you.

9.9

The caressing way she looked at me when she said it, sent tingles racing along my spine.

I treasured Jan's admiration. I treasured Jan's love! Bob seemed as unreal as a shadow whenever Jan

was near.

Looking back, I can see that I should have been alerted then, to the possibility of Bob seeking revenge for my lack of interest in him, and my complete absorption in Jan. But I was so enveloped in happiness that I had forgotten anything else could exist for me. So, unheeding the danger flares along the way, I clasped Jan's gentle hand, and we raced on toward disaster.

CHAPTER THREE

One Saturday morning I woke up knowing there was something special about this day. Of course, ever since I'd met Jan, every day had been a special day. New doors of happiness were always opening for me, and through them she and I walked into new experiences of contentment and pleasure. What was it about today?

It was something apart from Jan. It concerned me. And it was not new and exciting, but something that had happened before and would happen again. Then as I wiped drowsiness from my brain, I knew what day this was. It was my birthday. My eighteenth birthday. I hurriedly put on a floral print housecoat, combed my hair, put on lipstick, then ran down the stairs.

Mother, my sister Beth and her husband Hal were at the breakfast table.

"Good morning!" I said cheerfully.

They mumbled good morning and went right on eat-

ing.

Won't someone say "Happy Birthday!" to me? I wondered.

I sat at the table and waited hopefully. I lifted my cup and sipped coffee, my eyes pleading with the family to remember what day it was. But Mother crunched toast, and Beth bit into her bacon and eggs. And Hal sat there looking like a skinny owl as he drank his coffee.

So finally I said it myself.

"Happy birthday to me!"

"Everyone has birthdays," Mother said wearily. "Most people rather forget about them."

"I hadn't," I said, my heart beating in my throat. "Oh, Melba, don't be juvenile," rebuked Beth. "Even when you were little we never made any fuss over your birthday. So don't expect it now."

At Beth's words, the barred doors of unpleasant memory unlocked, and cruel knowledge beat like fists against my hopeful heart... When I was a child I always lifted my face for a birthday kiss. But instead of kissing me, Mother always brushed me off. The means were different but the results were always the same. Once, she said, "Melba, you've got a smudge on your cheek. Go wash your face." I was six then. At nine, she did pat my cheek. But not in affection. She patted it with irritation.

"Please get out of my way, Melba," she said sharpIy. "I'm trying to get this housework done in time for the Church Circle to meet here this afternoon. Go outside and play."

I turned and started toward the door. Not the front door, but the back door. I was going out through the kitchen. Know why?

Because although this was not one of Mother's regular baking days, I was dreaming that maybe, just MAYBE today there might be a birthday cake for me, bak-