UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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The next day, while Mom went for lunch, I got an unexpected visitor.
Celia. She stood at the edge of the room, looking a little more like her old self—blond hair, too-short skirt, layer of makeup topped by a coat of strawberry-colored lip gloss.
“You know,” I began, finishing off a drink of water from my sippy cup, “everyone says history repeats itself, but I did not expect it to be so literal.”
Her jaw tightened, her hands fisting in the hem of her shirt. Tough crowd. She stood there, staring, like I was going to whip a couple of throwing knives out from under the covers and use her for target practice.
Finally, she said, “How did you know?”
“I’m crazy, didn’t you hear?” I said. “The real question is, why didn’t you tell anyone?”
Celia shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know. I didn’t think anyone would care. They’d say I was just trying to get attention. Or that it was my fault. Or . . . I don’t know.”
She suddenly looked very, very old. “I’m tired of this. I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of the way people look at me and the things they say. And I’m tired of trying to deal with it on my own.”
“So don’t,” I said. “You’re allowed to ask for help.”
“Why doesn’t anyone tell us that?”
“Because . . . maybe no one told them.”
“Do you think I’m a bad person?” Celia asked quietly.
“No,” I replied. “I don’t think you’re crazy, either.”
She smiled.
It wasn’t until a few hours later that the nurse came in and said, “We’re all so surprised you haven’t had any visitors yet!”