“Maybe you need to do some real thinking about all that, Nancy.”
“You don't think he's coming back to me, do you?” She was angry again. This time at Faye, because there was no one else to be angry at.
“I don't know, Nancy. No one knows the answer to that except Michael.”
“Yeah. The son of a bitch.” She got up and paced the room again, and then like a windup toy winding down, the fury of her pacing slowed, until she finally stood in front of the fire, with tears rolling down her face and her hands clenched on the screen in front of the fire. “Oh Faye, I'm so scared.”
“Of what?” The voice was soft behind her.
“Of being alone. Of not being me anymore. Of … I wonder if I've done a terrible thing that I'll be punished for. I gave up love for my face.”
“But you thought you'd already lost everything. You can't blame yourself for the choice you made, and in the end you may be glad.”
“Yeah … maybe …” There were fresh sobs from the fireplace, and Faye watched the slim shoulders shake. “You know, I'm scared of the holidays too. It's worse than being back at the orphanage. This time there's no one. Lily and Gretchen left last month, and you're going skiing. Peter's going to Europe for a week, and …” She couldn't stop the tears. But these were the realities of her life now. She had to face them. Faye shouldn't be made to feel guilty for leaving, nor should Peter: they had their own lives, as well as their time with her.
“Maybe it's time you got out and made some friends.”
“Like this?” She turned to face Faye again and pulled off the soft brown hat, revealing a great deal of bandaging. “How can I go out and meet anyone like this? I'd scare them to death. Look guys, it's Dracula!”
“It isn't frightening looking, Nancy, and in time it'll be gone. It's not permanent. They're only bandages. People would understand.”
“Maybe so.” But she wasn't ready to believe that. Anyway, I don't need friends. I keep busy with my camera.” Peter's gift had been a godsend.
“I know. I saw your last batch of prints at Peter's the other day. He's so proud of them he shows them to everyone. It's beautiful work, Nancy.”
“Thank you.” Some of the anger drained out of her with the talk of her work. “Oh Faye…” She sat back in the chair again and stretched her legs. “What am I going to do with my life?”
That's what we're working on figuring out, isn't it? And in the meantime, why don't you think about some of what we talked about today? The voice coach, music lessons—something to amuse you, and all part of the person you'll become.”
“Yeah, I guess I will give it some thought. When are you coming back from skiing, by the way?”
“In two weeks. But I'll leave a number where you can reach me in an emergency.” Faye was more worried about Nancy's getting through the holidays than she was willing to admit. Holidays were prime time for depression, even suicide, but Nancy seemed solid for the moment. She just didn't want her to become hysterical in her loneliness. It was rotten luck that she and Peter were going away at the same time, but on the other hand Nancy had to learn not to depend on them too much. “Why don't we make an appointment for two weeks from today. And I want to see a mountain of beautiful prints you made over the holidays.”
“That reminds me.” Nancy Jumped up again and vanished into the hallway, where she had left a flat package wrapped in brown paper. When she returned with it, she smilingly held it out to Faye. “Merry Christmas.”
Faye opened it with a look of pleasure and then of awe. The gift was a photograph of herself that looked as though she had sat for it for hours, to allow the photographer to capture just the right look, the right mood It had a dreamy, impressionistic quality; she had been standing on Nancy's terrace with the wind in her hair, wearing a pale pink silk shirt; and the sun had been setting in red and pink tones behind her. She remembered the day, but couldn't remember Nancy taking the picture. “When did you take it?” She looked stunned.
“When you weren't looking.” Nancy looked pleased with herself, and she had every right to be. The photograph was