. But it is not your name. ” “I wanted to, John. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. She was afraid people would follow her, she was afraid of the dark, open doorways she passed, and afraid of the blazes of light; she was afraid to be alone, and she knew not what it was she feared. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town. ‘No mistaking you this time. \"I saw you walking down the street with someone, Lucy. ” “You want to be free and so forth, yes. ” Her reverie broke, and she found herself still in front of the looking glass, a barrette hanging loosely from her hair. One day her mother swept into the bedroom of the family townhouse, sweeping across the floor with a bundle in her arms.
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