A sensation of falling nearly makes me scream, but numbness saves me. It spreads outward from my brain and heart, a numbness of self-preservation, born in the jungle of Honduras, neurochemical armor to help me endure anything in the cause of survival. Wheaton’s fingers tremble as they explore, but I do not. I lie still and breathe, in and out, in and out. His hand is not the paw of a brute, but the inquisitive hand of a boy. The fingers entwine in my pubic hair and cling with childlike tenacity. In the silence of the dripping faucet, a long, keening moan of grief cuts me to the quick. Like the cry of an orphaned animal beside its mother, it reverberates through the glass room, terminating in a sob. Then the fingers uncurl, and the hand vanishes.

Footsteps move away, and I hear a clatter in the other room. Then the footsteps return, this time behind my head. My IV bag rattles in the stand. He’s changing it.

“Soon,” he hisses. “Tomorrow.”

As he walks away, my wrist begins to burn. Valium, I tell myself, even as my eyes try to close. Not insulin. Insulin doesn’t burn. But just in case, I reach between the tub and the mirror, strip the wrapper from a Twinkie, and gobble it in two bites, dumping protective sugar into my blood as fast as possible. Then I eat another. My dry throat makes it hard to swallow, but after a look at Thalia, I force down a third.

Should I pull the IV catheter out of my vein? If I do, I’ll bleed into the tub, maybe for some time. And tomorrow Wheaton will see what I did. I could always say it was an accident. Beneath the water, I squeeze Thalia’s hand, wishing with all my heart that she could squeeze back. “We’re going to make it, girl,” I whisper. “You wait and see.”

Pull out the tube, says my father. Lift your hand out of the water. The vein will clot in the air…

“I can’t feel my hand,” I tell him. “I-”

I’m reaching for the IV catheter when my eyes go black.

I awaken in full daylight, but I don’t open my eyes. Wheaton will expect me to be unconscious longer. For an hour I lie with my eyes closed, reconstructing my environment from sound alone. Just as yesterday, Wheaton stands behind his easel, painting with sure, rapid strokes. Now and then the easel creaks, and the soft sibilants of his breathing alter with his stance. There’s a new urgency to his movements. How long will it take him to finish this painting? How long before he turns me into another Thalia?

I have to slow him down. The longer I lie here alive, the more time John will have to find me. But I must also prepare for the possibility that he may not find me. That Wheaton will finish his work. First things first, says my father. Get him talking.

When the sun shines noticeably brighter through my eyelids, I make a show of coming awake. “How does it look?” I ask.

“As it should,” Wheaton answers in a clipped voice. He clearly doesn’t recall last night’s conversation with fondness.

Rather than push him, I lie quietly and try not to look at Thalia, who seems several shades paler than she did yesterday.

At length, Wheaton says, “I saw a report on television this morning. If the local anchors aren’t lying for the FBI, you told me the truth last night. About the rapes.”

I say nothing.

A quick glance at me as he paints. “Conrad was raping my subjects.”

“Yes.”

“I’d do anything to change that. But I can’t. I should have known, I suppose. Conrad always had poor impulse control. That’s why he went to prison. But rape is just a symptom of what I told you about yesterday. The plight. If Conrad hadn’t done it, someone else would have. In a different way, perhaps. The husband’s way. But still. They’re all much better off now, your sister included.”

Wheaton steps away from the canvas and studies himself in the mirror. “It’s worse for you that she’s dead, of course, but for her, there’s no more pain. No more helpless wishing, no more subservience.”

If I think about Jane now, I won’t be able to keep it together. “I understand about the plight. I understand the Sleeping Women. But I don’t think you’re telling me everything.”

His eyes flick to me, then back to the canvas as he resumes painting. “What do you mean?”

“Your feelings about women didn’t just come to you out of the blue. They must have been shaped by women you knew.” I have to be careful here. “Maybe the woman you knew best of all.”

Wheaton’s brush pauses in midair, then returns to the canvas.

“I know your mother disappeared when you were thirteen or fourteen.”

He stops painting altogether.

“I know what that’s like. My father disappeared when I was twelve. In Cambodia. Everyone said he was dead, but I never believed it.”

He’s watching me now. He knows I’m telling the truth, and he can’t fight the compulsion to know more. “What did you think had happened?” he asks.

“At first I created all sorts of scenarios. He’d been wounded and had amnesia. He was crippled and couldn’t get back to me. He was held prisoner by Asian warlords. But as I got older, I realized that probably none of that was true.”

“You accepted that he was dead?”

“No. I came to believe something even more terrible.

That he hadn’t come back because he didn’t want to come back. He’d abandoned us. Maybe to be with another woman. Another family. Another little girl that he loved more than me.“

Wheaton is nodding.

“It almost killed me, thinking that. I racked my brain, trying to figure out what I’d done to make him angry enough to stop loving me.”

“It wasn’t your fault. He was a man.”

“I know, but last night, I was thinking – dreaming, really – about you. And I saw a woman. I thought she must be your mother. She was holding a boy and trying to explain why she had to go. I tried to ask her why she would leave you-”

Red blotches have appeared on Wheaton’s face and neck, the way they used to on my sister’s face. He jabs his paintbrush at me like a knife. “She never left me! I was the only thing that kept her alive.”

“What do you mean?”

His face goes through tortured contractions, as though he’s reliving some horrible moment. Then he dips his brush in the paint and goes back to his canvas, almost as if no conversation ever took place.

And then he begins talking.

27

“I was born during the war,” Wheaton says, painting with absolute assurance. “Nineteen forty-three. My father was in the Marine Corps. He came home on leave after basic training, and that’s when he fathered me. That’s what he thought, anyway. He was a hard man, merciless and cold. Mother couldn’t explain to me why she married him. She only said, ‘Things look different when you’re young.’”

“My mother said the same thing more than once,” I tell him.

“When my father was drafted, she was left alone for the first time since she’d been married. She had two sons, but they were only four and five. It was a liberation. She was free of the cutting voice, the brutal hand, the ruthless insistence of the nights when she protested in vain to the ceiling and the walls, begging God for some reprieve. God had finally answered her prayers. He had sent her the war.”

Wheaton smiles with irony. “A month after my father shipped out for the Pacific, a stranger came to the door asking for water. He had a limp. Some injury or disease had crippled him, and the army wouldn’t take him. He worked for the government, one of the WPA artists’ projects. He was a painter. Mother fell in love with him the first day. She worshiped art. Her prize possession was a book a dead aunt had given her. A big color-plate thing called Masterpieces of Western Art. Anyway, the painter camped nearby for two weeks, and when he left, Mother was pregnant. She never knew where he went, but he said was from New Orleans. He told her that much.”