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Show All the Variables & Other Love Stories 115 Angie wanted to forget about it, and she thought this could happen if no one knew but her and Patrick. She didn't want to admit Cleo would be dead now if Patrick hadn't known what to do, and yet the thought stayed with her, thrilled her with its morbid self-indulgence. She thought to get her mind off it she might take a bath, since she hadn't had one in over twenty-four hours. Last night, after Patrick had put Cleo to bed and gone home, Angie had drawn a bath, but she couldn't get in. She couldn't say why. She'd had every intention of bathing until she'd taken off her clothes and sat on the toilet seat watching the steam rise from the clear water. She'd finally checked the water with her fingertips and discovered it had gone cold, and she'd realized she'd been staring at it for hours. She looked in on Cleo and stroked her hair and kissed her cheek and whispered to her how very lucky she was, she would be dead right now if her daddy hadn't saved her. Cleo was dreaming, and her tiny eyelashes fluttered like chick down. Angie started the bathwater running and hung her bathrobe from the doorknob. She undressed and stacked her clothes in a neat pile behind the door and sat on the toilet seat wishing she could get in the water, but she already knew it would be impossible. She wondered what Cleo might be dreaming about. Probably Patrick's ghost. She hoped Cleo didn't have nightmares about last night, hoped it had already been lost to her. Angie didn't want Cleo's dreams to be anything like her own. While pregnant she'd had supernaturally vivid dreams. Everything, in fact, had been saturated with an aching sensuality. Food had tasted better, cold pierced deeper, emotions lasted longer; her whole body had soaked for nine months in a chronic state of physical hallucination. Now, Angie sometimes had bad dreams about the nurses |