They flew my mother up to Colorado to see me. Our church, which has been praying for me constantly since I was abducted, wanted to pay for it, but the government sprang. They already had an idea that they weren't going to catch the men they went in for, and they figured that being good to the victim's family would be good PR. Cover a few high-ranking asses, I suppose.

That suited me fine, however she got here. She came about the middle of the morning after I was 'rescued', while they were just setting me up with lunch. I heard massed footsteps in the corridor, and assumed they were coming to my room. If it wasn't the FBI, or the local police, it would be a doctor with a round of students. My weird case of amnesia was making me pretty popular. I told the Bellewoods I could be a textbook case if I wanted.

Then I heard Bonita Madeiras saying, "She's all right, ma'am. She may be a little disoriented, but that's to be expected after the sort of ordeal she's been through."

"Define 'disoriented.'"

I almost spilled the tray, shoving away the little table-on-rollers they were trying to maneuver over me. I heard on of the nurses scolding me about getting out of bed, and I had to drag my IV pole along with me, but I didn't stop. "Mama!"

I burst out into the hall, and there she was with Madeiras: taller than me, thinner than me, but with the same blue eyes and dark curly hair (though her's was sprinkled with grey, more than I remembered).

"Baby!" We grabbed each other and started trying to squeeze the life out of each other, too. We both burst into tears, and had a good, old-fashioned boohoo.

After a minute, I became aware of flashes, and a steady clicking noise. There was a group of cameramen a few yards down the hall, snapping away. I turned so that my back was to them, and grabbed Madeiras's arm. "Agent Madeiras? I hear that in this hospital they have macroscopic cameras they can put down someone's throat or up their bowels to take medical pictures. Well, if you don't get rid of those vultures, I'm going to perform those same procedure on them, using their own full sized cameras."

I think she was trying not to smile as she herded them away. I guided Mom into my room, hoping like hell that no one had gotten a shot of the back of that hospital gown. I hardly wanted my butt on the cover of The National Enquirer with a censorship box over the crease.

We sat on the edge of the bed, holding each other. Mom kept saying, over and over, "Thank you, Jesus."

I kept telling her, "Sh. It's all right. I'm okay. They didn't hurt me."

"Didn't hurt you?" She touched the blue mark on my cheek. It had spread into a rather spectacular black eye.

"Oh. That was just before they came and got me."

"Who did it to you, baby? The lady tells me you aren't giving them anything. Don't you want to catch the men who did that to you?"

I gave Madeiras a look. "But Mom, they HAVE the man who did this to me."

"They do?" She looked confused. Turning to Madeiras she said, "But you told me they escaped, and I had to help you get her to tell you more about them."

Like I'd thought. "No, Mom. I guess there might have been some others up there, but the only one I remember was called James, and they have him. If he isn't dead?" I looked hopefully at Madeiras.

She shook her head. "He had a cut on his side that took over a hundred stitches to close, a rifle bullet pretty well destroyed his right shoulder, and he lost almost half his blood, but he's going to survive."

"Oh." That was all I said. My tone added 'What a pity.' I turned back to my mother. "He tried to rape me." I paused as she gasped, and frowned as if in concentration. "He may have succeeded at some point, but I'm not sure. Anyway, he beat me when I fought him. A little boy came in and cut the hell out of him, trying to make him stop."

"Good for him!" Mom said vehemently. "Maybe the boy can have some of the reward."

"Ma'am, that's earmarked for whoever provides information leading to the capture and prosecution of the men responsible for the robbery and abduction."

"And you don't think this James person was involved?"

"Not as an active participant, no."

"But he's guilty of assault, and attempted rape, and attempted murder. You have my daughter's statement as an eyewitness."

Madeiras hesitated, looking at me. "Miss Mozelle's statements so far have been... a bit far-fetched, and inconsistent with what we've heard from other sources."

"You mean the man who beat her. Do you mean to tell me you believe him? Is he under arrest now?"

"Um... not exactly. He's in protective custody."

"She means he cut a deal, Mom." I explained. "In exchange for informing on someone else, they're going to let him slide on the other charges."

"Is this true?" My Mom does outraged indignation very well.

"It's not that simplistic, ma'am. There are tradeoffs."

"Now you're calling me simple! I think you can leave now."

I blinked innocently at Bonita Madeiras. She wasn't going to be getting any more co-operation out of my Mom. The young woman looked at me shrewdly, shrugging, and left.

Mom turned to me again, and became hesitant. "Scribe, you said you don't know if he did anything. The doctor..." She swallowed, then said gently. "The doctor says you're at least two months pregnant."

"They told me that, too. Rather amazing, isn't it?"

"But you can't remember anyone actually having sex with you?"

"Well, since a star hasn't appeared in the East, I'm assuming that someone did, but no." I looked my mother in the eye and lied to her, and for once I was good at it. "I don't remember anything like that happening."

"Oh, you poor thing. It's like just suddenly waking up to find yourself two months along."

"Well, look at it this way, Mom. Bet you'd given up hope on getting a grandkid from me, hadn't you?" I knew there was something wrong when she went very still, and wouldn't look at me. I waited to be hurt, and I wasn't disappointed.

"You're going to have it?"

"Yes, Mom. I'm going to have him."

"And you want to keep it?"

I snapped. "For God's sake, it's not like he's a puppy that showed up at the door! It's not either make room or haul him to the pound."

"Scribe, you know I didn't mean it like that. There are dozens of wonderful agencies out there that would find it a loving home. People are just crying for babies these days."

"Or I could always sell." My voice was like a scalpel edged in acid.

It was a nasty thing to say, and she winced, but I didn't feel guilty. She'd just gotten through hurting me, too, even if she thought she was being practical.

"Scribe, please."

"How much do you think I could get? Of course, the father is most likely a felon and a rapist, but then there's the added bonus of all the celebrity. I'm having my fifteen minutes of fame right now, and there are people who'd shell out big bucks."

"I'm sorry. Please, stop."

I relented. She didn't know how it had been, she didn't understand. She didn't know that this baby was all I had of the man I loved, and no one out here could know that. But still, hadn't she realized that I would have wanted to keep the baby, no matter how I got it? It seemed like she didn't know me as well as I had thought. I think she just saw me as her daughter. Since I'd never really made a separate life for myself, it hadn't occurred to her that my opinions and desires would differ so radically from her own.

"If you want to, of course you'll keep it."

"Not 'it', Mom. I'm not sure yet if I have a boy or a girl, so just say he or she, but not 'it'."

I wanted to go right home, but that wasn't going to happen. To begin with, the doctor wanted to keep me another day for observation, particularly with the pregnancy. She refused to release me till I saw a counselor.

Mom slept in the other bed that night. I didn't really sleep. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling. I felt cold, despite the extra blanket I had gotten from the nurse, despite adjusting the thermostat. I knew what it was. I was used to sleeping with someone. I was used to Jerry's large, warm body either beside me, or wrapped around me.

I stroked my belly, feeling silent tears roll down my face. I told you, didn't I, Jerry? I told you that the world has a way of finding you, no matter how well you hide. Thank God you got away, but where are you now? When will I see you again? Because I will be with you again, Jerry. I will. I will. I will. The next morning a very nice lady came in and told me all about the modern methods of 'unwanted pregnancy termination' that were available these days, how safe they were, how relatively pain-free (compared to childbirth, I supposed). How all I had right now was a little knot of differentiated tissue, and I didn't really have to consider...

I thanked her and asked her very firmly to leave. They had to give equal time to the opposition. A very earnest young man, carrying a handful of tracts, was given a few moments. He said, "Miss Mozelle, I represent the AOIC, Angels In Our Care. We're a multi-denominational right to life organization, and I want to beg you to consider the child you are carrying. It isn't just a 'fetus', it's a baby. It..."

"Son? They didn't tell you, did they? You're preaching to the choir. I have no intention of letting anything happen to this baby. God gave him to me, he's mine, and no one is taking him away. Okay?"

His smile almost blinded me. "Hallelujah! Sister, the others will be so happy to hear this. What a triumph for life."

"Sure. Glad you're happy. Now go on home, I need a nap." Somehow I got a feeling that the brothers and sisters were going to hear a story of how I was miraculously touched by the conviction of the holy spirit, and turned from my plans to kill my baby, deciding to raise him with the grace of God to be a good Christian. I had no problem with that. Some of it was true. I just hadn't had to be convinced, by God or anyone else. Getting rid of my child wasn't an option. Period. Never had been.

That afternoon the counselor, a pleasant looking middle aged woman with the arch name of Dr. Arddun-Coed came to my room. Mom excused herself for coffee. "I understand that you're keeping the baby," was the first thing she said.

"Why is everyone so anxious about that? I'm the one who will be shouldering the responsibility."

"You've never had a baby, Scribe. Your mother is worried about you being able to handle it."

"She never had a baby before she had me. I bet she wasn't questioned so closely."

"This situation isn't the same."

"I know that. I'm not stupid. But how many times do I have to say it? I do not have a problem with this."

"Scribe, that's not natural."

I threw my hands up. "Well, so I'm abnormal. No point in trying to convince you that I'm not, I suppose."

"I'm not saying you should want to terminate, but you aren't even showing any ambivalence. You haven't wavered at all, from the moment the subject came up. That indicates to me that you've done a lot of thinking about this. And if, as you claim, you can't remember what happened to you in the last two months, how is this possible?"

I sat back. This one has something on the ball. Step careful, Scribe. "What do you think?"

"I think it's very likely that, during your captivity, you bonded with one or more of your captors. It wouldn't be unexpected. You apparently were not physically abused. In fact, aside from the recent bruises, which I understand happened more or less during your rescue, you are in excellent health. Someone has been taking good care of you."

I didn't say anything, just looking at her. She continued. "I'm tempted to call it the Stockholm Syndrome, but I don't think that's quite right. Are you familiar with the term?"

"From a terrorist hostage situation. The hostages came to identify with their captors, even viewing them as friends."

"Yes. In your case, I think it may have gone even farther."

I studied her closely. "You wouldn't happen to be wearing a recording or listening device, would you, doctor?"

"No, I would not."

I considered. "Is it true what they always natter on about in the movies? You can't tell the police anything I tell you, as my doctor."

"It's perfectly true. It won't leave this room. Even if you gave me permission to talk to the authorities, I would be hesitant."

"Let's throw out a hypothesis, then. The robbery and kidnaping happened. Those facts are indisputable. After wards..." I leaned my elbows on the table. "Suppose someone finds themselves in that situation. Well, they're scared, of course. And one of the people who took them makes it clear that they intend to have sex with them, whether they want them to, or not. But he isn't just talking about sex. He intends to take the person he just kidnaped as a wife. A wife in every way, including caring for her, providing for her, protecting her, and loving her. What then?"

She's quiet, and I continue. "Now, suppose that it happens. It's rape, because she said no, very clearly, and he acknowledged it, but did it anyway. But it isn't anything like she expected. It's gentle. Almost tender. And it keeps happening. And it starts to feel good. And she realizes that this person has fallen in love with her. He tells her so, all the time. He shows her. He's more gentle and considerate than any man she's run into in the outside world."

"Such a man might be hard to resist, especially when the victim was alone, not around her usually support network. But I'm afraid society would not consider it a normal relationship."

"What if they both found that they had very little use for 'society'?"

She doodled on the pad she'd brought with her. Finally she said slowly, "I'm going to recommend that they release you tomorrow, with no further follow-up, no required therapy. If they continue to hound you about your memory loss, I suggest that you hire an attorney to warn them off. There are some excellent pro bono legal experts who would be interested in taking your case. It's very interesting, I understand. Precedent could be set."

I was shocked by the abrupt decision. I had expected to be grilled thoroughly, to have arguments pounded at me. Now she was telling me that I would not, and that if the police and FBI tried to lean on me, I had legal recourse.

She smiled, seeing my suspicion. "Have you decided on a name for your baby?"

"It's still pretty early for that."

"Yes. Sometimes names are completely inappropriate. Other times they can say a good deal about someone. Your name, for instance. Your last name, Mozelle, means mountain spring. Very appropriate. You seem to have just... gushed with life, since you went on the mountain."

"What about you?" This was an odd turn to the conversation. I got the feeling she was telling me something without saying it out loud.

"My last name is Welsh. It means 'beautiful forest'."

The room got very quiet. English, beautiful. Welsh, Arrdun. Welsh, Coed. French, belle. Forest, wood. Bellewood.

I reached over the table silently and gripped her hand. She smiled at me, and our eyes spoke to each other. "And a funny thing, quite a coincidence. Your FBI agent? The one in charge of the whole rescue effort? The one who confided to me that she's going to be going into another profession very soon, even though her career could probably survive the fiasco?"

"Bonita Madieras."

"Did you know that her name is Portuguese for 'beautiful forest'? Small world, and all that."