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“I miss you.” I try to picture Mom sitting in what we call the cozy corner of the trailer, where there’s a bench with soft cushions and a lamp. It’s where we curl up to read or watch our favorite TV shows. I hate thinking of Mom there alone.
    â€œWhat’s his house like?” Mom asks.
    She won’t say his name. “It’s fine. I have a nice room,” I reassure her. “Dad’s busy painting, so I won’t see much of him. Once I start school next week, I’ll be gone most of the time.”
    â€œYou promise to come home if things don’t work out? I mean if he gets to be too much.”
    â€œYes,” I tell her, “I promise.”
    What is too much? I ask myself.

Chapter 3
    O n this first night in Dad’s house I have trouble sleeping. I go over and over what I have done. I’ve promised to take care of Dad, but I might as well have promised to care for an injured lion that might turn on me at any minute. Still, I tell myself, it was the right thing to do. At one point I hear Dad tramping down the stairs, followed by the sound of his studio door opening and closing. I want to see if he’s all right, but something tells me he wouldn’t be happy to have me checking on him. After all these years I have my father back and he’s going to die. It’s unfair. Then I think of my father locked into his studio downstairs and what it must be like for him to think of all the pictures he will never get to paint.
    I give up on sleeping, and by dawn I’m downstairs. Dad is moving around in the studio, talking to himself. When I knock on the door and offer him coffee, he looks at me as if he has no idea who I am. But he takes the coffee. I’m surprised at how happy that makes me.
    â€œDo you want a fried egg or something?” I offer.
    â€œA fried egg?” He makes it sound like something exotic, something no one in his right mind would think of eating. The door slams shut. Taking care of him is going to be harder than I thought.
    I decide I can at least do something about the mess in the kitchen. Growing up in a trailer, I learned early on that neatness is everything; otherwise, with so little room, you get buried under piles of stuff. I do all the dirty dishes that have been dumped in the sink. I stack the avalanche of art books and magazines. I empty the fridge of everything that looks older than I am, leaving the shelves nearly bare. Maybe when he sees I’m willing to be helpful, Dad will put up with me a little better.
    A phone rings. There must be an extension in the studio, so I wait a minute to see if Dad’s going to answer. He doesn’t. Whoever it is won’t give up. I pick up the receiver. “Hello?” There’s dead silence and then a woman’s angry voice. “Who are you? Where’s Dalton?”
    â€œI’m Dalton’s daughter, and he’s in his studio painting.”
    â€œIf you’re his daughter, I’m the Mona Lisa. He certainly never mentioned a daughter. Whoever you are, I feel sorry for you. You may as well know, if you don’t already, living with Dalton is hell. Just tell him Julia called. He knows where to reach me.”
    The woman in red. She looked so nice in the painting. Did she change? Was it something Dad did that made her change? Will staying with him change me? The phone rings again. Thinking it’s the same woman, I pick it up and hiss, “Yes?”
    A man’s voice. “Who are you? Where’s Dalton?” The questions of the day. This time I say, “I’m Kate Tapert. Dalton is in his studio.”
    â€œJust where he should be. I’m delighted to hear your voice. Dalton always works at his best when he has a muse to inspire him. Just keep an eye on the bottle, will you? You probably know his tendencies.”
    Indignant I say, “I’m his daughter, and Dad’s not drinking.”
    â€œWell, two surprises. I hope you