Rosa pressed her face against the window in the bitter cold of a January night and shivered in her thin sweater. Looking across the way, she noticed the street was deserted. Suddenly, a woman appeared at the window right opposite her. She was carrying a bundle in her arms. She looked familiar to Rosa almost as if she had known her all her life. Now she was raising the window and lifting the crying, wriggling bundle over the window sill. No, Rosa screamed, no, don't do it, and her screaming continued after the baby hit the pavement. She was sobbing and wailing. Her mouth was dry and her heart was pounding. She was howling like a hunted animal whose leg had been caught in the steel jaws of a trap and shouting at the woman who had closed the window and disappeared in the dim recesses of her apartment. No, no!

She could feel someone touching her. She slowly opened her eyes and saw a nurse bending over her face, index finger on pursed lips. "Shush, you just had a bad dream," she whispered. "Quiet down, don't wake the other patients."

Rosa couldn't stop crying. She pulled the blanket over her face to muffle her sobs. The moment she stopped crying she felt tense and restless. She put on her robe and slippers and left the room. The night lights were on in the hallways. When she reached the nurses' station she looked at the large clock and saw it was four in the morning. The nurses were busy writing reports. One of them was calming an agitated patient who was pleading for just one more sleeping pill.

It had begun to snow before Rosa went back to her room. She looked out the window again, this time to watch the swirling flakes thinking it looked like fine lace. She stayed there until the darkness began to lift. She ran the tub full of hot water at six-thirty and luxuriated in the bath, soaping herself with the scented bar the social worker had brought her, until her roommates banged on the door and forced her to empty the tub and relinquish the bathroom. She dressed in clean underwear, a fresh blouse and skirt and combed her hair slowly, recalling the way her mother used to plait it, until it was time for breakfast.

The patients filed into the small dining room, some still in their robes and slippers. They ate their porridge and drank their juice out of plastic cups like obedient children. Rosa had some juice, a slice of toast and coffee. She sat at a small table with an older woman who had gray streaks in her hair. She fancied herself a duchess and spoke at length about her estates and servants. She also reminisced about her childhood in France and her travels in Europe. She boasted about her accomplishments as a painter and writer and complained about her string of worthless husbands and faithless servants.

She complained she had been victimized by their exploitation and self-seeking and confessed her bitterness about it. This one pawned her jewels, another stole her silver, and she, forever the innocent, warmhearted trusting soul, was the perfect prey for their greedy designs. Rosa was attentive, she knew it was rude not to listen when someone spoke, but after a while the old woman's stories became muddled in her mind. The characters became confusing shadows to Rosa until she could no longer tell the difference between the husbands and the servants. Not wishing to offend, she continued, glassy-eyed, to listen.

Shortly after breakfast the medicine cart made its rounds. Yellow pills, blue pills, orange pills and white pills and multicolored capsules were given to the eagerly waiting hands. Most of the patients were dressed by now, their beds made and rooms straightened. They sat in the solarium reading, talking, some watching the morning shows on television.

Each day, Rosa looked forward to the hours she would spend in occupational therapy. Her long, slender fingers worked nimbly as she graduated from pot holders to ash trays to belts and wallets and from leather work to basket weaving until the therapist suggested she give pottery a try. She had never worked with clay before and found to her pleasure the medium easily yielded to her will. Simple bowls and pitchers materialized with hardly any effort on her part. Her work was much praised and some of the patients moved their chairs closer to hers in admiration of her surprising skill.

"How long have you been here?" The question came from a timid woman with a sallow face and dark shadows under her eyes.

"Two months," Rosa replied.

"Do you feel any better?" The woman pressed on.

"A little," said Rosa.

"My name is Elizabeth, but you can call me Lizzie."

"I'm Rosa."

"I've only been here a week and I feel worse than ever. I can't swallow the food."

"I lost seventeen pounds since I'm here," Rosa responded, glad to have found someone who shared her difficulties.

The tentative attempts to reach out with the hope of connecting were difficult for both women. The exchange of confidences rendered each more naked to the other, yet less isolated in the impersonal atmosphere of the hospital where doctors had been instructed to treat all patients, from the wealthiest to those on relief, with equal care and attention.

Rosa wondered why Elizabeth was in the mental ward, but she did not have the courage to ask. Although she could not afford to buy fine clothes she knew enough about fashion from the glossy magazines in the hospital's mobile library to recognize them on others. Elizabeth was very well dressed, born in America and her husband appeared to be very rich. Rosa heard the nurses address him as doctor when he came to visit. He was never empty handed, he always came bearing gifts for his wife. He brought her books and candy and flowers.

Rosa had overheard two patients talk about Elizabeth the previous day. They said she had two children. Her situation was very difficult for Rosa to understand. How could a woman with a rich and generous husband get sick? How could a woman who had only two children to look after get sick? While Rosa continued her work, Elizabeth asked her if she had children. Rosa said she had six and revealed that one of her daughters died two years ago.

"She ate plaster. She died from that."

Elizabeth was quiet for a few moments, then said, "How terrible for you."

Rosa said, "I couldn't watch so many children all the time."

They lapsed into silence. Elizabeth was making a wallet for her husband. Rosa saw her struggle, attempting to stitch together the fine pieces of leather and offered to help.

"Thank you very much. You're very kind, but I must do this on my own. I feel like a complete failure."

The therapist encouraged Elizabeth with a few appropriate words. "You'll be fine. The wallet is coming along well. It's important that you finish it. I'm confident you will."

While Elizabeth continued to work on the wallet she asked Rosa where she lived. "In the neighborhood," she said, "that's why I checked myself into this hospital. When I got sick my husband brought me here." She asked Elizabeth where she lived.

"In a house in the country," she answered.

Living in a house in the country was Rosa's deepest wish. She had always wanted a place she could share with her husband, a place with a big yard, trees, maybe even flowers and lots of fresh air where they could raise their children. She remembered herself as a small child running in the fields, breaking off a piece of sugar cane to chew when she craved something sweet. She also remembered the long afternoons with her mother and sisters, sitting in front of the house, her sleepy head in her mother's lap listening to the neighboring women's stories.

They were never alone, they always kept each other company and they were never cold. They were hungry a good part of the time, but here, in this great city, she was alone, cold and hungry. As she worked with the clay, answered Elizabeth's questions and listened to the rubbish the "duchess" talked about, she had a strange sensation, a feeling that seemed entirely new to her because it had been long forgotten. She felt at peace.

One of the women, a bleached blonde in her sixties with heavily rouged cheeks and smudged mascara, her arms, neck, ears and ankles covered with chunky costume jewelry, entertained them with stories of her romances, her glamorous life at a European embassy with her first husband and her shrewd manipulations on the stock market. She slipped her shoes off as she spoke and rested her feet on an empty chair revealing holes on the soles of her dirty stockings.

Although Rosa could see the contradiction between her story and the evidence refuting it, she was entranced by the yarns she spun and the time passed quickly until eleven when they had juice and crackers and examined each other's work. Everyone agreed that Rosa was the most skilled of the lot. The therapist suggested that having mastered simple forms, she might try something more ambitious.

He gave her an illustrated art magazine filled with colored plates and as Rosa turned the pages she came upon the picture of a house. It was a simple house, not a fancy town house like the ones her mother had occasionally worked in as a kitchen helper in San Juan, just a simple two-room house with windows, a door, and a sloping roof with a chimney. She became quite excited over the idea of tackling something so advanced and discussed the details involved in making such a house out of clay with the therapist. She wondered what colors to paint it and how long it would take for it to bake in the kiln.

After lunch the resident psychiatrist unlocked the door to the ward. As he walked down the hall toward his office, he spied Rosa on the bench waiting for her weekly appointment. He motioned her to follow him. As he settled in his commodious armchair behind his desk Rosa sat down in a small chair with a straight back opposite him. The doctor asked her how she was feeling. She told him about her work and her plan to make a house out of clay. He saw a light in her eyes for the first time since her arrival at the hospital.

"Rosa, I'm glad you're making such good progress. As you know, soon, very soon now, you will have to leave the hospital and return to your family. Now, we don't want you to plunge in cold. It is our policy to have patients go home for a day several times before their release, so that they may make the transition from hospital life to the routines and responsibilities of the home, or the job, as the case may be, with as little difficulty as possible. We want you to spend Saturday or Sunday at home. When your husband comes to see you, you can decide together which day is best."

"Yes, doctor, I will."

Looking forward to the visit, she dressed with great care Saturday morning. She packed the belts, wallets, ash trays, and bowls and pitchers she had made in a small cardboard valise. When her husband, a small thin man, came to fetch her, she was ready to go. They walked the two short blocks from the hospital to their apartment. When they walked through the door her children clustered around her and stared at her as if she were a stranger. She picked up the baby and hugged him very tight, wiping the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Mamma, why you crying," asked Maria, her first born, wondering why she was not pleased to see her mother at home.

"I'm happy to see you. Let me open the valise and show you the presents I brought you."

She took out the belts and wallets, one of each for her husband, Raphael, and her older son, Manuel. Then she took out the ash trays.

"Nobody smokes in this house," her daughter said.

"We'll give them to the lady the social worker sent to help," Rosa replied.

She took out the bowls and pitchers last. The children looked at them with sullen expressions. Rosa hastily said, "They are just the kind you can buy at the store. Just as good. You can eat your cereal in them and keep the milk in the pitchers."

"We have no cereal," remarked Manuel, his eyes dull.

"Your papa will get some."

As her husband started to leave for the store she panicked like a small child deserted by her father. Don't leave me alone, she wanted to cry out, but she didn't, and held Maria's hand for comfort. When Raphael returned with the corn flakes she said, "I'll make lunch," and took the pottery to the kitchen.

There were rust rings in the sink and a film of grease covered the chipped porcelain. The counter had bread crumbs on it and some leftover grains of rice congealed in oil. She turned on the hot water faucet but only a few drops of cold rusty water spilled out. She filled the kettle from the cold water tap and set it to boil for dish washing and coffee. She noticed the cracked linoleum was packed with dirt in every crevice and thought, I'll have to scrub that. A cockroach scampered across the floor; she squashed it under her shoe. When the water came to boil she made coffee for herself and Raphael, washed the bowls and pitchers and set out the cereal and milk for the children.

After she straightened the kitchen she felt a vast emptiness. What shall I do next? How to fill up the time? Scrubbing the kitchen floor now seemed an enormous task far beyond her capabilities. She felt drained, leaden, almost unable to move. The baby began to cry and she forced herself to fill his bottle with milk and took him in her lap to feed him. Her back began to ache, the strength had trickled out of her arms and her scalp tingled. Then she felt the tiny feet of insects all over her. The voices. I'm going to hear the voices. I'm afraid. Holy Mother please help me!

"Raphael, I want to go back to the hospital. I'm very tired."

"But I thought you were going to spend the whole day. I bought food for our dinner."

"I can't cook. I'm very tired. Please take me back. Maria, you look after the children."

Rosa and Raphael walked back to the hospital in silence. He bade her good night. When the nurse locked the door to the ward behind her, she felt safe again. She found a new roommate when she returned to her room, a pale young woman with nicotine stains on her fingers. She was seated on the edge of her bed, drinking a cup of tea.

"My name's Meg. Want a smoke?"

"I don't smoke, thank you. My name is Rosa."

"Boy, you don't know how lucky you are to be here. I was brought here from City Hospital. What a place! They carried me in there to pump my stomach. Nearest hospital to my pad. You just won't believe this. They took all my clothes from me and made me wear a hospital shift big enough for the fat lady in the circus. They don't have enough beds so we slept on cots in the halls. They were so disorganized, there was nothing for us to do. We just stood around in a big empty room all day. If anybody made a fuss, they knocked them out with a needle. A friend of mine fixed it so I could come here. You just don't know how lucky you are to be in a private hospital."

"Yes, I'm very lucky."

Rosa slept badly that night and Sunday stretched into eternity. She had no appetite and pushed the food around on her plate like a brooding adolescent, wishing Monday morning arrived twelve hours earlier. As soon as she got to occupational therapy she started to build her clay house, carefully following the teacher's instructions. She worked on the house all week and by Friday morning she painted it and it was ready for the kiln. The teacher praised her and all the patients told her she was a gifted artist.

After lunch she saw her doctor again. "What went wrong on Saturday," he asked. "I understand you came back early."

"I don't want to go home. Not yet."

"Rosa, you must understand your situation. You cannot live in a dream world. Your baby died two years ago. You've had another child since then. Your place is with your family. Your husband and children need you."

"I don't want to go home. I'm not ready."

"Rosa, you have to accept the realities of life. For you there are only two choices - returning home or transferring to a state mental hospital. Now let me tell you, life in a state institution is no bed of roses. Your chances of getting well in a place like that are very slim. Try to visit home again tomorrow, even if you only stay for an hour or two. You will see that when you think over what I have told you, home will not seem so bad."

That afternoon the house came out of the kiln and Rosa proudly took it to her room. Some of the patients on the floor who had never been to occupational therapy had heard of her fine craftsmanship. They asked if they could have a look. Rosa showed them the house and received generous praise. A few of them went so far as to say she had a natural, God-given talent. When her husband came to see her that evening she told him she would come home for a short stay the next day.

She woke up feeling sick Saturday morning. Her entire body ached, her mouth was dry and she felt feverish. The floor nurse called the weekend resident, a young doctor newly assigned to the floor. He glanced at her chart, then took her pulse and temperature.

"There is nothing wrong with you Rosa! Now get up, get dressed and eat!"

She had never been spoken to so curtly by the other doctors. She sensed coldness, harsh authority. She was frightened and did not wish to become troublesome. She got up, bathed, put on her clothes and made her bed. She turned down her food and refused to budge from her room. She hugged the clay house and cried softly. The other patients were busy with their own concerns. Meals, television, visitors and the mail kept them occupied. Some were getting ready to leave for a home visit.

Rosa continued to sit on the edge of her bed quietly for a long while, rocking back and forth, holding the house close to her breasts as if she were nursing a baby. She jumped up suddenly, ran out of her room and flung the house across the hallway.

The other patients, their visitors and nurses all heard the noise of shattered clay and scurried to the hall. They looked at the smashed pieces of Rosa's creation scattered all about the floor. A few of the patients made tentative moves to comfort her, but her stance was rigid as she gazed at the fragments. She returned to her room and a janitor was fetched by the nurse on duty to clean up the hallway. The same doctor was called to see her again. This time he addressed her gently. He asked her if she would be more comfortable in seclusion.

"I know who is in that room," Rosa said. "Crazy people. People who do not know their names or what day it is. People who try to kill themselves, or hurt other people. I do not belong in that room, I did not hurt anyone, I never would."

She was silent for a moment, then she spoke in a pleading voice. "I'm sorry I made so much noise. They did not have to call a janitor, I would have picked up the pieces. Can you give me another chance? I promise I'll be good. I'll go home for a weekend."