I handed her the ice-blue stone, the color of my mother's eyes. She put it on her forefinger, where it hung like a doorknob on a rope. She gazed into it. "This belonged to my mother. My father got it for her to celebrate an around-the-world cruise." She took it off. "It was too big for her too."

Next door, Mrs. Kromach's parrot whistled the same three notes in an ascending scale, three and a half notes apart. An icecream truck rolled down the street, playing "Pop Goes the Weasel." Claire lay down on her back so she could look at me, one hand behind her head. She was very beautiful, even now, her dark hair loose around her shoulders, wet at the hairline, her dark eyebrows arched and glossy, her small breasts curved in pink lace.

"If you were going to kill yourself, how would you do it?" she asked.

I turned onto my stomach, sorted through the jewelry. I tried on a gold bangle. It wouldn't fit over my hand. I thought of my suicides, the way I would run my death through my fingers like jet beads. "I wouldn't."

She laced an Indian silver necklace onto her flat stomach, strands of hairlike tubes making metal into a fluid like mercury. "Well, say you wanted to."

"It's against my religion." Sweat trickled down between my breasts, pooled in my navel.

"What religion is that?"

"I'm a survivalist."

She wouldn't allow that. I wasn't playing. It was against the rules. "Just say you did. Say you were very old and had a horrible incurable cancer."

"I'd get lots of Demerol and wait it out." I was not going to discuss suicide with Claire. It was on my mother's list of antisocial acts. I wasn't going to tell her the surest way, the bone cancer boy's plan, injecting an air bubble into your vein and letting it move through your blood like a pearl. I was sure her aunt Priscilla used that once or twice on the battlefield when the morphine ran out. Then there was a load of cyanide at the back of the tongue, the way they did it to cats. It was very fast. When you committed suicide, you didn't want something slow. Someone could walk in, someone could save you.

Claire clasped her hand to one knee, rocked a little, up and down her spine. "You know how I'd do it?"

She was pulling me down that road and I wasn't going to go there. "Let's go to the beach, okay? It's so hot, it's making us crazy.

She didn't even hear me. Her eyes looked dreamy, like somene in love. "I'd gas myself. That's the way. They say it's just like going to sleep."

She reminded me of a woman lying down in snow. Just lying down for a little while, she was so tired. She'd been walking so long, she just wanted to rest, and it wasn't as cold as she thought. She was so sleepy. It was the surrender she wanted. To stop fighting the storm and the enveloping night, to lie down in whiteness and sleep. I understood. I used to dream that I was skin-diving down a coral wall. Euphoria set in as the nitrogen built up in my bloodstream, and the only direction was down into darkness and forgetting.

I had to wake her up. Slap her face, march her around, feed her black coffee. I told her about the Japanese sailor adrift for four days when he killed himself. "They found him twenty minutes later. He was still warm."

We heard the hum of someone running a lawn mower down the street. The sweetness of jasmine took the rest of the air. She sighed, filling out ribs sharp as the blades of the mower. "But how long can a person float, looking at an empty horizon? How long do you drift before you call it quits?"

What answer could I give her? I'd been doing it for years. She was my life raft, my turtle. I lay down, put my head on her shoulder. She smelled of sweat and L'Air du Temps, but now dusty blue, as if her melancholy had stained the perfume. "Anything can happen," I said.

She kissed me on the mouth. Her mouth tasted like iced coffee and cardamom, and I was overwhelmed by the taste, her hot skin and the smell of unwashed hair. I was confused, but not unwilling. I would have let her do anything to me.

She dropped back onto the pillow, her arm over her eyes. I raised up on one elbow. I didn't know what to say. "I feel so unreal," she said. She turned over, her back to me, her garnet heart pendant stuck to the back of her shoulder. Her dirty hair was heavy as a bunch of black grapes, and her waist and hip curved like a pale guitar. She picked up the strand of pearls and lowered it in a spiral on the bedspread, but when she moved it slid in toward her body, spoiling the design. She picked it up, tried again, like a girl picking petals off daisies, trying to get the right answer.

"If only I had a child," she said.

I felt a twang on a rarely played string. I was well aware I was the instead-baby, a stand-in for what she really wanted. If she had a baby, she wouldn't need me. But a baby was out of the question. She was so thin, she was starving herself. I'd caught her vomiting after we ate.

"I was pregnant once, at Yale. It never occurred to me that was the only baby I'd ever have."

The whine of the lawn mower filled the silence. I would have liked to say something encouraging, but I couldn't think of anything. I plucked the heart off her back. Her thinness belied her spoken desire. She'd lost so much weight she could wear my clothes now. She did when I was at school. I came home sometimes and certain outfits were warm, smelling of L'Air du Temps. I pictured her in my clothes, certain things she favored, a plaid skirt, a skinny top. Standing in the mirror, imagining she was sixteen, a junior in high school. She did a perfect imitation of me, the gawky teenager. Crossing her legs the way I did, twining them and tucking the foot behind the calf. Starting with a shrug before I talked, dismissing what I was about to say in advance. My uneasy smile, that flashed and disappeared in a second. She tried me on like my clothes. But it wasn't me she wanted to be, it was just sixteen.

I watched the garden under the blinds, the long shadows cast by the cypress, the palm, across the textured green. If she were sixteen, what? She wouldn't have made the mistakes she's made? Maybe she would choose better? Maybe she wouldn't have to choose at all. she could just stay sixteen. But she was trying on the wrong person's clothes. I wasn't anyone she'd want to be. She was too fragile to be me, it would crush her, like the pressure of a deep wall dive.

Mostly she lay here like this, thinking about Ron, when would he come home, was there another woman? Worrying about luck and evil influences, while wearing talismans of her family past, women who did something with their lives, made something of themselves, or at least got dressed every day, women who never kissed a sixteen-year-old foster daughter because they felt unreal, never let the weeds grow in their gardens because it was too hot to pull them.

I wanted to tell her not to entertain despair like this. Despair wasn't a guest, you didn't play its favorite music, find it a comfortable chair. Despair was the enemy. It frightened me for Claire to bare her needs so openly. If a person needed something badly, it was my experience that it would surely be taken away. I didn't need to put mirrors on the roof to know that.