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Imagination? Bah! Creativity? Humbug. The law, the Word, and Daddy.
    Maybe if she’d had siblings, a sister to lie on the floor with, share secrets, commiserate. But no, she wouldn’t have wished on anyone the scrutiny, the never measuring up, the aching to be accepted. They lucked out, the ones buried in the Jefferson City cemetery.
    What a morbid thought. Laurie walked up to the porch and went in, allowing herself the little rudeness of not ringing. Her mother returned the favor. Maybe they both needed to rebel a little. She stopped at the kitchen door and watched her mother cover Maddie’s hand with hers and press the cutter into the cookie dough.
    She was trying. Laurie had to hand it to her. With Maddie and Luke, Mother was trying. Maybe she had with her as well. Maybe when she was little, and she just didn’t remember. Maybe even later, and she hadn’t recognized it.
    Her mother looked up. “Back so early?”
    Laur ie caught the tone and knew exactly what Mother was thinking. No, Mother, we didn’t stoop to your suspicions . Nor would she. Hadn’t she just established that, done the responsible thing? Wouldn’t Mother ever give her credit for some sense?
    “Looks like fun.” She smiled at Maddie’s floured cheeks.
    Luke held up an oddly shaped cookie. “I made the bears.”
    “Yum.”
    “Want one?”
    “If I can gobble its head first.”
    He held it out to her, and she bit the head off. “As good as it looks.” Of course her mother had made the dough. That was a given. Marjor ie Sutton never risked her ingredients on inexper ienced hands.
    Laurie’s mood soured. “Maddie needs to get to bed, Mother.”
    “Yes, I know. But I had no idea how long you’d be with … Anyway, we’re finishing the last batch now.” She pressed the cutter herself over the remaining dough. “Wash her up at the sink, if you like.”
    Laurie worked the dough and sugar off Maddie’s tiny fingers under the water. “Having fun, punkin?”
    “We watched Cats and Dogs .” Maddie planted a sugary kiss on her cheek, then squeezed her neck with wet hands. How affectionate her children were. What did it take to drive that out of a child? Or had she, herself, been bor n deficient somehow? Had she ever squeezed her mother’s neck like that, or God forbid, her father’s?
    She hooked Maddie on her hip and watched her mother slide the spotless cookie sheet into the spotless oven. Luke circled her legs in his arms. Her children were the only good things to come of the mess she had made of her life. What would she ever do without them?

3
    T HE BEST PART OF THE ART OF LIVING
    IS TO KNOW HOW TO GROW OLD GRACEFULLY.
    Eric Hoffer
    H ANDS JAMMED INTO THE POCKETS of his worn jeans, Cal stood outside the white br ick walls of the Montrose Behavioral Health Center. In there you didn’t wonder if you were cracking up; you knew it. And the best part was that everyone else was as cracked as you. He shook his head, thinking how belligerent he’d been. But he was past that now.
    So why had he stopped there today? He drove by the center every day on his way to work, but this was the first time he’d stopped in the three months he had been out. Closure? Or had seeing Laurie made things harder to accept? Her expectations, her impressions were based on the man she had known, the man he’d been. What would she think now? He sighed.
    A hand landed like a sledgehammer on his shoulder, and he turned to meet the smile, an awesome spread of lips, gums, and teeth as white as chalk. Cal couldn’t miss the grin, blaring at eye level above the rock-like chin and giant Sequoia neck.
    “Hey, man! How you been?”
    Cal’s own mouth spread. Pure Pavlov. When Reggie Douglas smiled, Cal smiled. At least he didn’t salivate.
    Dressed in his thin white coat, Reggie cocked his head and eyed Cal as he had each morning when he had come through the door of Cal’s room. Cal half expected him to ask if he was regular and taking his vitamins.
    “You’re