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shook her head. “That doesn’t seem far enough.” She couldn’t imagine passing the State House, seeing its alabaster dome glaring down at her like an accusing eye. Never again would she be able to stroll along the brick-paved streets of the state capital without remembering the way they used to be . . . the lie they used to live.
    “To be honest, I haven’t thought that far ahead,” she said. “And you know, I’ve never even tried being on my own. I married Victor right out of college. But I need to figure out who I am when I’m by myself.”
    “Believe me, it’s not too late to learn to live without a man.”
    There was a heaviness to Dorrie’s words that puzzled Sandra. She waited, but her mother didn’t elaborate.
    “You’ll be fine, Sandra. I know you will. The important things are still intact—your good health, your youth, your writing career.”
    Sandra felt a rush of sentiment. “You and Dad always believed in me, even when I was a basket case.”
    “You were never a basket case.”
    “Oh, Mom. I was. You know I was.”
    “Sandra, that was all so long ago. You don’t still think about it, do you?”
    Every time I open my mouth to speak, she thought. But she wouldn’t admit it to her mother. Lord knew, Dorrie had struggled with the problem every bit as much as Sandra had. Dorrie felt a mother’s pain and frustration and helplessness. For years, she’d sat up at night, listening to her daughter cry behind closed doors.
    Lou and Dorrie Babcock had raised a daughter who stuttered—not just the occasional slip of the tongue, but a strangling, devastating affliction that threw a shroud of silence over Sandra.
    With a wave of gratitude, she remembered all the years of patience and repetition, her mother sitting with her for hours flashing word cards at her, and her father staying up late with her to work on diaphragm and breathing exercises. It wasn’t until high school that Sandra had actually trusted herself to speak more than a few words to anyone outside her family, and then did so only when she had to.
    She’d always suspected that she was the only girl ever to make it through St. Cloud High School without having a single friend. She was the original invisible girl, as colorless and nondescript as a manila file folder. The funny thing was, she hadn’t minded her isolation all that much. She liked books and reading, not boys and cars. The adventures in her mind were infinitely more vivid and exciting than any prom date or homecoming game.
    Or so she told herself, firmly and repeatedly, until she believed it.
    “I’m fine now,” she assured her mother, “and I’m going to be fine.” Leaning forward, she gave her a hug, grateful for the familiar softness of her shoulder.
    Dorrie patted Sandra’s knee. Her hand had thin, almost translucent skin and a sprinkling of spots that for a moment made it look like the hand of a stranger. Sandra couldn’t bring herself to see her mother as old. When she shut her eyes, she could still feel that hand gently brushing the hair out of her face, or cupping a palmful of sunflower seeds to feed the winter cardinals, or flashing deftly across a row of knitting.
    “Maybe we should all move to Florida,” she declared, speaking over the thin whistle of the wind. “These New England winters are just too brutal.”
    Dorrie leaned down and picked up her pocketbook. “Actually, dear, I have other plans.” She handed Sandra a colorful envelope.
    “What’s this?” She took out a printed ticket. “ ‘Cruise to a New You’?”
    Her mother’s face shone in a way Sandra hadn’t seen in a long time. “Three months in the Caribbean and South America aboard the
Artemisia.
”
    “Sounds heavenly.” Sandra scanned the itinerary— Nassau, Coco Cay, Montego Bay, a dozen others—each adventure related in lush, overblown prose. Sandra paged through a glossy brochure depicting sugar-white beaches, palm trees nodding lazily in the tropical breeze, sun shine . .