later, she heard an alarm, or a bell, or a sound. She tried to ignore it for a long time, and then she realized it was her doorbell. She couldn't imagine who it was, and she tried to ignore it some more, but it wouldn't stop. And then someone started pounding on the door, so she put her dressing gown on, and went to the door and looked through the peephole. It was Brock Stevens. She was so surprised, she opened it and they stood staring at each other, she in her beige cashmere robe and he in a heavy sweater and parka, corduroy pants, and heavy boots. There was a smell of fresh air about him, and he looked very worried when he saw her.
“I was worried sick about you,” he said as she stood there.
“Why?” She looked a little vague and she was weaving, but he knew her well enough to know she hadn't been drinking. She was just very sick and probably hadn't eaten. She stepped aside to let him in and he followed her into the living room, and then she saw herself in the mirror and realized she hadn't put on her wig. “Shit,” she said, and looked up at him like a little kid, “there goes that.”
“You look like Sinead O'Connor, only better.”
“I can't sing.”
“Neither can I,” he said, still looking at her, thinking that she really looked like Audrey Hepburn. She was even beautiful without her hair, it was so simple and so unadorned. All the beauty of her face stood out like some exquisite being from another world. There was a luminousness to her that never failed to touch him. “What happened?” he asked her. It was obvious that something had. It was as though she were trying to let go and die. And she was. But even over the phone, he had sensed it.
“I don't know. I saw myself in the mirror this morning, and Annabelle was gone, and I was sick again …it's just too much to fight anymore …Sam and his other woman …it's all such a mess. It's just too much trouble,” she said honestly, and he looked angry.
“So you gave up. Is that it?” He was shouting at her, and she looked startled.
“I have a right to make my own choices,” she said sadly.
“Do you? You have a little girl, and even if you didn't have her, you have an obligation to yourself, not to mention the people who love you. You need to fight this, Alex. It won't go away for a while. It's not going to be easy. But you can't just lie here and die, because it's ‘too much trouble.' ”
“Why not?” she said, sounding strangely disassociated from everything. Even him.
“Because I say so. Have you eaten today?” he asked, sounding savage. And not surprisingly, she shook her head in answer. “Go put some clothes on. I'll make something to eat.”
“I'm not hungry.”
“I don't care. I'm not going to listen to this bullshit.” He grabbed her shoulders then, and shook her gently. “I don't give a damn what anyone has done to you, or what you think about your life right now. Stripped down to bare bones, with one breast or two, and bald as an eagle, you have an obligation to fight for your life, Alex Parker. For you. For yourself. For no one else. It's a precious commodity. And the rest of us need you. But when you look in the mirror, and you don't like what you see, you remember that that woman is you. All the trappings mean nothing. You are exactly who you were before all this happened. If anything, you're more, not less. Don't forget that.” She was in awe of him as he stood there, lecturing her, and without a sound, she walked to her bathroom. She took off her dressing gown and turned on the shower, and then she stood there for a long time, looking into the mirror, and she saw the same woman she had seen there that morning, the same broken bird, the woman with the scar where her breast had been, the woman with no hair, but as she looked at her, she knew that he was right. Not for Annabelle, not for Sam, not for him, or anyone, she had to fight. For herself, for what she had been, and could be, and always would be. She could lose a breast and her hair, but she couldn't lose herself. Sam couldn't