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would have been more money,” Dad agreed.
    “No!” I protested. “I mean, I’m awake now! I can deal with this myself!”
    “You were out a long time,” he explained. “We had to get things settled.” He made it sound as if I had been so thoughtless to be in a coma for so long.
    “But six million? They were negligent. Don’t they at least go to jail?”
    “Lisa. They acted responsibly and rectified matters. They’ve taken good care of us.”
    I looked from Dad to Mom and back again. “How much money did they give you ?”
    “And don’t forget,” Mom said, ignoring my question completely, “you’re famous.”
    I pointed at her with the force of a South American dictator. “That is NOT a good thing.”
    “You know you love this,” she said smugly. “This is better than when you set up that big stage show in the living room so you could sing ‘You Light Up My Life’ in front of all the relatives.” She giggled. “You didn’t even know all the words.”
    “That was in third grade! I’m thirty-four now!”
    She raised her eyebrows and slanted me a look down her nose. “You’re still you.”
     
    * * * * *
    Didn’t I know then that my parents had taken some of my money? Deep down, didn’t I know? But I had been wallowing in tears of hopeless frustration. How long would it be before everyone in my family stopped judging me according to the stupid things I’d done as a kid? Wasn’t there any statute of limitations on growing up?
    As I pull to the curb in front of the two-story colonial I grew up in, autumn leaves crunch under the tires of my aquamarine rental. I step out into the stony morning and shiver as the chill manages to line my coat. Sucking in damp air to brace myself, I take a minute. Then another minute. I have to do this. I have to go in there. I want to hear them admit it. I do. So, I lift my chin, straighten my spine, and head down the driveway. Without knocking, I open the back door and walk right in, as if I still belong there.
    The kitchen smells like warm caramel. I don’t remember it smelling that way when I was growing up. The post-my-daughter’s-coma kitchen looks so different from the linoleum-and-paneling way it did back in ‘89. Now there are dark wooden beams across the ceiling. Wow. I didn’t know you could get those installed. Shiny copper pots hang above the sink, flowers and herbs dance all over the wallpaper, and dusky lighting makes the room feel cozy. I notice the curtains are new since Christmas. The fridge, too. I’m looking at its stainless steel surface littered with pictures of Billy’s kids when I hear voices and feet coming down the stairs.
    “Get Maggie’s—” She stops when she sees me.
    “Hi, Mom,” I say, and put my hands in my coat pockets.
    “Lisa.” My mother goes to the sink to take a sip from her cup of tea sitting under the spider plant. She looks at me over her shoulder then takes a kind of gulp. “This is a surprise. I didn’t even know you knew Maggie would be here for her birthday.”
    Damn! I forgot about Maggie’s birthday.
    “Lisa!” Rick rushes into the kitchen.
    He comes at me then stops, as if he was going to hug me but thought better of it. He stands about a foot from me and looks me up and down. “You look different,” he says, his sparkling smile as radiant as ever. “Kind of.” He sounds as if he thinks I could have tried a little harder. “Is that a big bruise on your forehead?”
    “Rick.” It feels so surreal. He’s still just as lady-killer gorgeous, but he’s not wearing his bogus scrubs. Rick the Bodyguard. What a colossal joke. He didn’t protect me from the Media. Let alone from my own family. Too busy getting it on with Mags. Now it’s like he’s a different person. The kind who no longer has to work for a living because his girlfriend stole a bunch of money from her comatose sister.
    “We’re here for Maggie’s birthday.” He looks around. “She’s getting a pedicure.”
    They’re still