At nineA.M. she dressed in a pair of pants that were now too loose and a blazer she'd grown out of years ago that fit her again. She was eager to get to the hospital. She had a thousand things to do, a sick husband to visit, doctors and lawyers to consult. Enough brooding, she now had to take charge of her life. It occurred to her that she didn't want Marsha and Teddy in the files again, so she went back downstairs and locked the den, then slipped the key into her pocket. She was fully alert now. She took the stairs two at a time and marched into Marsha's room without knocking.

Marsha's room was the timeless fantasy of sweet femininity. The wallpaper was pink with white stripes. The printed chintz on the bedspread and chairs was cheerful sprigs of pink rosebuds. The curtains were frilly dotted swiss. The single bed had a canopy that dated from Marsha's childhood, when her daddy had been hopeful that with the right incentives she'd snap out of her prepubescent doldrums and turn into an Ivy League preppy. This room, too, was a total mess. The navy skirt and baby blue twinset (that Cassie now saw was cashmere) were twisted up on the floor as if Marsha had wrestled out of them. The pile of clothes she'd worn all week was heaped on the ruffled chair. More cashmere. Partially flung over it were two towels that still looked wet. The room smelled intensely floral, as if a bottle of expensive perfume had been spilled in there.

Marsha was sleeping with the bedspread over her head. Only a very little of her hair showed at the top. Cassie approached the bed cautiously. Then, feeling like the wicked witch of the West, she suddenly pulled the covers all the way down to the foot of the bed. She was startled to see that Marsha was sleeping in one of her father's undershirts and a pair of his boxer shorts. The twenty-five-year-old was hugging a small Curious George that her daddy had given her when she was about four. Marsha's identification with her father was clear. This hurt Cassie even more.

"Time to go see Daddy," she said.

"Huh?" Marsha didn't move.

"It's time to get up, Marsha, honey. We have to go visit Daddy."

"What time is it?" Marsha mumbled into the monkey's head.

"It's late. It's nine-thirty."

"Nine-thirty!" Marsha patted the area around her, searching for the covers. When she couldn't find them, she gave up and curled around her pillow.

"Marsha, get up." Cassie stamped her foot.

"I just went to sleep," she grumbled.

"It's not my fault you stayed up all night."

"What's the rush? Has there been a change?"

"I want to be with him. I want to see him," Cassie said. Did she ever.

"Fine, just ten minutes." Marsha turned over and stuck her thumb in her mouth.

Cassie circled the bed to talk to her on the other side and saw that Marsha was refusing to open her eyes. "Marsha, sweetheart. I want to go now."

"It's too early. They won't let you in."

"How do you know?"

"Tom told me. We're meeting him at eleven-thirty."

"Really. When was that arrangement made? I don't know anything about that," she said.

Marsha rolled over on her back and spoke with her eyes closed. "Mom, go take a nap. Everything is being taken care of. You don't have to do a thing."

"What?" Cassie was very alert now.

"Teddy and I have talked about it. I've talked with Tom, daddy's neurologist. We're on top of everything. You just concentrate on healing that new face of yours." Still with her eyes glued shut against the day, Marsha spoke in a tone guaranteed to insult a retard. It hit Cassie like a jolt from the electric chair. Her yellow hair practically stood on end with shock. Her children were excluding her from her own tragedy.

"How dare you talk to me like that! Get up right now," she cried.

"Mom, don't overreact. We know what we're doing." Marsha turned over again.

"You think I don't know what I'm doing! Get up!" Cassie marched around the bed and grabbed the pillow from Marsha's arms. This violent action opened Marsha's eyes.

"What's the matter with you?" she said irritably.

"I'm the mother here. I'm the wife. You don't make any decisions for your daddy or me, you understand that?" Cassie hopped up and down on one foot. Her energy had returned with betrayal. This was her and Mitch's life, not their children's.

"Look at you." Marsha sat up and rubbed her eyes as if she couldn't believe it. "You look bad and you're acting crazy, Mom. You're not up to this."

"Don't you dare talk to me like this." Cassie couldn't stop hopping.

"Well, look at you. You're out of control. You're not qualified."

"I'll show you out of control, Marsha Sales. Don't think you can social work me." Cassie turned her head and caught sight of herself in Marsha's full-length mirror. The Noh mask of wrath with the bloodshot eyes and porcupine stitches around her ears animated by the frenzied dance stopped her mid-sentence. She did look crazy. What was happening to her? What was happening to all of them? The heat left her. She sat down abruptly on the bed. Her face looked the same, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. "Your father and I love you very much, Marsha," she began.

"But…," Marsha said bitterly, clearly expecting the usual reservations from her mother.

"But even though Daddy is in intensive care, I am still The Mother. We can talk about certain things as a family, but I am in charge here. From now on, I will be the one to look after the financial situation. Let's face it. This is my problem, not yours."

"Mom, with your record, I don't think that's a good idea," Marsha muttered sarcastically.

"I wouldn't jump to that conclusion so fast, young lady," Cassie retorted through her teeth.

"Okay, what am I missing?" Marsha raked her fingers through her hair. "Crazy Mom, or what?"

Cassie inhaled sharply, stung by her daughter's bitterness. She'd been nothing but the most loving mother, had thought of nothing but her daughter's welfare every single day of her life. She'd had almost no pleasures of her own-none, in fact, that were not connected with doing good for the family. What did Marsha have to be so bitter about?

"What are you missing? You're missing everything. What do you know about me? What do you know about anything but yourself and your own selfish feelings."

"You're obviously projecting," Marsha said haughtily. "Just tell the truth, I can take it."

"You're very hurtful, Marsha." Cassie shook her head. Where had she gone wrong with this girl?

"Look who's talking."

"You're talking about money, is that it? Money? That's ridiculous. What if I did spend money on myself-I'm not saying I did, but if I had, would it be so terrible?" The words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself.

"Yes," Marsha said. "Yes, Mom, it would."

"I've given my whole life for you, for all of you. You got your camps and your trips to Europe and your college and your graduate school…" Outraged, Cassie ticked the items off on her fingers. She'd never even been to a day spa. Why were they arguing about money?

"What are you two yelling about?" Teddy stumbled into the room, rubbing his eyes.

"Mom's gone psycho," Marsha told him.

"And you, Teddy. Every advantage. Special schools, special tutors. College enrichment programs." Cassie pointed an angry finger at him. "Vineyards in Italy. Vineyards in France…"

"Teddy did get everything. He was Daddy's boy," Marsha confirmed, nodding at him.

"No, I didn't. You got everything," Teddy jumped in, his rage topping everyone's.

Marsha made a disgusted noise. "What?"

"You got the nervous breakdowns. You got the attention," Teddy spit out.

"And what did I get?" Cassie demanded. "Tell me, what did I get!"

They both looked at her, then turned to each other and cracked up.

"You got a face-lift," they said in unison.