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of the leaves. “Stay. Stay with us!” They stretch their hands out to you.
    You look around. “I can’t live in a tree.”
    They mutter reassuringly. “You can do anything.”
    You shakeyour head, knowing they are wrong.
    Their eyes are shaped like almonds; their hair is the color of new grass; their fingers are slender and graceful.
    The smallest one, a young girl with a sweet smile, whispers, “You are beautiful.”
    You look down at your hands. You have been biting your fingernails again. Your wrists are so thin you can see the bones. Your hair is thin and stringy. You are ugly.

    “You are not seeing clearly,” she whispers. “Truly, you are beautiful.”
    The rumble of an engine drowns out her voice. A car is coming up the driveway—your husband is, home. Startled, you clamber out of the tree and hurry home to greet him.
    You call to your husband as you walk in the door.
    “Dinner will be ready in just a minute.” You can hear him in the bedroom, changing out of his work clothes.You hear his footsteps crossing the living room. From the sound, you try to judge how angry he is that you weren’t home when he got there.
    He stands ill the kitchen doorway for a moment, watching you slice tomatoes for salad. He gets a beer from the refrigerator, throws the bottle cap in the general direction of the wastepaper basket. He misses. The cap rolls across the floor, but he doesn’tpick it up. “This place is a sty,” he says. “Sometimes I don’t know why I even bother to come home.” He turns away and you hear the television go on in the living room. By the time the lamb chops are done, he is drinking his third beer. He eats half the chop and leaves the rest. As you wash the dishes, you can hear gunfire from a cop show on the television.
    That night, you wake from a bad dream.You dreamed of a time past that you would rather forget. Your husband had his hands on your throat and he was choking you, shaking you, cursing you for something you had done.
    What was it? Smiling at the postman, maybe, or folding one of his shirts incorrectly. It doesn’t matter. All that mattered was the air and the pain. He released the pressure just before you fainted. You gasped, “I’m sorry.I’m sorry.” You didn’t even know what you were sorry for, but whatever it was it must have been bad, very bad to make him so angry. You had to wear a scarf around your throat for two weeks until the bruises went away.
    You wake and your husband is asleep, lying on his back with his hands at his sides. A fold of blanket is pressing lightly against your neck and you push it away. You can’t go backto sleep and you are afraid that you will wake your husband, with your tossing and turning. As quietly as you can, you slip from the bed and go outside. In the moonlight, the trees are beautiful.
    You are on the porch when you hear footsteps. The door creaks open. Your husband sits beside you on the steps and for a moment you let yourself think that everything will be all right. You listen tohim breathing beside you.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” you say. “I came outside so I wouldn’t wake you up.”
    “You woke me up by getting up,” he says. He isn’t looking at you; he is gazing out toward the oaks.
    “I’m sorry,” you say automatically.
    “If I’m late again, that bastard will have my ass,” he says, and somehow it is your fault. You are responsible for the long commute, for the unreasonable boss,for your husband’s state of mind. He will be late to work and you will be to blame.
    “Let’s go back to bed,” you say. “You need your sleep.”
    Moving carefully, you reach out and take his hand. You lead him back to bed.
    He falls asleep quickly, but you lie awake beside him, listening to him breathe.
    You do your best. You have dinner ready on time. You serve his favorite foods. You keep the housevery clean.
    But even so, there are small signs—you watch for them and you notice them. He stops complaining about the traffic and