!" Myla says, and twirls toward the fridge like a prima ballerina.

David says, "Ruth said you guys can look at the ones she's thinking of proposing to the gallery, and I guess the gallery'll make the final decision. But she also said"-and here he reaches out his arms and pulls me onto his lap-"that you don't have to have your picture on any wall if you don't want it there. And Prudence, she means that. I know her. If you don't want your face on the wall, it doesn't have to be there."

I know I want it hanging there, and that scares me a little. What is it in me that wants people to see my face? But then I realize-it's the part of me that's been working with Ruth for what feels like forever, the three of us, a team of artists. So it's not exactly that I want my picture on the wall, and it's not exactly that I don't want it there. It's that I don't want to know that having a picture on the wall is what makes it real. I want the moment to be real. I don't want the picture to fall into anyone else's life but my own. But I know I'll say yes. Myla twirls around the sun-bright kitchen and winds me into the yes I know I'll give.

chapter eight.

when Myla woke up, Steve was sitting at the foot of her bed. "Good morning," he whispered. She wondered why he was whispering if she was already awake; she heard the soft hushing sound of the shower.

"Good morning," she managed as she pulled herself up into sitting.

"I'm on my way to work," he said by way of explanation. "But I wanted to make sure you'd be okay." He glanced over his shoulder, and Myla realized he'd be in trouble with Jane if she saw him in here bugging her.

"Oh, I'll be fine."

"There's a spare key in the second plant to the left of the door," he said. He hesitated. "You won't leave, will you?"

The question stuck her like a needle. She shook her head. "No. I promise."

"Good." He was still looking at her, and she knew he didn't entirely believe her.

"Look," she said as she climbed from bed and crawled over to her bag. She'd waited to show him the notebook because she hadn't wanted him to think the only reason she'd come was to pick his brain. But now that he wanted a.s.surance that she'd be staying, this notebook was the closest thing to a guarantee she could give. She pushed it into his hand, and he opened it.

"David's handwriting," he said.

"Yes. Some lawyer called me and gave me this, insisting it was my inheritance." She looked at Steve and saw the question before he asked it. "It's full of notes."

He nodded. "Do you want me to take a look at this?"

It was like shorthand, talking to Steve. "If you can. I tried to understand it, but it was too far out of my league."

"Okay. Just keep in mind that I'm no art historian. Most days I just nodded like an idiot while he spouted theory." The shower turned off. Steve looked over his shoulder again and shrugged. "Have a great day. I've got a light day at work, so I'll get a chance to look at this-I'll let you know what I can by tonight."

Myla heard Steve pattering down the stairs, then heard the bathroom door opening as Jane emerged from the steam. It was clockwork, this world, and comforting. How strange to find safety here, when safety was what she'd been looking for everywhere else. A nagging concern flared at the back of her mind: maybe this wasn't real safety, maybe this was just a convenient kind of laziness. She knew that no matter how much she wished to rest, now wouldn't be the time for it. Things would inevitably get harder.

For one thing, here was a day alone with nothing organized. This was the very thing she'd avoided for the last thirteen years: a day off, with no research, no cla.s.ses, no notebook. A day with nothing but her own mind. There was room in her for pondering-time for remembering.

And like that, a memory came rushing in. A conversation with Ruth. They'd been inside; it was raining. Just the two of them. Myla felt her mind swerve away from thinking about Pru. This was a day between her and Ruth.

Ruth, tall and lovely. Slowly, Myla let herself remember the woman she hadn't seen for over a decade. Saw each detail just for a moment, before the glimmer of memory moved away. Ruth had been beautiful. Myla had treasured sitting behind her and brushing her thick black mane that thickened with each pa.s.sage of the bristles. On nights when Ruth was gussying herself up for one of her infamous dates, she always let Myla select nail colors from the drawer devoted solely to beautification, and while Ruth showered and plucked and powdered and dabbed, Myla would scrunch up in the corner and paint each of her own toenails a different color. After her showers, Ruth would slather lavender-scented lotion all over her body. Then she'd carefully choose a pair of earrings from the hundreds hanging on the wall, asking Myla's advice. And finally, before she left the bathroom, she'd always dab a tiny bead of rose oil on each wrist. To this day Myla was always distracted when a woman walked into a room smelling of rose oil.

In this specific memory, Myla must have been twelve, because it was just before Ruth's first gallery show. On this day the rain had cozied them up with a pot of tea and a package of gingersnaps, and they were talking about Myla's school. They were by the window in Ruth's front room. Myla remembered the distracted feeling of speaking and watching as rain streamed over the pane. The speaking and the streaming kept each other going, and she remembered knowing with certainty that if the rain stopped, her words would have to stop too. She was telling Ruth about the Robert Herrick poem her seventh-grade teacher had made them read, "Upon Julia's Clothes." Ruth was impressed. Myla had it memorized.

"Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes!

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, -O how that glittering taketh me!"

"Myla, that's lovely. What does it mean?"

"Well, he loves Julia. And it's pretty simple; he's watching her walk in her silken clothes. But it's more than that, I think. It feels like you can hear her walking, doesn't it? She's so beautiful, and he loves watching her dress move over her. Because under that, she's naked. And he wants to be the clothes." Myla looked up at Ruth, and Ruth was frowning. "Or. Something. I don't know. That's just my opinion."

"No, no, it's fascinating. I was just thinking how smart you are."

Myla wished Ruth would stop frowning. "I'm not that smart. It's just David or something. It rubbed off on us."

"And your mom too. She was a poet and a painter. Sarah was a talent."

"I guess." Myla didn't want to talk about her with Ruth. It felt funny. It felt like telling someone a secret when you knew you shouldn't. "Anyway." Myla felt strange. She shouldn't have recited the poem. She felt like a show-off, as if she and Ruth had been standing on the same side of a river and the poem had pushed her to the other side. So that now, looking at Ruth across the table, they seemed miles apart.

But then Ruth spoke. "Myla, you and your dad have so much to say about everything. It's amazing. It makes me wish I was like that too. But I just see things. I see them, and I live in a time when the camera's been invented, so I take pictures. But I don't have a mind like yours. I've never thought about a poem."

"Sure you have. I bet you read poems in school."

Ruth waved her arm in the air. "Sure, but I'm talking about something different. How did you hear that poem and know what it means?"

"I don't know." Myla didn't. "I just know what it means. You must feel that way about something."

"Pictures. That's it." The rain got harder. Myla pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders. Ruth went on, "Okay, my pictures may be a little like poems. They may have metaphors. Only simpler."

Ruth turned from the window where she'd been watching the sky growing darker. She looked right at Myla then. "Let's say I want to take a picture that shows how you, Myla, have all these thoughts inside you, all this inner life. You're a fascinating child with profound ideas. Maybe you do something with your body, like stretching out your arms. That can represent you reaching for your dreams, or something like that. Or-here's an example-you know that sister picture I took of you and Pru last summer? Out in the backyard-the one where you're in the sundress and Pru's dripping wet? It wasn't until I printed it that I saw the story, and it's not even your story or her story. It's a narrative all its own. And it's very simple. There's this older girl who is tall and dry and clean, and then there's this younger girl who is wet and wild and messy. And the younger girl desperately wants to be as big as her sister is, and is reaching so high to prove that she's as old. Above her, in the s.p.a.ce that her head can't fill, there happens to be a bird. And that bird is a metaphor for all that soaring she'll do when she finally grows up. But it also makes the viewer long for childhood just as she's longing for adulthood, long for that simple place in the past where a bird stood for significant things, like the future, or hope, or ambition. For that time in their lives when simple objects were simultaneously themselves and metaphors."

Ruth shrugged. "See how simpleminded it is on my end? It feels so reductive. Most of what I know about my work comes long afterward, when I can see the pictures that work and notice trends between them." She laughed and brought her hands together. "I must be boring you. Really, trust me. I am not smart the way you are, the way David is." Then she thought for a minute. "It's just frustrating to me sometimes, that the creation of the photographs is so haphazard. That I never know if a picture is going to be good until I see it."

Myla thought. She asked, "What do you want the pictures to say?"

Ruth smiled at her, and that smile brought them back together. "You always know the right question to ask. Just like your dad. But it's a hard one." Ruth shook her head. "I don't want them to be overtly political. But I want people to see that you girls have a glorious life. That you're beautiful because you've been taught to think for yourselves, to trust yourselves. To trust your bodies."

Myla nodded. "I think that's what they say too."

"Good," said Ruth, pouring more tea. "Now let's just hope the bigwigs in the art world think that!"

Ruth's saying that reminded Myla that the photographs were going to become public. That her life with Pru was going to be seen as something of an example, something for people to envy. If Ruth had asked whether she wanted that, she would have said yes a hundred times. It was a strange feeling, to hope you might soon be famous. It made her glad to be in here, in the warm, instead of outside, in the sloshy gray day.

WE WEAR NEW LONG DRESSES to the opening. Mine is white with tiny pink flowers, and Myla's is blue and yellow. David took us to Nordstrom himself and let us pick them out. He usually never takes us shopping; mostly we go with Jane and Emma, and he gives us a fold of money and says, "Don't spend it all in one place!" But when he took us to Nordstrom, we knew he was doing something special. That's why we picked out the nicest dresses we could find.

We drive slowly by the gallery because we're looking for parking. Myla's in the front seat and she keeps pointing out possible places to park but there are always fire hydrants or driveways. Then she gets mad and says, "We're going to miss it if we don't hurry." David puts up his hand and says, "Honey, I'm doing the best I can." So we circle around again and I watch them up in the front seat. Their bodies are little fighting shoulders and heads, getting harder and harder the longer it takes. Myla keeps sighing and exasperating until David says, "Okay, girls, why don't I just drop you off and I'll come in when I find parking?" I don't want to leave him, but Myla knows I'll say that so she turns around and glares. I unsnap my seatbelt.

David drives away, and Myla and I walk to the crosswalk and wait for the light. Myla is a bird now, fluttery and looking at all the people crowding the gallery entrance. I think it looks kind of boring because there are only grown-ups going in. Maybe Emma will come and I can show her around, but then I remember the fight between Jane and Ruth. I hope Emma can come anyway.

When we get close to the gla.s.s doors, all I can see are people with winegla.s.ses, and Ruth was right, they're all dressed in black. Myla pushes hard against the door, and the door handle jangles a bell, and the people standing by it turn and look at us. Myla ignores them and strains to see Ruth, moving us into the swish of legs. But I turn around and can see them pointing at us, mouthing.

Then Myla's found Ruth, and Ruth comes and hugs us. She hands us each a cookie from the refreshment table and says, "Come look at the show, you guys." A couple of men she was talking to turn and walk away.

The first picture is of an old man's back, moving away. He has a coat on, but you can see the tiny hairs on his neck, like little tree trunks close up. Then there are five pictures of horses: two showing just the horses' heads, three whole horses with their jockeys standing next to them. These are in color, and big on the wall. They make me feel almost like the horses are in the gallery with us. They look like velvet and chocolate at the same time, and I bet touching the pictures would feel good.

David comes in and catches up with us. We keep moving around the gallery; there are pictures of horse faces, and ears, even one of a hoof. Then we come to the pictures of us. The first picture is of Myla lying down, and in it her backbone is like the curve of a road. One picture is of the two of us standing side by side, from last summer, and I'm next to Myla's shoulder. It's a sister picture, and when I look at it, I remember how good it felt to run in the sprinkler that day when the sun was burning down. And the next picture is from last summer too, taken in our living room, near the window seat. We are lying on the floor, because it's cooler and the rug is soft under us, and I'm looking at the picture of my mother. I can remember the sun hitting my back and the way it made things feel sharper and softer at the same time. And then there's a picture of us in our dresses the first day we posed for Ruth. That one's funny; when I look at it, I can see I was only three years old, but when I remember it, I think about myself being big, even though it was almost four whole years ago.

It is a strange thing to see myself on the wall. All these people looking at us makes me see myself a new way. I see that the pictures are pretty, that they're pretty because I'm pretty, and that makes me feel like a show-off. People gather around us but sort of far away, and someone asks Ruth to introduce us. So she uses the names we've talked about, our middle names, the names we are in the pictures. "This is Rose," she says, pointing to Myla. "And May." The people shake our hands. They think they know us.

WHEN JANE CAME HOME, Myla was finally sitting again. She'd been on overdrive since morning, anxious that this tangle of memories might be too much for her, hungry to hear Steve's estimation of David's notebook. So she'd cleaned Jane and Steve's home, realizing only halfway through that they might think it odd to find her mopping their floors, doing their laundry, scrubbing down the kitchen sink.

The other thing that had set off her restlessness was the round of calls she'd made to Mark, again with no answer. She was beginning to worry about him. She'd tried once before bed last night, then called the hotel to pa.s.s on her forwarding number and address. After waking up this morning, she'd tried Mark again, then driven into town to pick up her things. The front desk insisted there'd been no calls. So she'd frenzied away the afternoon immersed in housework, trying to keep her mind safe from concern about Mark and memories of her past.

Jane laughed when she came in the door and saw the vacuum cleaner uncloseted. "I was wondering how you were planning to entertain yourself."

"I hope it's okay," said Myla. "It's not as if your house was dirty or anything."

Jane touched her arm. "Steve told you this home is your home. You can do whatever you want here. Besides," she continued, once again pulling their conversation into the kitchen, where she put the water on to boil, "it's in your blood. I can remember your father coming over one summer afternoon when Steve was away doing some research. You should have seen David, the way he fixed the back porch light and trimmed the hedge. It was how he took care of us, and you and Pru were such help to me. You, I remember, helped me fold all of Emma's baby clothes one particular afternoon."

The memories pressing in on Myla formed a question in her mind, one she didn't know she had. But she knew that if she didn't start asking questions, she wouldn't start getting answers. So she said, "Jane, did Pru and I stay with you right after our mother died?"

Jane didn't skip a beat. "I can't believe you remember that! You were both such itty-bitty things. Yes, in fact, you did. For nearly two months." She touched Myla's arm. "Your father was devastated when Sarah died. He wanted to be able to take care of you two, but Pru was only a couple of months old at the time. And you were five, so you still needed a significant amount of parenting. Not to mention that your father refused to take a leave of absence. So Steve and I took you for a while. It was a pleasure."

As Jane spoke, bits of that tiny childhood were forming themselves in Myla's mind: the way the guest room had been arranged for them, the sound of Pru crying in the night and Jane coming in to soothe them both with a lullaby, Steve letting her ride around on his back on the living room floor.

Jane must have taken Myla's silence for sadness, because she said, "As soon as your father was living on a normal schedule again-sleeping, eating, showering-we put you girls right back in his arms. He once told me it was the greatest gift we could have given him: the knowledge that his girls were safe and happy, without his having to worry if he'd make any mistakes. That was his biggest fear, that he wouldn't know how to take care of you two."

"I'm impressed," said Myla. "You and Steve just moved us in with you. And you were young, right?"

"Early thirties. Your age."

"Exactly," said Myla. "I'd have no idea what to do if a newborn landed in my lap."

Jane laughed. "Well, Steve had been around for your babyhood, and I'd been a big sister. So we both knew how to change a diaper. But you're right. It was pretty brave, now that I think about it. If you want to know the truth, I think that time with you guys sealed it for Steve and me. It made us realize we wanted to be together in the long term. That we wanted a baby of our own." The kettle shrieked, and Jane asked, "Tea?"

"Thanks," said Myla, and watched Jane's ritual unfolding all over again. This time Myla left her mug next to Jane's and watched as Jane prepared both of their teacups the same way, almost unconscious that she was doing it twice.

"I called Emma last night," said Jane as she wound the tea bags meticulously. "She was thrilled to hear you're here, that you're all in one piece. She wants me to give you a b.u.t.terfly kiss for her." Jane laughed. "I don't even know what that is."

Myla did. Myla remembered awakening to Pru on one side and Emma on the other, fluttering their eyelashes against her cheeks, giggling when she'd open her own eyes into frustration and the day. "It's simple. You blink your eyes against someone, like this," Myla said, and she lifted Jane's hand and blinked against it. "They used to wake me up like that all the time."

The doorbell rang, cutting into the soft quiet of their conversation. Jane handed Myla the spoon she'd been using to stir the tea. "Keep stirring," she said. "Just a few more seconds."

Myla heard the front door opening, heard Jane talking. There was surprise in her voice, but Myla didn't register it until Jane appeared at the doorway. "Myla," she said, smiling, "there's someone here for you. A friend? From the college?"

"Who?"

"He didn't say. He said he flew all the way from New York to see you." And then Myla knew why Mark hadn't been returning her calls. He'd come to her. She moved past Jane, into the living room, exultant. He'd read her letter and come here, for her, to work this out. She found herself running the last three steps to the front door, but when she got closer, she stopped dead.

It wasn't Mark outside. It was Samuel.

AT FIRST, AT SCHOOL, MYLA says she thinks people might recognize us. But they don't. I tell her I knew they wouldn't. She says, "Well, maybe they won't recognize you in your baby school, but eighth-graders pa.s.s me in the hall all the time. Someone's bound to say something." But I can tell they don't. Pretty soon she drops it.

Then one night we're lying in bed. I'm warm and floating into sleep, and then Myla moves the bed by sitting up on one elbow and tilting me into awake. She pokes me. "Pru," she whispers.

"I hear you," I say, and pull my eyes open to look at her in the dark.

"Don't you think it's weird that people can look at us whenever they want?"