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home?
"No," I said. "I want to keep trying." "You sure, honey?" she asked.
I looked at my face in the mirror. It was still a
mask. I was tired of looking at it. It was time to tear it
off and take a chance on what I would find. Would I
find a little girl again? Had all that had happened
stopped me from growing up? How silly that would
be, a little girl's face on a body as mature as mine Or would I simply find a shattered face, cracked like some piece of thin china, the lines running down from my eyes where tears had streaked over my cheeks and chin. How long would it take to mend that face? Would it ever be mended so that the cracks would disappear and not look like scars of
sadness?
Was I pretty? Could I ever be pretty? Did I
have a face that someone could love under this mask?
Could I ever want to be kissed and touched? Could I
dream and fantasize like Misty just had and find
myself in a romantic place?
Daddy used to tell me so. He would cup my
face in his hands and kiss the tip of my nose and say I
was blossoming and soon all of my mirrors would
reflect my beauty. When he spoke to me like that, I
felt I was in a fairy tale and maybe I could be
someone's princess. For a long time, he made me feel
like I was his special princess, but because of that had
my ability to love someone been crushed like a small
flower, smashed into the earth, fading, fading, dying
away like some distant star given a moment to twinkle
before it fell back into the darkness forever and ever? No, I didn't want to go home again. I had to
keep trying.
"I'll go back," I insisted.
"Okay," Doctor Marlowe said, "but if you
change your mind or have any problems, please don't
hesitate to stop and ask to go home. I don't want to
