Chapter 1

The ancient Greeks blamed Fate for all the twists and turns in their lives. We modern men don't like that. We make our own Fate, we say – we have our own responsibility. Happiness is a choice. And the Gods laugh.

The cab driver that took Juliana to the clinic must have been from a more gallant era. He opened her door and helped her out of the car. She smiled shyly, accepting his hand. Her foot found the pebbled surface of the driveway.

"Thank you," she whispered, searching for money in her wallet. She would have given him a bigger tip, but things being as they were, well ... The man smiled under his moustache and said: "De nada. Thank you very much, and have a wonderful day, señora." The pebbles crunched under his car's wheels as he drove off. She was alone again, except for the load that weighed on her shoulders. Turning on her heels, she walked over to the quiet villa where she had her appointment.

Her name was Juliana Austin, née Enders. She'd just turned 20, but her petite frame and very blond hair hardly gave her 16. She would have been beautiful if she'd dared. But Juliana Austin was too shy for that. If she hadn't had her big blue eyes in her pixy face, she might have been invisible.

Hurrying up the few steps, she looked for a bell on the ornate doors. She found it right over a modest sign that told her she'd arrived at the right address. She pressed the button and stepped back to wait for a response. A ray of afternoon sun slipped around the corner and lighted up her hair. It also gave some transparency to her simple summer dress. Her left hand squeezed a white handkerchief into a moist ball.

The door opened. A woman in the professional whites of a nurse stared at her. She didn't smile or say a word, so Juliana cleared her throat and asked for the doctor she had her appointment with. The woman scanned her from top to bottom. Then she opened the door wider and invited her in.

"Sit over there, please," she said. "I'll inform him when he gets in."

Juliana sat down in one of the designer chairs around a table that was strewn with glossy magazines. She touched the face of a wide-mouthed blonde. The silence around her did nothing to sooth her nerves.

Juliana was used to waiting. The stretching minutes caused a silent frustration to grow inside her, but she could handle it. A childhood of obedience guarded her rage.

She'd grown up on a farm in the Midwest – lost under immense skies, miles and miles away from neighbors, let alone towns. She was the youngest of five children ­– four brothers – a fragile girl in an isolated world of silence and hard physical labor. There hadn't been television until she turned sixteen – no sleepovers, no trips to the mall. Travel meant a weekly car ride to church; entertainment was the after-service barbecue. Her mother read a magazine for Christian housewives, her father the local newspaper. Her brothers didn't read at all.

She went to school with her two younger brothers, until a new principal thought that mixing the genders in class would be a healthy idea. She, with a number of neighborhood girls, was home-schooled after that by a woman appointed by their church – who took all guidance from the Bible.

When Juliana turned eighteen she was introduced to Kurt Carlson. Kurt was 32 and the only son of the owner of the local General Store, annex grain mill. She knew him from church, but as he was male and so much older, she'd hardly ever talked with him. So things became awkward when, one balmy summer evening, her parents introduced him to her, and left the two of them on their porch.

Kurt Carlson was large and sweaty, with a pale baby face and reddish hair that already got thin. He seemed as shy as she, fumbling as she invited him to sit with her on the swing. The swing was an old, rickety affair; it creaked under his weight.

Juliana poured lemonade from the old carafe, handing him a glass and taking one herself – if only to have something to focus on. She didn't understand why he should be nervous; she even less understood why she herself was.

"So you are Kurt Carlson of the General Store?" she asked, smiling. He blushed and took a huge gulp from his lemonade. He nodded. Then he gushed:

"And you are very beautiful, Miss Enders."

Juliana knew she shouldn't have giggled. It must have been her nerves, or being called Miss Enders by someone so much older than she. For whatever reason, she couldn't stop giggling. It soon turned into laughter, and Kurt Carlson's face colored crimson. He pushed himself out of the swing, almost making it crash, and ran off.

"What did you say, stupid girl?" her father growled, looming over her. His fist grabbed her wispy blond hair. She felt the sting where his hand had slapped her cheek. Tears burned behind her eyeballs.

"I ... I said nothing," she gasped. Another intended slap was stopped right before it landed.

"Enough, Carl." Her mother's voice was soft and came from the door. The hand relaxed around her hair.

"You think you can do this?" His voice was gravelly. "Be the princess? Get what you want?"

Juliana's head was in turmoil; she had no idea what he meant. Her father plunged down next to her, making the swing protest again. He grabbed her head in his calloused hands, leaning in until his nose almost touched hers.

"You listen," he said, his breath stained with tobacco. "While you were dreaming your little miss princess dreams, we had two failed crops and a disease that cost us fourteen cows. Brian and Jack will have to leave and find work in town." They were her younger brothers. "Will and Jim and I will break our backs to keep the bank at bay. You?" he asked as if it was a question, "you will marry Kurt Carlson and be off our hands before the year is out. Understand?"

"Carl," her mother said. He growled.

"You keep out of this Marie."

"I... ," Juliana squeaked, not knowing what to say. Marry Kurt Carlson? She didn't even know him; she hardly knew herself yet. Her father grinned.

"Aye," he mockingly repeated. "Aye it is."

Juliana knew she could talk with her mother. She could even cry with her, but it wouldn't help. They were both victims of a rude male universe of fathers, brothers and priests – a world of silent one-track righteousness and medieval morality.

"I won't marry him," Juliana said. "I can't."

"You have no choice, sweetheart."

"It's my life. I have plans." Her mother smiled weakly.

"Those were my words," she said, "when I was your age." She brushed a strand of hair out of her daughter's face. "Now look at me."

For the first time Juliana saw her mother as she was – pale and tired. How old was she – in her late forties, maybe? Married at 17 she had five children and two miscarriages in twelve years, doing the household next to working the land with her husband until the first boys were old enough to take over. Her body was the body of a seventy year old; her eyes had lost their sparkle ages ago.

"You must help me," Juliana said. Her mother's eyebrows rose.

"How?"

"To get away from here."

"But you can't!"

"Why not?"

"I'll be all alone."

Once more Juliana saw her mother like she'd never seen her before. She saw a helpless child – fearful eyes; panic.

"But you'll also be alone when I have to marry this Kurt," she said.

"You'd still be in town," her mother opposed, "in church; close. I'll get to see your children; I can visit."

Hard and bony fingers grabbed Juliana's hands.

"I won't marry Kurt Carlson, mother, " she said. "You must help me run away."

The fear died in her mother's eyes, replaced by a gaze Juliana knew better. She'd always thought it was calmness; now she knew it was resignation.

"Your father will kill me."

Juliana reached out and hugged her mother.

Sitting at the table, leafing through the magazines without seeing much of the long-legged models or what they wore, time passed. Juliana had no idea how long she'd been waiting when she heard the clip-clop of clogs on the marble floor.

"Doctor will see you," the nurse said. No excuse, no smile; just an arm gesturing down the corridor. "First door on the right."

Juliana rose, picking up her bag. She sighed and walked to the distant door.

The room wasn't at all like a doctor's office. It was monumental, with high ceilings, abstract paintings and modern tapestries. The desk was a big black table, simple and austere. Behind it, in a high-backed chair, sat the man she'd been advised to see – Dr. Charrier, neurological surgeon. She estimated him to be fifty. He was large and bulky. His jowls were pink and heavy; his graying hair receded and was slicked back. He rose and extended his hand, smiling. She murmured a greeting.

"Mrs. Austin," he said, gesturing at the one chair in front of the table. "Please sit down." She walked over and sat down, looking across the immense black tabletop. He kept standing.

"I'm so glad to see you," he began. "And yet I'm sad we have to have this conversation." Juliana smiled nervously, squeezing the purse in her lap. The easy authority of the man crept under her skin, finding well-trodden routes.

"As my young colleague told you at the hospital," he went on, picking up a file from the empty table, "your husband's health is, err ... precarious."

His words took her back to yesterday. She relived the shock of finding her husband stretched out on the floor of their kitchen. It was followed by a crazy ride in an ambulance, she holding his cold fingers. Juliana still heard his labored breathing, the sirens, and the beeps of instruments. After that she'd been waiting and waiting in the emergency room. Nurses and doctors ran back and forth through white, clinical spaces, mostly ignoring her. Everything seemed more important than her excruciating uncertainty.

After what felt like hours, a young doctor approached her. He was tall and dark, and had a friendly smile, although his eyebrows were knitted into a frown.

"Mrs. Austin?" he asked. She jumped up and blurted out all the questions she'd amassed in her time of waiting, but he raised a hand and asked her to come with him.

"Your husband has suffered a stroke," he said after they sat down in his tiny office. The words sent a cold rush down her spine.

"Is ... is he... ?" she asked, too scared to finish the sentence. He smiled and shook his head again.

"No, no. He'll live." She sighed.

"He'll live," the doctor repeated. "It was a light stroke, and we are quite confident he'll recover completely. He's a strong man." He echoed her smile that had suddenly appeared on her face, setting off a flood of tears.

"Thank God," she whispered. "And thank you, Dr..."

"Fleming," he said. "Lester Fleming. But there is one more thing I have to tell you."

The cold shiver returned.

"We did scans of your husband's head," he went on, turning his computer her way. She saw rows of similar ovals on the screen. He pointed.

"What you see here – this dark spot – is the blood he lost through the rupture of a small artery. It caused the stroke, but isn't a great danger in itself. It will dissolve and, using the right medicine, he might go on living to be 80." He smiled at her and so did she. Then he pointed at another spot.

"This, however, is a different thing altogether." She couldn't see anything remarkable.

"It is the nucleus of a tumor," he said, watching her startle at the word. "It is benign for now." He saw her relax at that. "But when it decides to grow – maybe tomorrow, maybe next year, maybe never – it will get dangerous and could be fatal. We might be too late by then." He allowed a silence, holding her eyes with his.

"What are you saying, doctor?" she asked at last. He cleared his throat.

"It might be wise to operate on your husband as soon as he's strong enough," he said. She sat and stared; what could she say? A brain operation? Wouldn't that be dangerous? Why operate? He could live to be 80, he told her just minutes ago.

"That will be a great risk," she said. "Does he really have to? You said he could live to a great age." The doctor shrugged.

"I said he might," he said. "And you are right, Mrs. Austin; this is about risks – the risk of complications in surgery versus the risk of an inoperable cancer in the near future." He saw how the word 'cancer' made her wince, just like the word 'tumor' had before.

"I," Juliana said, "I have to talk with my husband. Is he strong enough for that?"

"Of course you must," the doctor said. "But you can't just now. We keep him in an artificial coma, so his brain can recover. I think he'll be out of that in a few days." He smiled as he rose. "Before that you must see my eminent colleague, Dr. Charrier. If your husband has a chance, it is with him. Here, let me give you his address, so you can make an appointment." He gave her a card and led her to the exit. "I think you should go home now," he said, taking her hand in his, "and get some rest yourself. This must have been a hell of a day."

Before leaving the hospital, Juliana went to see her husband. He looked small and fragile in the high bed, caught in a web of tubes. She touched his hand and whispered a prayer.

What about love at first sight? Does it exist? And even if it does, does one recognize it if love never was a commodity in one's life? If the word love wasn't even used? If words had been in short supply anyway?

Juliana Enders fled the farm, wearing her dark coat and carrying her small cardboard suitcase. Using the few dollars her mother gave her, she went looking for a bus in the nearest town. The first one available took her to Chicago. It happened to be the only one.

The city scared her; she'd never seen so many people at one place. The noise was overwhelming – the cars, the stink. Picking at a sandwich she'd bought at the station, she sat down on a bench studying the scrap of paper her mother gave her. It held a name and an address. They must be family, although she'd never met them – a cousin, her mother said.

Walking over to a street map, she tried to unravel the maze it presented. "You are here," an arrow pointed out. It could have been anywhere.

"Can I help you, Miss?" a male voice said. It made her jump. She turned and found the face of an elderly black man. Where she'd lived there were no black men. She'd heard about them and seen them on television. There was always trouble involved, and violence.

"I, ehm ... no thank you," she said, grabbing her suitcase tighter and walking off.

The menace of the city grew on her with every step she took – the cars, the honking, the sirens, and the thick, soupy air. Looking around her she only saw tall buildings, cracked concrete and hurrying bodies. Then she saw a police officer. He was black, too, but there was safety in the uniform.

"Officer," she called out, and showed him the address. He smiled and said: "That's not really close, Miss. You better take a cab..." He looked her over. "Or a bus."

Taking the bus he pointed out, Juliana found herself a few minutes later on a hard bench, surrounded by a throng of people. There were mothers and children, hooded men and teenage boys with headphones over their ears and big gaudy sneakers on their feet. Right in front of her sat a man only wearing a tank top; he drank beer from a can and his exposed skin was tattooed all over.

Everybody seemed to watch her.

After at least half an hour the friendly driver called the street she was looking for and she left the bus, trying to avoid contact on the way out.