Philippa was lying in her bed, and the time was about dawn. She had a bandage around her right middle finger. She clutched the quilt and looked at her central blue vein. Then she looked out in the dark room, and she released the quilt. She tried to pray, but she never could when she felt like this. She reached over to turn the light on and then she waited. Philippa talked and asked questions, but she was alone in the room.
She had read every newspaper the library carried, and she had read everything she had been in the vicinity of, and tried to match the typefaces to her own pieces of paper. She had even considered driving into the college library in Plattsburgh, but it had been too hard for her to get into Jim’s car for the first time in the eight months since the funeral and she didn’t have a driving license. She collected clippings, and tried to find out what made sense.
She couldn’t pray and she didn’t dare to look at the crucifix on the wall. The whole wall and the things near it were ‘off limits’ for her. Once again she tried to clasp her hands for prayer, but still she couldn’t do it. She knew it was important to keep fancy and reality separated, but it wasn’t easy for her.
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