When I reached the ward, I could see that Agnes's bed was the only one with a light. A male aide, a young black, set his magazine aside and tiptoed in my direction with a finger to his lips. We spoke briefly in low tones. The medication had finally kicked in and she was dozing, he said. Now that I was here, he had his regular duties to attend to. If I needed anything, I could find him at the nurses' station down the hall. He moved out of the room.

I crossed quietly to the pool of bright light in which Agnes slept. The counterpane on her bed was a heavyweight cotton, harsh white, her thin frame scarcely swelling the flat coverlet. She snored softly. Her eyes seemed to be opened slightly, lids twitching as she tracked some interior event. Her right hand clutched at the sheet, her arthritic knuckles as protuberant as redwood burls. Her chest was flat. Coarse whiskers sprouted from her chin, as if old age were transforming her from one sex to the other. I found myself holding my breath as I watched her, willing her to breathe, wondering if she'd sail away right before my eyes. This afternoon, she'd seemed sassy and energetic. Now, she reminded me of certain old cats I've seen whose bones seem hollow and small, who seem capable of levitating, so close are they to fairylike.

I glanced at the clock. Twelve minutes had passed. When I looked back, her black eyes were pinned on my face with a surprising show of life. There was something startling about her sudden watchfulness, like a visitation from the spirit world.

"Don't make me go," she whispered.

"It won't be so bad. I hear the nursing home is lovely. Really. It'll be much better than this."

Her gaze became intense. "You don't understand. I want to stay here."

"I do understand, Agnes, but it's just not possible. You need help. Irene wants you close so she can take care of you."

She shook her head mournfully. "I'll die. I'll die. It's too dangerous. Help me get away."

I felt the hair stiffen along my scalp. "You'll be fine. Everything's fine," I said. My voice sounded too loud. I lowered my tone, leaning toward her. "You remember Irene?"

She blinked at me and I could have sworn she was debating whether to admit to it or not. She nodded, her voice tremulous. "My little girl," she said. She reached out and I took her shaking hand, which was bony and hot, surprisingly strong.

"I talked to Irene a little while ago," I said. "Clyde's found a place close by. She says it's very nice."

She shook her head. Tears had leaped into her eyes and they trickled down her cheeks, following deeply eroded lines in her face. Her mouth began to work, her face filled with a pleading she couldn't seem to articulate.

"Can you tell me what you're afraid of?"

I could see her struggle, and her voice, when it came, was so frail that I had to rise slightly from my chair to catch what she was saying. "Emily died. I tried to warn her. The chimney collapsed in the earthquake. The ground rolled. Oh, I could see… it was like waves in the earth. Her head was bashed in by a brick. She wouldn't listen when I told her it was dangerous. Let it be, I said, but she had to have her way. Sell the house, sell the house. She didn't want roots, but that's where she ended up… down in the ground."

"When was this?" I asked, trying to keep the conversation afloat.

Agnes shook her head mutely.

"Is that why you're worried? Because of Emily?"

"I heard the niece of the owner of that old house across the street died several years ago. She was a Harpster."

Oh, boy. We were really on a roll here. "She played the harp?" I asked.

She shook her head impatiently. Her voice garnered strength. "Harpster was her maiden name. She was big in the Citizens Bank and never married. Helen was an ex-girlfriend of his. She left because of his temper, but then Sheila came along. She was so young. She had no idea. The other Harpster girl was a dancer and married Arthur James, a professional accordion player who owned a music shop. I knew him because we girls at the Y used to go over to his place and he would play for us after he locked the door," she said. "It's a small world. The girls said their uncle's house was their second home. She might still be there if he left it to her. She'd help."

I watched carefully, trying to understand what was going on. Was there really something she was too frightened to talk about? "Was Emily the one who married Arthur James?"

"There was always some story… always some explanation." She waved a hand vaguely, her tone resigned.

"Was this in Santa Teresa? Maybe I could help you if I understood."