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I ask, will I risk losing her? Might that somehow stop me from going back to her time?
    Be honest, Mandy girl, I think. Aren't you scared of what you might say if your uncles want to know why you're asking about Gwen? Scared you might blurt out, "Well, every so often I lean past the lace curtains and skip off to 1950?"
    Right, go from being Mandy who's just blind to being Mandy who's got multiple problems. There'll be a million more conferences with doctors and counselors, and then the next time there's a student admitted to Ms. Z.'s room, Ted can do a new introduction:
    "And this is Mandy," he'll say, "blind, PLUS she entertains the notion she can time-travel. Tell our new inmate, Mandy, is hindsight better than no sight?"
    "Oh, shut up, Ted, and sit..."
    "MANDEEE!" Aunt Emma calls. Maybe I really am losing it. "Coming. Right now."
    No, I won't ask who Gwen is.

Chapter 7

    W HEN I GO to Gwen again I go to another Texas morning. This time the passage is slower, as if the wind can hardly stir. It is a passage to a morning later in that summer....

    Gwen asked, "Do you want the pillowcases sprinkled, Mama?"
    "Certainly."
    Her mother was ironing, going piece by piece through a basket of rolled, damp linens. Linens they could no longer afford to send out.
    It was early, but already the day was heating up. They were working on the screened-in side porch.
    "Nobody sees pillowcases," Gwen said.
    "Nobody sees your shirttails, either, but you keep them ironed."
    Gwen traced a monogram with one finger. Her mother's maiden name initials. Probably embroidered before she got married, maybe even before she got engaged.
    "Mama, do you miss Daddy?"
    "What kind of question is that?"
    "But do you?"
    "Gone is gone, and there's no use crying over spilt milk."
    "But, Mama ... I was wondering ... how are we going to live? I mean ... do we have any...?"
    Gwen watched her mother's lips tighten into a straight line. "I will be starting work next week, Gwen. The bank has hired me to be a receptionist."
    Gwen rolled the last two pillowcases together and tucked them into the bottom of the basket. "Do you want to do that?"
    "
Want
doesn't come into it."
    "But, Mama ... how do you feel about it?" The words rushed out. "About Daddy leaving us, and you having to go out and work, and us ... What are you going to do about us? Abe and..."
    "
Feel?
" Her mother repeated the word as though she was trying out a strange sound. "
Feel
doesn't come into it, either. And you can help with the boys in the afternoons, you're big enough."
    Gwen thought about Abe, who had hardly talked at all since he'd realized that their father wouldn't be coming back. She'd found what was left of his pill bug circus scattered behind an oleander bush, every toothpick broken and every tiny flag wadded up.
    Gabriel seemed less affected, bicycling off most days to see his friends. Still, Gwen had occasionally caught him looking puzzled in a way that didn't seem right for a kid.
    But now her mother was setting down the iron. "Oh, that dust!" she exclaimed as a car turned in the drive. "Gwen, is that that salesman again? Didn't Gabriel say he was here yesterday?"
    Paul called, "Good morning," as he got out of the car. Then he opened the screen door without being asked and came onto the porch.
    Gwen's mother picked up her iron. "What are you selling this time?"
    "Nothing. I came to see if I could take Gwen for an ice cream."
    Gwen's mother looked surprised, and then like she'd tasted something bad. "How do you know Gwen? Gwen is too young to go on a date."
    "It's not a date, Mama," Gwen said. "It's for ice cream."
    She ran down to the car, heard Paul following, even while he was calling back things that sounded polite.
    Gwen whispered, "Let's go, before she says no."
    They were out the driveway, out of sight of the porch, before Paul looked sideways, met her with a smile.
    "You really want ice cream?"

    I wake up cold on Monday morning, cold air blowing in on me from the window. Aunt Emma has