"Our last session, Paige. Care to share any final insights?"

"I'm second-guessing my decision to quit therapy, Doctor Carson. I'm frightened by the possibility I might backslide into the depressed state I was in before finding you."

"Paige, becoming dependent on therapy is a detriment to a client's ability to develop their innate coping skills. Individuals with your level of intelligence and drive are well-equipped to control their fears using the cognitive tools we've explored."

Studying the beautiful woman sitting curled like a lazy kitten in the recliner across from her, the therapist gently probed, "I believe your instinct that it's time to leave psychoanalysis is a good one, Paige. What's troubling you?"

"It's my plan to attend my college reunion...a few of my sorority connections know about what's happened. I'm still very self-protective - one ignorant remark and I may flip out and say something I'll regret."

"The decision to attend the reunion is a healthy step, Paige. We can do a follow-up when you return, if you'd like. But you've dug deep and I'm confident you'll handle whatever happens with maturity."

THREE WEEKS LATER:

Determination threatened to take a hike at the doors of the ballroom, and Paige's pulse skyrocketed at the frank stares of her former classmates.

She froze as Kyle, a guy she'd briefly dated in college, moved quickly in her direction. He was tan, fit, and resembled a young George Clooney. "You look radiant, Paige..the years haven't changed you a bit," he said as he took her hand and led her to the dance floor. In his arms, Paige felt the familiar buzz of sexual tension between them.

Her sorority sisters perched protectively nearby the entire evening, keeping the conversation light. And as the festivities wound down, Paige made it clear to Kyle that she would be sleeping alone that night. Though disappointed, he pressed his business card into her palm and secured a promise that she would call him.

The elevator stopped at the 34th floor. Paige entered the suite, slipped out of her Manolo Blahnik heels and paused to enjoy the jewel-toned furnishings. Soft lights warmed the room's interior. Beside the bed was a crystal vase filled with a dozen pink roses, and a half bottle of Moet Chandon chilling in a bucket: Her instructions had been perfectly completed.

The bathroom's Italianate marble floor and countertops gleamed. Stepping to the whirlpool tub, her senses marked the feel of flowing water on skin. Perched on the tub's lip, she added bath oil to the rising water.

Page dropped her favorite disc into the Bose CD player. Harry Connick, Jr. crooned, 'If I could rearrange history..and give it to you as a gift...there would be one more movement...in Beethoven's Fifth...'

She faced the bath's full-length mirror and undressed, observing the unravelling naked reflection as each piece of clothing dropped to the floor. The last item was her lace bra, with its two silicone breast-shaped implants. Stepping outside the pool of clothing at her feet, she took some deep breaths and focused on the sensation of her feet on the cool, tile floor.

Instead of her usual cursory examination of the mastectomy incisions, she reached up to caress the healed scars on her flat chest.

Soaking in the tub and sipping the Champagne, she closed her eyes and visualized herself with Kyle, his hands moving along the curves of her waist and belly. Feeling the edges of sensations she realized she missed, her body felt alive and whole.

Paige calculated that it would be near-midnight back home in Detroit. She punched in the number of the woman who had brought her back from the land of the dead.

"I'm glad you called. I've been thinking of you all evening. How did the reunion go?"

To her surprise, Paige giggled like a five year old at the sound of the familiar voice.

"Great, Doctor Carson, and I couldn't have done it without you."