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388 pages, Mass Market Paperback
First published January 18, 1995
"The thought made his chest tight. Not seeing her again, not touching her...It was absurd how desperate it made him feel. But there was no choice, and he knew it. He knew what happened to the people who stayed with him, God knew he'd seen it a hundred times before. He could picture it in his mind, knew that eventually he would see a painfully familiar look in her eyes, the same look he'd seen in those of his family, of his friends. The dull expression, the fear, the pain. And finally, the good-bye.
"They say they love you and then they leave."
Well, it was true. It had always been true. And he suffered for it not just because he was losing them, but because he knew he'd beaten them down, because by leaving they were only trying to survive."
"Thomas had always been good at seeing through her, ever since she was very small and he had come visiting every few months bringing her a special book, or a doll, because "A sick little girl needs reasons to get better, don't you think, dear heart?" Almost as if he knew that even her own parents never made time to visit her sickroom, as if he knew he was her only friend.
She lowered her eyes and stared at the thin leaves floating to the bottom of her teacup and hoped he would believe her, hoped he wouldn't see how afraid she was of failing, how afraid she was of disappearing completely in her father's eyes the way she had in her mother's."
She was looking at him as if he were God, and in that moment he felt as if he were. He was God, and she was his Eve, more perfect than Adam had ever been, more interesting.
“What do you want—a guarantee? There aren't any. People say they love you and then they leave. They say they'll stay no matter what happens. But they don't." He paused, feeling the pain well up so strongly inside him that he spoke the last in a whisper. "They never do.”
She had been a part of that upper-class respectability, and he'd changed her. Already he'd changed her. She was his creation now, vibrant and alive, a laughing, beautiful testament to his talent.
"You made me beautiful," she whispered. "Now let me do something for you. Let me keep you safe."
"It doesn't matter," he said, staring at the wall, at the cracking plaster, the waterstain that looked like a giant feeding spider. "Nothing does. We all strive to say something—as if it's important. As if there can be some lasting value . . . And yet we all know mankind is doomed to nothingness. Immortality." He laughed bitterly. "There's no such thing. There's no meaning to anything. We get up in the morning, we push through the day, we go to sleep. Day after day. Endlessness. Meaninglessness."
They were the words she'd waited her entire life for, words of acceptance, of love, and Imogene knew this was finally her chance to hear them, her chance to be the daughter her father had always wanted, the daughter he'd lost when Chloe died. This time, she wouldn't fail. Not this time.
He wished he knew how they did it. Even planning for the next day was beyond his capabilities. He didn't understand how to think that way, how to plan, and he wanted to. He wanted to understand how people mapped out their lives, how they went so easily through a day. How they managed to keep from destroying the people around them, destroying themselves. He looked down at his arm, at the too-smooth stump, the thick pink ridge of scar. Christ, how did they do it? How did Genie do it?
"Let me show you what I know of it," he murmured. "Your mouth can be considered a hundred ways. Rico would look at it and he would see the light and shade; Byron Sawyer would see the color; yet another artist might see the line. A hundred truths, and not one is wrong. There are no original ideas, darling, only original visions. Each of us would draw your lips a different way, yet none of us could capture the complete essence of them."




