It was his fault, she said, that her little girl had become a cop; it was his fault that her baby was lying in that hospital bed - dying. And he knew her accusations were true, but he denied them anyway, because it was Tracy's fault for not sticking with that nice, safe desk job he'd gotten her.

After he had gone, her mother blamed herself; if only she had been more attentive, more supportive. She remembered the last time they had been together - they had quarreled. She wept over the still form of her daughter.

Her partner had arrived to keep his vigil. He had sent her mother to get some rest. She had protested, but he had been very persuasive.

He ached inside. Another partner, and this time it was undeniably his fault. If he had only told her. He thought he was protecting her. Her last words had wounded him as if they had been a stake to his heart: "You could have trusted me." He should have; she had proven that she had been worthy of such trust. If only he had it to do all over again. It would not turn out this way. He would not allow it to.

The periodic whoosh of the respirator, the almost regular blip of the heart monitor. These were the only sounds her visitors heard. But Tracy did not hear these things, much less anything else. There were no sounds where she was, there were no smells, only a close darkness, like being snuggled up under a big, warm quilt. She felt safe. She was alone but she was not lonely. There came a feeling that had always been there; it was deep inside her and yet it surrounded her.

Eventually, the quilt fell away and a voice buoyed her up. It was deep and warm, tender and caring. The voice filled her with a joy she had heretofore only dreamed of.

I love you.

The voice was hers and it was his. The words and feelings melted together; they were a part of each other now.

Tracy Vachon