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through the clouds. A ruby-throated hummingbird darted to the feeder and took a dainty sip before zipping away like a tiny rocket. A red-tailed hawk circled in the distant sky. The moment encouraged peace and contemplation.
    I thought about the shadowy fingers, the whispery voice. What were they trying to tell me? What were they?  Who were they? I thought about calling my mother over in Walla Walla, but what would she know? And what would she do other than cluck and change the subject or tell me that I was making things up, as she often did.
    Mother had been a formidable character in my childhood. A stern, chubby woman, Clarice and my father, Frank, had been married when they were 17 and 19. They’d lost their first child, Simon, to Sudden Infant Death Syndrome when he was only a few months old. I was born two years later. They’d thought it best to not try for another; hence, I was their only child.
    We had lived in a boxy little home in the suburbs of Walla Walla on a road called Pleasant Street. There were long established trees everywhere, spreading their shade and comfort in the hot summers.
    Mother Clarice, as she liked to be called, wore her blond hair in a frizzy perm most of the time. She worked at a nearby bank as a teller. Her face was usually red and rosy with sweat. Her nose sported tiny red spider veins. She tried, unsuccessfully, to cover her rolls of flab behind girdles and body shapers. Frank, a used car salesman, called her “my succulent little plumper” and grabbed her from behind when she was in the kitchen cooking her sorry-ass meals of Hamburger Helper and Rice-a-Roni. My face would redden in these moments, and I would skulk from the room, embarrassed at their display of drunken affection.
    I had a dog back then, a big black standard Poodle named Doodles. Doodles liked to think of himself as my protector. When Mother Clarice and father would argue, as they invariably did each night after a few drinks, Doodles would push me into my bedroom with his nose.
    You don’t need to see that , he’d chide. Better to busy yourself with grooming me.
    He’d pick up the dog grooming kit, a box of tools over which I had no mastery, with his mouth. Then, he’d trot across the wooden floor, his nails clacking, his tail wagging, and drop the box on the bed.
    “Go away, Doodles. We did that last night.”
    And you STILL haven’t got it right.  I’m supposed to have a round puff on top, not a cone.
    Sighing, I’d pull the sharp scissors out and snip at Doodles’ top knot. Even with my tape player turned up high I could still hear Mother Clarice and Frank arguing. Inevitably, it would end with the clink of ice cubes in a chilled glass, the gurgle of liquid pouring out a bottle spout and Mother stomping into her bedroom. Father would end up in the den, passed out in his easy chair. Only then would Doodles let me out to watch TV in the living room, with father snoring like a rumbling train and reeking of bourbon in the next room, sound asleep.
    No, calling Mother Clarice was DEFINITELY not the answer, nor was talking to anyone else. As I sat there, watching the birds, and listening to the silence, I realized I was getting no further in my quest for answers. I got up and prepared to leave for class.

Chapter 3
    Teaching at the community center was rewarding. I was in my own little world when I taught. Closing the door and turning up the sound, I shut out the rest of the world. Here, I could be free. It was the only place, in fact, where I actually felt good at something, like I was doing something worthwhile. Today was the start of a new session of classes. I’d begin the day with something called “EZ Step-tastic,” a beginning cardiovascular step class for those just starting out with step aerobics. Later, I’d teach “Pump It,” a challenging, strength training class which I had personally developed, followed by an easy yoga class.
    As the students filed in for Step-tastic, their leotard and sweat pant