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  I slung an arm around Tyler's neck and listened to him

  babble on about school, soccer, the new game system

  he'd found under the Christmas tree. He had never known

  Santa to disappoint him. I'd stopped trying not to be

  envious of that, even though I no longer believed in Santa

  Claus.

  Inside, Jeremy slunk to a chair in the corner and sat with

  crossed arms, the scowl stil in place. Tyler abandoned me

  to round up pens for the game. That left me to the socialy

  torturous task of making nice with Stela's parents, Nanny

  and Poppa.

  Like their daughter, they weren't bad people. They'd never

  gone out of their way to be cruel. I wasn't Cinderela. And

  I understood, now, what it must have been like to try to

  find a place in their hearts for their new son-in-law's

  children, and how awkward it must have felt. A hastily

  wrapped Jumbo Book of Puzzles and a prewrapped box

  of knit mittens would always fal short in comparison to

  exquisitely wrapped packages in shiny foil paper with

  exquisitely wrapped packages in shiny foil paper with

  matching bows, the contents new clothes or toys. I

  understood. Spending Christmas at my dad's had been last

  minute, haphazardly planned and rare. At least Nanny and

  Poppa had made an effort.

  It seemed easier for them now that I was a grown-up,

  though it was more difficult for me. As a kid it had never

  occurred to me they wouldn't like me. Now I was

  convinced they didn't.

  "Helo, Paige," George, also known as Poppa, said. "How nice of you to come."

  He meant wel, but the unspoken insinuation of surprise

  made me bite my tongue against the shout of "Of course I

  came! She's my father's wife!"

  But, like Stela herself, I could never hope to impress

  them. I just wanted not to prove them right. So instead of

  shouting, I smiled.

  "How are you?" I couldn't cal him George, Mr. Smith

  sounded absurd, and I would never cal him Poppa.

  I'd been asking out of politeness, but he told me exactly

  how he was. For fifteen minutes. And I listened, nodding

  how he was. For fifteen minutes. And I listened, nodding

  and murmuring in appropriate places, as though I cared. I

  didn't know half the people he mentioned, but he acted as

  if he thought I should. He never asked me about myself,

  which was fine, because then I didn't have to answer.

  Finaly, the game of Pictionary got under way. Gretchen's

  husband, Peter, begged off, volunteering to take care of

  Hunter, their three-year-old son. Steve and his vastly

  pregnant wife, Kely, played, though, as did my dad and

  Stela, al the grandparents and Tyler. And me. Jeremy had

  disappeared. We split into teams, boys against girls.

  "I'l sit out," I said when we'd counted up the teams to find the girls' side had an extra player.

  "Oh, no, Paige, are you sure?" Stela protested, but not

  too hard. She liked things even and square.

  "Sure. Not a problem. I'l go check on dinner, if you

  want."

  Okay, so maybe I'd cast myself in the Cinderela role. Just

  a little. But it was a relief to get into the kitchen and set out

  platters of vegetables and dip, cheese and crackers.

  Decorative breads and soft cheeses with pretty spreaders

  Decorative breads and soft cheeses with pretty spreaders

  that matched the platter. Stela loved to have parties.

  I found the cold-cut platters in the garage fridge and

  brought them into the kitchen to put them out on the table,

  which was serving as a buffet. I startled Jeremy when I

  came back in, and he whirled, can of soda in hand, from

  the open fridge.

  From the living room, the sound of laughter wafted. I set

  the platter of meat on the table. Jeremy and I stared each

  other down.

  "You're not supposed to be drinking that before dinner," I told him.

  "I know." His chin lifted. He hadn't yet cracked the top.

  "I'm not going to tel you on you, kiddo." I turned to the

  table and took off the platter's plastic lid so I could get rid

  of the fake greenery around the edges. I knew how to

  make things pretty.

  "Don't cal me kiddo," he said.

  I expected him to slink away with his stolen prize, but he

  didn't. When I turned to look at him, he was stil playing

  didn't. When I turned to look at him, he was stil playing

  with the can, shifting it from one hand to the other.

  "Something up?" I moved past him to the big, mostly

  empty pantry, to pul out the fancy plastic plates and

  plastic-ware, the matching napkins.

  "No." Jeremy shrugged and disappeared up the back

  stairs.

  After that, the party realy started.

  It was easier for me with more people there. Stela's

  friends knew who I was, of course, and avoided talking to

  me so they didn't have to deal with the awkwardness of

  how to address their friend's husband's ilegitimate

  daughter. My dad's friends knew me, too, but had fewer

  inhibitions for some reason. Maybe because I'd known

  them longer, or because they had no conflict of loyalty.

  Some of them didn't like Stela much, and maybe that was

  part of it, too.

  Of my father's other kids, I saw very little. Gretchen, Steve

  and I had never been close, even though it wasn't my

  mother who'd finaly won our dad away from their mom.

  Of course, their spouses weren't sure what to make of me,

  Of course, their spouses weren't sure what to make of me,

  either, and it was easier for us to be superficialy polite

  without trying to get to know each other. Their children

  were and would be my nieces and nephews, but I doubted

  they'd ever think of me as an aunt.

  "Paige DeMarco, how the hel are you?" Denny's one of

  my dad's oldest friends. Fishing and drinking buddies,

  they'd known each other since high school. He'd known

  my mom, too.

  "Hey, Denny. Long time no see."

  "Yeah, and you a big-city girl now, too. How's it going?"

  Denny gave me a one-armed hug.

  "It's going great." It wasn't an entire lie. Most of my life was going great.

  "Yeah?" He tossed back the dregs of his iced tea. I

  guessed he was hankering for a beer, but Stela wasn't

  serving booze. Not that I blamed her. Alcohol always

  made a different kind of party. "Where you living at? Your

  dad said someplace along the river?"

  "Riverview Manor."

  There was no denying the pride sweling inside me at

  Denny's impressed whistle. "Nice digs. And your job?

  You're not stil working with your mom, are you?"

  "I help out once in a while, if she's got a big job."

  Denny grimaced at his empty cup, but didn't move to pour

  more. "What's she up to? She stil with the same guy?"

  Questions my dad never asked. I was the only part of my

  mother my dad needed to know about. He'd never said as

  much, but I knew it.

  "Leo? Yes."

  "And that kid, how old's he now?"

  "Arty's seven." I had to laugh for a second. "Wow
. Yeah.

  He just turned seven."

  "You tel her I said hi, okay?"

  "Sure."

  We chatted for a while after that. The party got louder.

  Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming

  Stela reigned over it like a queen, even if she was claiming

  to stil be only twenty-nine. When it came time to open the

  gifts, I thought about slipping out, but forced myself to

  stay.

  Stela sat in the big rocking chair in the living room, her

  presents arranged at her feet and her closest girlfriend

  beside her getting ready to write down the name of every

  gift and its giver. Stela opened gift cards, packages of

  bath salts, certificates for spa treatments. Sweaters.

  Slippers. A new silk robe someone had brought from a

  trip to Japan. She oohed and aahed over each gift

  appropriately.

  By the time she got to mine, my stomach had begun to eat

  itself. The harsh sting of acid rose in my throat, burning.

  My heart thudded sickly. I had to turn away to pop

  another couple antacids and sip from a glass of ginger ale,

  even though I knew the soda would ruin the effects of the

  medicine.

  It's sily to hold on to the past, but we al do it. I was

  almost ten the first year I'd been invited to Stela's birthday

  party. The paint had been barely dry in their new house.

  Gretchen and Steven were living one week with their

  mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,

  mother and one week with my dad and Stela. I, of course,

  lived ful-time with my mom and saw my dad on an

  occasional weekend or holiday, a practice he'd only

  started after leaving his first wife.

  I'd picked out Stela's present myself that year, using my

  alowance to pay for it. I'd bought her a silky red tank top

  with a lacy hem. It was the sort of shirt my mom would've

  loved and wore often, and she said nothing when she

  helped me fold it and wrap it in some pretty paper that had

  come free in the mail to solicit money for a charity.

  I'd been so proud of that present. I'd been sure Stela,

  who wasn't nearly as pretty as my mom but who tried

  hard, anyway, would open it and put it on right away.

  Then she'd smile at me, and my dad would smile at me,

  and we'd al be happy.

  Instead, she'd opened the box and puled out the shirt. Her

  gaze had gone immediately to my father's, but men don't

  know anything about fashion beyond what they like and

  what they don't. She didn't put it on. She fingered the red

  satiny fabric and peeked at the label, her eyes going a little

  wider at what she saw. Then she put the shirt back in the

  box with a thank-you even a nine-year-old could tel was

  forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the

  forced. I never saw her wear it, but I did find it in the

  garage a few years later, in the box of rags my dad used

  for cleaning his cars.

  I wasn't nine years old any longer. I wasn't even a teen in

  too-thick eyeliner and a too-short skirt. I'd learned how to

  dress and how to speak, but part of me would always be

  my mother's daughter, at least in Stela's eyes.

  "Oh, Paige, what a thoughtful gift." Stela lifted out the box of paper and opened it to pul out the pen. She wiggled it

  so the tiny tassel danced. "Very pretty. Thank you."

  I let out a long, silent sigh. "You're welcome."

  "Where do you find such pretty things?" Stela continued.

  She turned to face her audience. "Paige always finds the

  prettiest things."

  That was it. Bels didn't ring, little birdies didn't fly around

  on rainbow glitter wings. She'd said thank-you, and I

  thought she meant it. That was al.

  I stil managed to slip away before the party was over. My

  dad caught me at the door. He insisted on hugging me.

  "Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.

  "Thanks for coming." I'm sure he meant it, too.

  I doubt there's anyone who does not have a complicated

  relationship with his or her parents, so I'm not saying I'm

  special or anything. Considering the circumstances of my

  birth, I'm lucky to have any sort of relationship with my

  dad. For the most part, at least, it's an honest relationship.

  Except of course when honesty is too painful.

  "Of course I'd come," I told him. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Of course you would," my dad said. "Wel, I'm glad you did. How's the new place?"

  "It's great." With his arm stil around me, I wanted to

  squirm away. "It's a very nice place."

  "And the new job?"

  The job I'd had for almost six months didn't feel so new

  anymore. "It's great, too. I like my boss a lot."

  "Good. You're up on Union Deposit Road, right?"

  "Progress," I told him. "Just off Progress."

  "Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day

  "Oh, right. Wel, hey, maybe I should swing by some day

  and take you to lunch at the Cracker Barrel, what do you

  say?"

  "Sure, Dad." I smiled, not expecting him to ever folow

  through. "Just cal me."

  He kissed my cheek and hugged me again, making a show

  of making me his daughter. It was nice, in that way we

  both knew was shalow but served its purpose.

  The moment I got in my car and the door to the house

  shut, my every muscle relaxed. I blew out another series of

  long, slow breaths and lifted my arms to let my pits air out.

  I'd be sore tomorrow in places I hadn't realized I'd

  clenched. I was already getting a headache. I'd made it

  through another big family event without anything going

  wrong.

  Chapter 08

  Some consider the body a temple. As such, it must be

  cared for appropriately so it may be used in the manner for

  which it was meant.

  Beginning tomorrow, you wil eat oatmeal for breakfast.

  Sweeten it however you like.

  Today, you wil consume three fewer cups of coffee,

  replacing them with water.

  Today, you wil extend your regular workout by fifteen

  minutes.

  Today, you will focus a conscious effort on your

  cigarette smoking. You may smoke one cigarette only

  once every two hours. You will do nothing else while

  you smoke it. You will concentrate on my instructions.

  You will think of the word discipline each and every

  time you light up.

  Finaly, you wil record your efforts in your journal and

  describe your thoughts and feelings in detail, particularly

  your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.

  your thoughts on what "discipline" means to you.

  "Do this in memory of me, and go in peace to love and

  serve the Lord," I murmured, mocking. "Wow."

  The second note had been nestled amongst a scant handful

  of bils and charity requests, and it had slipped into my

  hand as though it had been written just for me. I hadn't

  meant to open it, but something about the smooth, sleek

  paper and lack of glue on the flap had been too tempting

  to pass up. Hey, it had been delivered to me, hadn't it?

&
nbsp; Even though the number on the front stil said 114, not

  414, and even though I knew better, I'd read it anyway.

  I stil had no clue what the hel it was, or meant. I turned it

  over and over in my hands, then read it again. I closed the

  card and stared at it, but I couldn't decipher its meaning.

  Unless it had none. Maybe it was some sort of crazy new

  diet or self-help plan. I'd heard of a new plan that hooked

  members up with mentors. Sort of like a 12-step program

  for food addicts, it was supposed to help to have a buddy.

  It was the only scenario I came up with, but it didn't feel

  right.

  I lifted the card again, looking closer for clues. I caressed

  the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had

  the paper. It had the same rough edge, like someone had

  cut one large sheet of paper into smaler sizes. No

  signature, and delivered twice in a row to the wrong

  person. Some buddy.

  I kept the card safely in my hand. My fingers curved

  around it and my thumb caressed the thick paper. I looked

  at it again, the single sentence.

  Discipline?

  I stil didn't get it. I tucked the card back into its envelope,

  restraining myself from sniffing the ink. I wasn't the only

  person standing at the mailboxes, and I didn't want to

  attract that sort of attention. I found the mailbox for 114

  and studied it, too. The brass numbers were stylishly

  weathered but not worn. There wasn't realy any mistaking

  a one for a four or vice versa, even if the number on the

  card itself were smudged.

  "Excuse me." The woman next to me gave me a smile

  meant to look apologetic but only looked annoyed. "I need

  to get to my box."

  "Oh. Sorry." I folded closed the note and tucked it quickly into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

  into the slot for 114, wondering if by some luck it

  belonged to her.

  She used her key to open a different box, though, and

  puled out a thick sheaf of mail. Then she bent and looked

  through the hole to the office behind it, but the mail carrier

  had already moved down the row to the end. She

  straightened as she closed and locked her box, then riffled

  through her mail with a disgusted sniff.

  "Nothing ever comes when it's supposed to." She didn't

  say it to me, but I nodded anyway.

  "I wish my bils wouldn't come."

  She turned and gave me an up-and-down look as her

  mouth twitched into a grimace masquerading as another