It was beautiful outside her window. When she could bring herself to look, she saw lobster boats bobbing on the ocean, seagulls gracefully moving across the sky, and faces that after only two weeks had become familiar. It seemed a good place to finish a life that had become one long and endless ache.

She lit another cigarette and switched on the black and white TV. "General Hospital" appeared on the television screen. She leaned back, pulled the pink and white afghan around herself, and smoked. Her daily routine consisted of cigarettes, warm beer, and meaningless TV. Within minutes she was asleep.

The August sun shone down on the coastal village where she had come to hide. It was a poor town populated mostly by those who fished, worked in the seafood processing plant, and those who were too young or old to do either. Villagers lived in houses that failed to hold paint for more than a season or two. A place where spring and summer held promise, and fall and winter called for prayer. Visitors struck by the village’s stark beauty, romanticized the lives of its' inhabitants. They were right - there was romance here, but there was also back breaking work, poverty and despair.

She'd come to Hamden with a savings book claiming possession of $92,000 dollars, a red Saab, a suitcase filled to the brim with wrinkled clothing, a journal, 3 novels, 8 cartons of cigarettes, 6 cases of beer, containers of seconal, codeine, and sleeping pills, and a plan to kill herself.

A dog is barking. She doesn’t want to wake. She turns over, pulls the cover over her head, and reaches for her child. She's been grasping empty air for a lifetime it seems. Her baby girl is gone. She searches for her daughter's image and finds her tiny face, her beautiful, innocent face. She begins again to whisper her name over and over, as if it were a chant. "Cara, Cara, Cara…"

The dog keeps barking. She throws her covers off and struggles to sit up. Her agony and rage rise up to choke her. She briefly considers killing the dog, but it would take far more energy than she has. She wills the tears to come instead, but they don't. She'd used them all up during the first two years that she'd grieved for her sweet little girl. She rests her head against the arm of the couch, feeling desolate and depleted - empty except for her hatred and pain. "Why wait any longer?" She wonders. Her pills, tucked safely away, lie waiting.

Her brother's birthday is only a few days away. She understands the cruelty of killing herself so close to the day her brother was born, and so she's decided to hold on just a little longer. She lies perfectly still, barely breathing. The sun finds it’s way through the darkened room and warms her face. "Soon," she whispers and closes her eyes again. Her auburn hair lays soft against her cheek, and her long, slender body is still. One hand rests on her chest. It's a pale, delicate hand that hosts a thick gold wedding band.

It’s almost four when she finally stirs. She slowly slides up and leans against the shapeless cushions. She reaches for another cigarette, takes a sip of flat and tepid beer and gazes at the television screen. A woman is yelling at her boyfriend, while a pretty talk-show host stands by. She shakes her head in disgust and smokes. It will be dark soon. She curses the night; it's far too like the darkness in her soul. She begins to unconsciously brace herself for the torment that will soon swallow her up. She walks slowly over to the refrigerator, stretches her aching muscles, reaches for another beer, and stumbles back to the couch. She hasn’t eaten in days. If only nature would accomplish the final task for her, allowing her to just fade away...

For two weeks now, she's smoked and drank, each night ending up howling in agony by dawn. She's barely said ten words since the time she arrived at the cottage, and yet her voice is hoarse from screaming into the damp, flowered cushion that smells like rotted boards.

Not so long ago, her life had been filled with Cara's laughter, and Mark's seductive smile. Her days were spent caring for her child in an elegant, pastel painted Victorian in Charleston. She and Mark had been enchanted by its grand front porch, the round windows in the study, the fireplace in the master bedroom, and the winding mahogany staircase. It had been love at first site and they'd claimed it immediately. She'd added sunflowers to the garden the first spring and they'd peeked in at her threw the kitchen window. She'd sit in the sunlight with Cara, who'd sing little girl songs and play with Barbies' while Virginia sipped coffee and made plans. There were always errands to run, friends to visit, and shopping to do.

While Cara napped in the afternoon, Virginia would begin the ritual of preparing dinner. She'd gather thyme and parsley, slice onions and lemon for the fresh Cod Boulangere, and then pause to check on Cara. Her little bottom would be facing straight up in the air, her mouth moving as though she were still nursing, and her tiny face half buried in the fur of her constant companion, Freddie.

Mark would come home for dinner, cheerful and equipped with slightly embellished anecdotes of the day's events. He'd faithfully deliver them each evening over white wine, and she'd laugh delightedly - always pretending to believe each and every story.

After dinner, while Cara played hide-and-seek with Mark, she'd load the dinner dishes in the dishwasher, and chat with her best friend, Lindsay, on the phone.

They'd been best friends since Junior High, gotten pregnant at around the same time, shared many of the same interests, and socialized with the same group of people. They spent three mornings during the week in the park with the children, claiming Fridays as their own. Fridays were wonderful - filled with shared confidences, delicious lunches, shopping, and spontaneous adventures.