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alarming than all my previously cooked up explanations.
     
    "You may be right Clare", father readily agrees. "Her behavior has been rather odd these past few days. I attributed it to plain embarrassment, or a simple case of nerves for having to come live with us after all these years. But it is different, something more, something wrong. Why is she hiding it though? I've never known her to hide anything from us."
     
    "Maybe if Nicholas were to....."my super meddlesome sister begins, only to trail off, when she catches the first true glimpse of my menacing glower.
     
    "You go", I scowl at no one in particular, "Go right ahead, and talk to her. Don't drag me into this".
     
    As far as I'm concerned, this conversation is pointless, entirely moot. So she wasn't forthcoming with her problems. She wasn't interested in sharing them with us. She wasn't comfortable enough for that.
    What else is new?
     
    "You were always able to get it out of her Nick, how much ever she may try otherwise. I may have been her best friend, but you could get to her Nick. You got through to her in a way no one could", my sister cajoles, and I hate her for it. I hate this reminder of my belligerent past.
    Couldn't they give it a rest? Cannot they see how painful this is for me? That this reminiscence of old times was like salt to my old wounds.
     
    "Now she's taking naps in the middle of the day extending well into the night, murmuring in her sleep, flinching from her own piano, staring at inanimate objects and jumping at the slightest of movement.
    Something's wrong Nick."
     
    "You think I haven't noticed", I yell, finally giving up all pretenses, finally giving my temper a free reign. "You think I don't know that something's wrong? That I haven't tried prying out of her? She shut me out, damn you. Just like she shut me out five years ago. I was delusional enough to give it a try and I failed. Miserably. I don't get through to her anymore. People change. She changed. I don't get her and I don't get through to her."
     
    And taking a deep breath, I relay this morning's conversation, after the
    piano incident.
     
     
     
     
    "Can I talk to you for a minute?"
     
    It's a sunny day, which is a blessing after 3 endless days of uninterrupted snowing. She's siting by the window with a writing pad in hands, busy sketching what looked like a bunch of birds from a distance, looking heartbreakingly beautiful, almost painfully so. I know from experience that she could sketch things to perfection. She'd sketched me once and it was breathtaking. If pictures could speak, hers would sing to me.
     
    "Can I come in", I repeat politely. She looks a little dazed by the interruption.
     
    "Sure".
     
    "You didn't come down for lunch".
     
    "Yes, umm, I wasn't feeling well".

     
    "That's no surprise, considering you skipped lunch and dinner yesterday, and barely ate this morning."
    And apparently, the key to prompt recovery is to forego another meal.
     
    "Aunt Clare had sent up a tray, after", she mumbles to herself, drawing her shoulders in a gesture of obsecration.
     
    "Oh yeah, I saw that tray in the kitchen, the only thing missing from the tray were tea bags, and a piece of toast. Really Elizabeth, I never had you figured for the size zero types."
     
    "Well, who doesn't like to be a supermodel," she attempts with a smile, and fails utterly.
     
    "You, Elizabeth, you've never wanted to be one. Are you starving yourself to death? You don't eat, you don't sleep, and when you do, it's fitful. Is something wrong?" I ask, keeping all my prejudices aside for this, one moment. She was troubled, and it took precedence over my bruised ego. Over everything.
     
    But she rebuffs my attempts with just a head shake and continues to regard me in that doleful expression she'd apparently perfected over the years.
     
    "Come on Elizabeth, you'll make yourself ill. You have to eat, and a pitiful slice of apple does not count. Have lunch at least, mom made pie", I offer gently,