She is halfway down the narrow front walk when I ask her my first question. I know it's not a good time for her.

"Mother, why did we move here?"

She stops. I think I see a slight stumble. She turns around. Her eyes are wide. She doesn't speak, so I continue. "When the doctors, Father, and your career are all in Boston, why are we here?"

Mother looks down for a moment so I can't see her face, then looks up again. She smiles. One corner. Then the other. A careful smile. "There's lots of reasons, Jenna. I can't discuss them all right now or I'll miss the shuttle into town, but the main reason is we thought it would be best for you to have a quiet place to recover. And our plan seems to be working, doesn't it?"

Smooth. Practiced. I can hear it in the singsong of her voice. In some ways it's almost reasonable, but I can see the holes. Having a quiet place is not as important as being close to doctors. But I nod. There is something about her eyes. Eyes don't breathe. I know that much. But hers look breathless.

My Room

I go to my room. I don't want to. But before she left, Mother made one last request. "Go to your room, Jenna. I think you might need some rest." I don't need rest, and I don't want to go, but before I know it, my feet are taking me up the stairs and I am closing my door behind me. I know it would please her.

My room is on the second floor — one of ten rooms on the upper level, along with an assortment of closets, bathrooms, nooks, and other small windowless rooms that seem to have no purpose. Mine is the only one that is clean and has furniture. The others are empty except for an occasional spider or a piece of trash left by the previous occupants. The lower floor has at least another ten rooms, and only half of those rooms are furnished. A few of the rooms are locked. I have not seen them. Mother and Lily have rooms down there. The cottage is not a cottage at all. I looked it up to be sure. I looked up Cotswold, too. It's a sheep. So we should live in a one-room house meant for sheep. I haven't seen any sheep here either.

My room is at the end of a long hallway. It is the largest room on the upper level, which makes the lone bed, desk, and chair seem small and awkward. The polished wood floor reflects the pieces of furniture. It is a cold room. Not in temperature, but in temperament. It reflects nothing of the person who inhabits it. Or maybe it does.

The only color in the room is the custard yellow coverlet on the bed. The desktop is clear except for the Netbook that Father used to communicate with the doctors. No papers. No books. No clutter. Nothing.

The bedroom opens into a large arched dressing room that connects with a closet that connects with another smaller closet that has a small door at the back, which I can't open. It is an odd zigzag tunneling arrangement. Was my room in Boston like this? Four shirts and four pairs of pants hang in the first closet. All of them are blue. Below them are two pairs of shoes. Nothing is in the second closet. I run my hands along the walls and wonder at the emptiness.

I look out my window. Across our yard and the pond, I see curious Mr. Bender, a mere speck in the distance. He appears to be squatting, looking at something on the ground. He moves a few steps forward and disappears from view, hidden by the edge of a eucalyptus grove that borders both our properties. I turn back to my room.

A wooden chair.

A bare desk.

A plain bed.

So little. Is this all Jenna Fox adds up to?

A Question I Will Never Ask Mother:

Did I have friends? I was sick for over a year and yet there is not a single card, letter, balloon, or wilted bouquet of flowers in my room.

The Netbook never buzzes for me.

Not even an old classmate's simple inquiry.

I may not remember everything, but I know there should be these things.

Something.

I know when someone is sick that people check on her.

What kind of person was Jenna Fox that she didn't have any

friends?

Was she someone I even want to remember?

Everyone should have at least one friend.

More

I hear Lily humming. My feet fumble like they have a will of their own, but I try to control them so she won't hear me. I lean close to the wall and peek into the kitchen. Her back is to me. She spends most of her time in the kitchen preparing elaborate dishes. She used to be chief of internal medicine at Boston University Hospital. Father was a resident under her. That is how he met Mother. Lily gave it up. I don't know why. Now her passion is gardening and cooking. It seems that everyone in this house is reinventing themselves and no one is who they once were.

When she is not in the kitchen cooking, she is out in the greenhouse getting it in order. I can't eat her foods, and I wonder if that is part of the reason she doesn't like me. She clanks pots and then turns on the faucet. I make my move for the front door.

The hinges on the heavy wooden door squeak when I exit, but she doesn't follow. The sound blends with the clanking pots and rushing water. I have been no farther than the front steps of the house, except for once when it was dark and Mother took me for a short walk to Lily's greenhouse. Mother told me from the start that I must stay close. She is afraid I will get lost.

Lost adj. 1. No longer known. 2. Unable to find the way.

3. Ruined or destroyed.

I'm afraid I already am.

The noon sun is bright. It hurts my eyes. I ease the door shut so Lily won't hear, and I hurry across the lawn. I won't go far. I will keep the house in sight. Careful. The word comes again, like a hedge in front of me, but pushing from behind, too. I pass the chimney of the fireplace in the living room. Its top bricks have tumbled to the ground and weeds almost obscure them. Bright green lichens creep up the remaining bricks. I walk around the far side of the garage house so Lily won't see me. Several of the windows are boarded up, and a whole section of shingles is missing from the roof. Money doesn't seem to be a problem for Mother. I wonder why, in over a year of my being in a coma, she didn't have time to make the barest of repairs.