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pretend that their lives could be perfect and free of hurt or trouble.
    Unwilling to make herself get up and leave, she dozed off, propped up against the pillows beside R.J., to the
tic tac, tic tac
of sleet tapping against the window.

5
     
    The whispers came in the night, seductive and sinister, like snakes sliding into bed beside her.
    Trust me. Let me help you . . .
    Trust me. Let me comfort you . . .
    Trust me. Let me touch you . . .
    In the dream, she was eight, she was twelve, she was seventeen, nineteen—all at the same time. Her reaction was instant: fear, dread, her heart rate doubling, a terrible chill running through her like the blade of a sword. She woke with a gasp, a cold sweat drenching her. But she made no overt movement. Out of old habit, she lay as still as possible as she took in her surroundings, just in case she had awakened into a nightmare.
    She made a visual inventory of the room in the glow of the nightlight: the bedside table draped in soft blue fabric, the chair with her robe tossed across the seat and arm, her slippers, the blue drapes that flanked the window . . .
    As the roar of her pulse subsided, she became aware of the
tic tac, tic tac
of sleet against the windowpane.
    She was home, in the present, safe. Her husband, Eric, sighed and stirred on the other side of the bed. Evi held her breath, hoping she hadn’t disturbed his sleep. He turned over and settled, and she relaxed a little.
    As many times as he had told her he didn’t mind waking up withher in the night, she still hated doing that to him. It upset him to know she was upset and that there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t erase her bad memories. He could only help her try to make better, happier ones. Every day they were together accomplished that.
    She slipped from the bed like a wraith, barely disturbing the covers, and moved soundlessly out of the room. The house was cold. She wrapped her robe and her arms around herself and went down the hall to her daughter’s room.
    The same amber nightlight as in her own bedroom glowed in Mia’s room—and everywhere else in the house, for that matter. She couldn’t tolerate absolute darkness. The light just kissed Mia’s cheek as she slept, letting Evi see her daughter’s long eyelashes and rosebud mouth, her small hand curled beside her pillow. At five years old, Mia declared herself no longer a baby, but her thumb was always at the ready as she slept, just in case.
    Evi crept into the room and carefully rearranged the blankets around her daughter’s shoulders, making sure the nose of her teddy bear poked out above the covers. Her heart swelled with love as she watched her child sleep. And just at the edge of that love lay the familiar fear that this couldn’t all be real. She couldn’t have such a perfect life with such a perfect family. How could she have met a man as good and kind as Eric? How could she be lucky enough to have him love her? How was it the universe had given her this beautiful child to call her own, to raise and love?
    “Too good to be true” was the theme of her daily existence.
    She and Eric had been married six years now. Maybe when they had a decade together she would start to let her guard down, stop waiting for the other shoe to drop.
    Doubt was the last and biggest hurdle she circled around and around, never quite brave enough to attempt to clear it. At least the pace at which she ran around it had slowed from frenetic to familiar over the years. Her therapist was satisfied with that much. Shedidn’t share Evi’s disappointment in herself at her inability to be completely happy.
    She had the perfect husband, the perfect child, the perfect home, the perfect job. Why could she not be perfectly happy? Was she ungrateful? No. Nothing could be further from the truth. Was she weak? Did she know deep down that she didn’t deserve any of it? That was her greatest fear—what if that one remaining voice of criticism was right after