Before Meredith could respond, the counting voice came back loud and clear. Claire had to obey; it was the only way to make it quiet.

Meredith momentarily stared. Why would Claire think Nichol was dead? Her heart broke. Hadn’t Emily told her anything?

The focused, smiling woman evaporated before her eyes. Claire began pacing, her eyes seeing something no one else could. Meredith reached for her arm. This time, she didn’t back down when the determined expression turned toward her, she answered Claire’s question, “No! Claire, your daughter’s alive! She’s beautiful and healthy.”

Claire collapsed into Meredith’s embrace. Burying her face into Meredith’s lapel, she willingly accepted her friend’s comfort. Trying to quiet the counting, Claire concentrated on Meredith’s words. Slowly, they morphed from words to a murmur and back to words. Yes, she’d missed some of what Meredith had said, but now she was listening, “...brown hair and beautiful brown eyes. Emily and John have been taking care of her. Claire you should be so proud.”

Timidly, she faced the reality of her insanity. If that wasn’t an oxymoron she didn’t know what was. Wiping her eyes on the tissue Meredith offered, Claire asked, “How old? I can’t remember”—“how long I’ve been here”—fighting the tears she added—“I just don’t know”—“It’s blurry.”

Holding Claire’s hands, Meredith answered, “She’ll be three in December.” With a look of concern, she added, “This is September.”

It was as if the wind had been knocked from Claire’s chest. Two years! She’d missed two years of her daughter’s life. Her knees buckled, and Claire sunk to the ground. This time, Meredith didn’t instruct her to rise. No, she too moved to the cold, hard earth and sat knee to knee.

“I can’t imagine what you’re thinking. I’ve only seen her a few times. Emily and John seem to be doing a great job. They’ve also worked very hard to keep her out of the public eye.” Claire feigned a smile as tears coated her cheeks, and she nodded. Meredith continued, “They’ve done a very good job taking care of you, too.”

“Why hasn’t”—“anyone mentioned her”—“or To—” Claire couldn’t make herself say his name aloud.

“We aren’t allowed to say anything about your previous life, which includes names.”

“Who’s rules?”—“The doctors’?”

“They thought that they were helping you.”

Claire sat quietly and thought pensively about her family. That family was now with her sister and brother-in-law. She wouldn’t ask about Tony. She couldn’t bear to hear the truth of what she’d done. Why else would they lock her up in this place? “Thank you”—“For being honest”—“with me.”

Smiling, Meredith answered, “Thank you for talking to me. I’m not sorry that I’ve broken their rules, if it’s helped you.”

Claire nodded. “I want to be better—I’m not sure what’s real and what’s not.” She looked back toward the ground. It hadn’t rained in some time, and below the blades of grass the earth was cracked. “If I tell you something”—“You’ll think I’m crazy”—Claire giggled—“But then, I am”—“aren’t I?”

Meredith squeezed Claire’s hand, “Sometimes I wonder who’s really sane. What do you want to tell me?”

“Up until a short time ago”—“he’d come visit me.”

Meredith didn’t know what to say. She knew that was impossible—Claire must have imagined his visits. Meredith also believed this confession would be better shared with a doctor or a therapist. Perhaps her departure would be beneficial and force Claire to talk to the appropriate people. Meredith didn’t comment. Instead, she nodded.

Claire continued, “He didn’t come to that room”—“We’d be in other places”—Her voice momentarily hardened—“I don’t like that room”—“No color!”

Meredith smiled, “I agree. Why don’t you tell Emily you want color?”

Although her eyes were covered with the sunglasses, whose need with the setting of the sun had diminished by each minute, they became terrified at the mention of telling Emily.

Meredith soothed, “You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to. I won’t say anything. You decide when you’re ready to talk to the others. I know when you do, they’ll be thrilled.”