fter two hours of waiting in the line for the ferry with two hundred eager tourists and a few beleaguered locals, Ruby remembered why she'd been so eager to move off island. Timing your life around a state-operated transportation system was miserable.

The last thing she needed was time to think. The conversation with Caroline repeated relentlessly through her mind. Even when she turned on the minivan's cheesy radio, she heard the singers" voices moaning the words Everyone knew.

"Except me," she said bitterly.

She still couldn't get over that.

Finally, the ferry pulled in-late, as usual-and she drove aboard, following the orange-vested woman's directions to a spot at the very back of the lane. As the ferry pulled out, she adjusted her seat to a more comfortable position and closed her eyes. Maybe sleep would help.

Everyone knew.

She opened her eyes and stared up at the van's puffy, velourlike ceiling. She still felt shaky, as if the foundation of her life had turned to warm Jell-O and was slowly letting her sink.

I slept with other women.

It changed everything.

Didn't it?

That was the sheer hell of it. Ruby couldn't hold the ramifications of the day in her hands and study them.

One thing she knew: her novelization of the past, with Dad cast as hero and her mother as villain, wouldn't work anymore.

The world wasn't as she'd thought it was. Perhaps she was late in making that elemental and yet monumental discovery. She felt as if she'd been a child all these years, walking through a land that she alone had devised.

And now something was changing inside of her; growing. It was nothing as cliche' or readily definable as her heart. Rather; it was the bones themselves; they were shifting, pressing against her sinew and muscles, and deep down inside, there was a new ache. She reached under the seat and pulled out the pen and legal pad she'd packed in the morning. After only a moment's hesitation, she started to write.

I was sixteen years old when my mother left us. It was an ordinary June day; the sun rode high in a robin's-egg-blue sky. It's funny the things you remember. The Sound was as flat and calm as a brand-new cookie sheet, and a gaggle of bahy geese were learning to swim on the McCuffins' pond.

We were an average family, just My father, Rand, was an islander through and through, a commercial fisherman who repaired boats in the off season. He went bowling with his friends every Saturday night and helped us girls with our math and science homework. He wore plaid flannel shirts in the winter and Lacoste golf shirts in the summer. It never occurred to any of us, or to me anyway, that he was anything less than the perfect father.

There was no yelling in our family, no raging arguments, no nights where my sister and I lay in our side-by-side twin beds and worried feverishly that our parents would divorce.

After we'd all gone our separate ways, I often looked back on those quiet years. I was obsessive in my search for an inciting incident, a moment where I could say, Aha! There it is' the beginning of the end.

But I never found one. Until now.

Today, my parents pulled back the curtain, and the Great Oz-my dad-" revealed to be an ordinary man.

I didn't know that then, of course. All I knew was that on a beautiful day, my mother dragged a suitcase into the living room.

I'm leaving. Is anyone coming with me?" That's what she said to my sister and me. I heard my father in the kitchen. He dropped a glass into the sink, and the shatter sounded like bones breaking.

That was the day I learned the concept of before and after. Her leaving sliced through our family with the bloody precision of a surgeon's scalpel.

At the time, we assumed it was temporary. A vacation getaway that should have been with "the girls," only my mother had no girlfriends. Maybe all kids think things like that.

It's hard to say when my feelings about my mother changed from guilt to anger to disgust to hatred, but that was the arc of it.

I saw what her absence did to my father In the span of a few short days, he became hardly recognizable. He drank, he smoked, he spent the day in his pajamas. He ate only when Caroline or I cooked for him. He let the marina business go to hell and by the next spring, he had to sell land to pay the taxes and keep food on the table.

I formed an image of my mother that summer; From the hard stone of everything that happened, I carved the image of a woman and called it mother. For all these years, I've kept it on my bedside table; it was no less real for being visible only in my own mind. The statue was a collection of hard edges selfishness, lies, and abandonment.

But now I know the truth: My father was unfaithful to my mother.

Unfaithful; A cold, detached word that gives no hint of the heat involved in passion. He wore a wedding ring and fucked women other than the one he'd sworn to love, honor, and protect.

That says it better for me. The vulgarity of the sentence matches the obscenity of the act.

I know it changes everything, but I can't seem to follow where it leads. My childhood, I thought naively, was mine alone, those memories painted in vibrant oil strokes on the canvas of my years. Now, it seems that Barbra Streisand was right. Memories are watercolor,; and a heavy rain can wash them away.

My father is not the man I thought he was.

Even as I look down on this sentence I have just written, I see the childishness of it, but I can't think of another way to say it. I don't know how to look at him now, this father who has proven to be a stranger.

My mother didn't leave him-and us-for fame and fortune, but simply because she was human, and the man she loved had broken her heart.

I know how it feels when someone you love stops loving you back. It's a kind of mini-death that breaks something inside of you.

This knowing, this understanding... it should make me want to forgive my mother shouldn't it?

I think I'm afraid to love her, even the tiniest bit. The hurt she caused me is so deep that my bones have grown around it. I wonder perhaps who I am without it -

Before she could finish her sentence, the ferry honked its horn. They were docking on Lopez. Ruby looked up. She knew that as soon as it had unloaded a few cars, it would turn to Orcas Island. Summer was the last stop before the boat turned back to the mainland.

Ruby made a snap decision. She didn't want to see her mother yet. They would have to talk about this new information, and Ruby wasn't ready.

She started the car and pulled out of line, speeding down the empty lane. Ferry workers shouted at her, waving their hands. No doubt they thought she was a tourist, getting off on the wrong island. She didn't care. She sped forward, bumped over the ramp, and drove off.

The Sloan house was only a few blocks from the ferry terminal. It was a big, gingerbread-cute Victorian mansion placed on a breathtaking promontory overlooking the bay.

She pulled the minivan into the driveway and parked. It was twilight now; a purple haze fell across the garden, still impeccably tended. A newly painted white picket fence kept everything neatly contained. Just the way Mrs. Sloan liked it, although she probably hadn't set foot on this island in years.

Ruby walked up the crushed seashell pathway that led to the front door. There she paused, gathered her courage, and knocked.

Lottie opened the door. She looked just as Ruby remembered her-puffy cheeks, eyes that disappeared when she smiled. "Ruby Elizabeth!" she said, clapping her plump hands together. "Lordy, it's good to see you.

Ruby grinned. "Hello, Lottie. It's been a long time."

"Not so long that you can't give me a hug, you upstart." She reached out and grabbed Ruby, pulling her against her ample breast. Ruby noticed that Lottie still smelled of the lemon hard candies she kept tucked in her apron pockets.

Ruby drew back, trying to maintain her smile when she said, "I came to see Eric."

"He's upstairs. Dean had to fly to Seattle-something about business."

Ruby was relieved. Now that she was here, she wasn't ready to talk to Dean, either. She glanced past Lottie, into the living room. "Can I go up?"

"Why, I'd beat you with a stick if you didn't. I'll make you some tea if-"

"No, thanks. I'm fine."

"Ali. Run along with you, then." As Ruby passed her; Lottie reached out, touched her shoulder. "Don't be afraid, Ruby. He's still our boy."

Ruby took a deep breath and released it, then slowly mounted the stairs. At the upper landing, she turned toward Eric's old room. The door was closed.

She gave it the tiniest push to open it. "Eric?"

"Ruby? Is that you?"

She heard how weak his voice was, how different from the melodious baritone of old, and she swallowed hard. "It's me, buddy." She pushed past the door and walked into his room.

Only sheer willpower kept her from gasping. He looked thin and tired. His beautiful black hair was practically gone, there was only the barest film of it left. Bruise-dark shadows circled his eyes; his cheek bones stood out in pathetic relief above the pale, sunken flesh.

He gave her a smile that broke her heart. "I must be dead if Ruby Bridge is back on the island."

"I'm home," she said, looking away quickly so he couldn't see her shock. She strode over to the window and opened the curtains-anything to get her composure back.

"It's okay, Ruby," he said softly, "I know how I look."

She turned back around. "I missed you, Eric," she said, meaning it, hating herself once again for how easily she'd been able to leave this place, these people.

"It feels like old times with you here," he said, pushing a button and maneuvering his bed to a more upright position.

She smiled. "Yeah. All we need is-"

He reached into the bedside drawer and held out a fat joint. He gave her that same tilted, crooked-toothed grin she remembered so well. "Cancer makes pot easy to come by." He brought the joint to his lips and lit it.

Ruby laughed. "So, you've been getting all our old friends high, huh?"

He took a toke and handed it to her. When he finally exhaled, he said, "There are no old friends around here. Not for me, anyway."

Ruby took a hit. The smoke scalded her throat and made her cough. She handed the joint back to him. "I haven't smoked pot in years."

"That's good news. So, how's the comedy biz?"

She took a smaller drag this time, breathed in, held the smoke in her lungs, then released it. After that, they passed it back and forth. "I'm not funny enough to make it big."

"You're a riot. You always cracked me up."

"Thanks, but that's like being the prettiest girl in Paducah. It doesn't make you Miss America. The funniest girl on Lopez Island isn't going to knock "em dead on Leno. Sad truth."

"Are you giving up on it?"

"I guess so. I think I'll try my hand at writing." She giggled. "Get it-try my hand at writing."

Eric laughed with her. "It's not like you can try your foot," he said between bursts of laughter. They both knew it wasn't funny, but just now, with the sweet smell of pot clouded between them, it seemed hilarious. "What kind of book will you write?"

"Well, it won't be on the joys of sex."

"And it won't be on fashion."

Ruby shot him a look. "Very funny. I have my mother to rag about my appearance, if you don't mind. Hey! That's what I'll write about. Dear Old Mom."

Eric laughed more quietly this time. Snuffing the joint out, he leaned back on his elbows. "Somebody should do a book on her. She's a saint."

"I must be so high I've lost my hearing. I thought you said she was a saint.

He turned to her. "She is."

His face seemed to loom in front of her, two sizes too big. His pale blue eyes were watery, rimmed in nearly invisible strands of red. His full, almost ferm nine lips were colorless. And suddenly she couldn't pretend, couldn't make small talk. "How are you,....... really?"

"It's what the docs call end stage." He smiled weakly. "Funny, they come up with a euphemism for every step of the illness, but then, when you really need a little lip gloss to cover everything, they call it end stage. As if you need another reminder that you're dying."

Ruby brushed the fine, limp strands of hair from his face. "I should have stayed in better touch with you. What happened between Dean and me, I shouldn't have let that extend to you, too."

"You broke his heart," Eric said softly.

"All of our hearts got broken that year I guess, and the king's horsemen couldn't put us back together."

He touched her cheek. "What your mother did... it was really fucked. But you're not sixteen anymore. You ought to be able to see things more clearly."

"Like what?"

"Come on, Ruby. The whole island knew your dad was screwing other women. Don't you think that makes just a little bit of difference?"

So it was true: Everyone did know. "Caroline and I didn't do anything and she left us, too."

There it was, the thing she still couldn't get past.

"I've gotten to know your mom pretty well in the past few years, and let me tell you, she's great. I'd give anything to have a mom like her."

"Jet-set Lady had troubles with your lifestyle, I take it?"

"No. No trouble. When I told my mother I was gay, she said she never wanted to see me again."

"How long did that last?"

"She's not like your mom. When my mom said 'Get out of my house," she meant it. I haven't seen her since."

"Even now?"

"Even now."

"God... I'm sorry," she said, knowing how utterly inadequate the words were.

"You know who got me through those tough times... when I first realized I was gay and my parents disowned me?"

"Dean?"

"Your mother. She had just moved her 'nora Knows Best" column to the Seattle Times. I wrote to her; anonymously at first. She wrote back, praising my bravery, telling me to keep my chin up, that my mom was sure to come around. It gave me hope. But after a few more years, I knew she was wrong. My mom had drawn her line in the sand. She wouldn't have a faggot son. Period." He grabbed his wallet from the top of the bedside table. Opening it, he withdrew an often folded piece of paper and carefully unfolded it. "Here. Read this."

Ruby took the piece of paper from him. It was yellowed from age and veined with tiny fold lines. A brown stain blotched the upper-right corner. She focused on the small, neat lettering. It took her a moment to recognize the handwriting. Her mother's.

Dear Eric,

I can't express the depth of my sympathy for your pain. That you would choose to share it with me is an honor I do not take lightly.

For me, you will always be Eric, the rope swing king. When I close my eyes, I see you hanging monkeylike from that old rope at Anderson Lake, yelling Bonsai! as you let go. I see a boy who came by our house when I was sick, who sat on the porch crushing mint in a bowl to spice up my tea. I remember a sixth-grade boy, his face reddened by new pimples, his voice sliding down the scale, who was never afraid to hold Mrs. Bridge's hand as they walked down the school corridor.

This is who you are, Eric. Whom you choose to love is a part of you, but not the biggest part. You are still that boy who couldn't bear to eat anything that had once had parents. I hope and pray that someday your mother will wake up and remember the very special boy she gave birth to. I hope she will look up then, and smile at the man he has become.

But if she does not, please, please don't let it tear your heart apart. Some people simply can't find it in themselves to bend, to accept. If this terrible thing happens, Eric, you must go on. There's no other word for it. Life is full of people who are different, broken, hurting, who simply put one foot in front of the other and keep moving.

It is your mother I fear for. You will grow up and fall in love, and find yourself When I come to visit you, and we are both old, we will sit on your porch and laugh about the golden days that almost killed us. But not so your mother. If she continues on this path, it will eat her up from the inside. She will find that certain pains are endless.

So, forgive her It is the only way to lighten this ache in your heart. Forgive her and love her and go on.

I love you, Eric Sloan. You and your brother are the sons I never had, and had I given birth to you, would have been proud of who you've become

XXOO

Nora

Ruby folded the letter back into a small triangle that fit in his wallet. "That's a beautiful letter. I can see why you carry it around."

"It saved me. Literally. It took some work-lots of work-but I forgave my mom, and when I did that, my chest stopped hurting all the time.,,

"I don't know how you could forgive her. What she did-"

"Was human, that's all."

"What about now?"

He sighed, pushed a hand through his hair. "It's harder now. I realize how precious time is. I want just one moment with her to tell her I love her. To hear-" His voice broke, dropped to a whisper. "To hear her say she loves me."

Ruby turned to him, touched his face.

He smiled, pressed his hand on top of hers. "Forgive your mother, Ruby."

"I'm afraid," she said, using the words she rarely allowed herself to speak aloud.

He let go of her arm. "Christ. Time is short, don't you understand that? We bump along, blindly assuming we have forever to do things, say things... but we don't. You can feel perfectly fine, and go to your annual checkup on a sunny Wednesday afternoon, and discover that your time's up. Game over."

She looked down at him. "How do you forgive someone?"

He smiled tenderly. "all you just... let go. Unclench."

"If I let go... I'm afraid I'll fall."

"There's nothing wrong with falling." He kissed the tips of his own fingers, then pressed the kiss to her cheek. "I love you, Ruby. Don't forget that."

"Never," she whispered. "Never."

When Ruby finally got home, it was past midnight. She crept past her mother's closed bedroom door and went upstairs. Crawling into bed, she reached for her pad of paper and began to write.

One of my best friends from childhood is dying. I stood at his bedside today and talked to him as if life were normal, and yet all the while, I couldn't breathe.

Until a few hours ago, I had not seen him in more than a decade, and in all that time, I had barely thought of him.

Barely remembered him.

This boy, now a man, who had walked hand in hand with me through childhood, I had forgotten. I kept the Saint Christopher's medal he gave me for my thirteenth birthday, but the boy, I lost.

Maybe he never noticed or cared. We did, after all, go on with our separate lives as childhood friends tend to do, but now I see the sadness in that ordinary course of things. I walked away too easily; I didn't think enough about what-and who-I left behind. Now, I can't think about anything else.

I left a boy with black hair and a booming, heart felt laugh, and I returned to a man so thin I was afraid to touch him for fear that I would see my own bones through his papery flesh.

And this dying man welcome never left. Did he know, I wonder, how much it hurt me to look in his watery eyes and see the reflection of my own emptiness? My own lack.

I want to gather the broken pieces of my heart together pull them into my lap, and study them. Maybe then I could find the hole, the missing piece, that allows me to forget those I love.

I am tired of my solitary life, weary to the bone. I have been running for years, so fast and hard, I am breathless. And here, at the end of it, I see that I've gone nowhere at all.

I want my mother. Isn't that amazing? I would if I could-go to her now, walk into the circle of her arms and say, Eric is dying and I can't imagine living in a world without him."

How would that feel? I wonder. Letting her comfort and soothe me? When I close my eyes, I can imagine it, but when I waken, all I see are the doors closed between us. And the ache that is spreading through my chest hurts more and more.

I recognize what it is now, this pain that has been a part of me for so many years.

It is longing, pure and simple. I miss my mom.