“My secretary.”

“Damn shame. She's just a kid, from what I saw on the chart. And there's no family, is there?”

“I don't really know. She doesn't talk about it. She never told me.” It made him wonder now what her situation was. She never talked about her personal life and family. He knew almost nothing about her.

“I spoke to a nun who was sitting with her. The priest who came in earlier had apparently gone home to rest. But the Sister says she has no one in the world. That's pretty rough for a young kid. The Sister says she's a nice-looking girl, though it's a little hard to tell at the moment. The plastic resident sewed her up so she should look okay. It's just the head we have to worry about now.” Charles felt sick when he hung up. It was too much to bear. And how could she not have any family? How could she be alone at twenty-two? That didn't make sense to him. All she had was a nun and priest with her. It was hard to believe she had no one else, but maybe she didn't.

He sat at his desk for another hour, trying to work, and got nowhere, and finally he couldn't stand it any longer.

At seven o'clock he took a cab down to Bellevue, and went to the ICU. Sister Eugene had left by then too, though they were calling regularly from St. Andrew's for news, and Father Tim had said he'd be back later that night when things settled down at the shelter. But there were only nurses with her now, and for the moment nothing had changed since that morning.

Charles went and sat with her for a while, unable to believe what she looked like. She would have been completely unrecognizable, except for her long, graceful fingers. He held her hand in his own and gently stroked it.

“Hi Grace, I came down to see you.” He spoke quietly, so he wouldn't disturb anyone, but he wanted to say something to her, on the off chance that she could hear him, although it certainly seemed unlikely in the state she was in. “You're going to be fine, you know … and don't forget that dinner at ‘21.’ I'll take you there myself if you hurry up and get well … and you know, it would be nice if you would open your eyes for us … it's not too exciting like this … open your eyes … that's right, Grace … open your eyes …” He went on talking soothingly to her, and just as he was thinking about leaving her, he saw her eyelids flutter and signaled to the nurses at the desk. His heart was pounding at what he'd seen. Her survival was vital to him. He wanted her to live. He barely knew her, but he didn't want to lose her. “I think she moved her eyelids,” he explained.

“It's probably just a reflex,” the nurse said with a sympathetic smile. But then she did it again, and the nurse stood and watched her.

“Move your eyes again, Grace,” he said quietly. “Come on, I know you can do it. Yes, you can.” And she did. And then she opened them briefly, moaned, and closed them. He wanted to shout with excitement. “What does that mean?” he asked the nurse.

“That she's regaining consciousness.” She smiled at him. “I'll call the doctor.”

“That was great, Grace,” he praised her, stroking her fingers again, willing her to live, just to prove she could do it, just so one more mugger wouldn't win a life he didn't deserve to take. “Come on, Grace … you can't just lie there, sleeping … we've got work to do … what about that letter you promised me you'd do …” He was saying anything he could think of and then he almost cried when he saw her frown, the eyes opened again and she stared at him blankly.

“… What … letter? …” she croaked through bruised swollen lips as her eyes closed again, and this time he did cry. The tears rolled down his cheeks as he looked at her. She had heard him. And then the doctor came, and Charles explained what had happened. They did another EEG on her, and her brain waves were still normal, but now her reactions were slowly returning. She turned away when they tried to shine a light in her eyes, and she moaned and then cried when they touched her. She was in pain, which they thought was a great sign. Now she would have to move through various stages of misery in order to improve.

And at midnight, Charles was still there with her, he couldn't bring himself to leave her. But it appeared now that her brain was not damaged. They would have to do more tests, and they had to be sure that there was no further hidden trauma, but it looked as though she would in fact recover and be all right eventually.

Father Tim had come back by then, and he was in ICU too when the doctor told Charles that the prognosis looked pretty good. And then the two men went out into the hall to talk while one of the nurses attended to Grace and gave her a shot for the pain. She was in agony from all her bruises and the operation, and the damage to her head and face.

“My God, she's going to make it,” Father Tim said with a look of joy and excitement. He had prayed for her all day, and had two masses said for her. And all the nuns were praying for her that night. “What a great girl she is.” They had also caught Sam Jones earlier that night, and charged him with the murder of his wife and two children, and the attempted murder of Grace Adams. He had admitted mugging her, because she was the first one he saw come out of St. Andrew's, and he felt that that was where all his troubles began. “You don't know how much she's done for us, Mr. Mackenzie. The girl is a saint,” Father Tim said to Charles in the hallway.

“Why does she do it?” Charles looked puzzled, as the two men sat drinking coffee. They suddenly felt like brothers, and they were both relieved that Grace was going to recover.

“I think there's a lot about Grace that none of us know,” Father Tim said quietly. “I don't think the life of battered women and children is new to her. I think she's a girl who's suffered a great deal and survived it, and now she wants to help others do the same. She'd make a great nun,” he grinned, and Charles pointed a finger at him.

“Don't you dare! She should get married and have kids.”

“I'm not sure she ever will,” Father Tim said honestly. “I don't think that's what she wants, to be honest. Some of them heal, the way she has, but many of the children who suffer like the ones we see can never cross over into a life where they can trust enough to be whole people again. I think it's miraculous if they come as far as Grace has, and can give so much to others. Maybe wanting more than that is too much to ask.”

“If she can give to so many, why not to a husband?”

“That's a lot harder.” Father Tim smiled philosophically at him, and then decided to admit something to him. It might give him an insight. “She was desperately afraid to go to California with you. And eternally grateful when you didn't hurt her, or use her.”

“‘Use’ her? What do you mean?”

“I think she's seen a lot of pain. A lot of men do unspeakable things. We see it every day. I think she fully expected you to do something unsuitable to her.” Charles Mackenzie looked embarrassed at the mere idea of it, and he was horrified that she would think that of him, and even say it to another person.

“I guess that's why she was so upset when she first came to my office. She didn't trust me.”

“Probably. She doesn't trust anyone a great deal. And I don't suppose this will help. But at least this wasn't personal. That's very different. It's when someone you love really hurts you that it destroys the soul … like a mother with a child, or a man and a woman.” He was a wise man and Charles listened to him with interest, wondering how much of what he said applied to Grace. It sounded like he wasn't sure of her history either, and Charles wondered if he could be wrong about her. But he seemed to know Grace a lot better than Charles did. And the things he said about her tore at his heart. He wondered what terrible things had happened to her to leave her so badly scarred as a woman. He couldn't even begin to imagine what lay behind her cool facade and gentle manner.

“Do you know anything at all about her parents?” Charles was curious about her now.

“She never talks about them. I only know they're dead. She has no family at all. But I don't think that bothers her. She came here from Chicago. She never talks about relatives or friends. I think she's a very lonely girl, but she accepts it. Her only interest is working for you, and coming to St. Andrew's. She works twenty-five or thirty hours a week there.”

“That doesn't leave much time for anything else except sleeping. She works forty-five or fifty for me.”

“That's the whole of it, Mr. Mackenzie.”

Charles was dying to talk to her now, to ask her questions about her life, to ask her why she really worked at St Andrew's. Suddenly she wasn't just a girl he worked with every day, she was a great deal more interesting than that, and there were a thousand questions he wanted to ask her.

The nurse let them back in then. And Father Tim stood a little apart to let Charles talk to her about trivial things. He sensed that there was more interest there than the man knew, or than Grace suspected.

She was fuzzy again when Charles sat down at her bedside, the shot had made her woozy, but at least she wasn't in as much pain.

“Thank you … for coming …” She tried to smile but her lips were still too swollen.

“I'm so sorry this happened to you, Grace.” He was going to have a talk with her about working at St. Andrew's, but that would come later, if she'd listen. ‘They caught the guy who did it.”

“He was … angry … about his wife … Isella.” She would remember the woman's name forever.

“I hope they hang him,” Charles said angrily, and she opened her eyes and looked at him again. And this time she did manage a small smile, looking very dizzy. “Why don't you sleep … I'll come back tomorrow.”