Propping her elbows on the steering wheel and splaying her fingers through short, dark curls, she bowed her head and let the sorrow wash over her. Eventually, she fumbled blindly for the overhead visor, flipped it down, and yanked tissues from the attached holder. Get a grip, woman, she thought. You're thirty-five years old and acting like a baby. When her tears ended, she dried her face and peered at her surroundings through swollen eyes.

Weathered wooden picnic benches squatted among the trees in a loose semicircle that looped around a bright yellow cement-block building. Squares of tan, crisscrossed slats enclosed the restroom entrances on opposite sides of the building, with oval signs identifying "Ladies" on the left and "Men" on the right.

Val appeared to be the only visitor to the rest stop. She trudged toward the Ladies sign, passed the slatted wood, and entered the green door. Overhead fluorescent tubes lit the plain white interior, illuminating three stalls opposite the door and two sinks against the left wall, with a mirror above them.

Val used a toilet, then washed her hands at a sink. She looked into the mirror with a grimace at her mournful appearance, then her anger flared. Dammit, Marti, you should be here with me. We were supposed to be on this vacation together.

She flung cold water on her face, dried it roughly with paper towels ripped from their holder, and went back outside. Fidgety with nervous energy, she angled through the tables and stomped along the perimeter of the tree-covered area. Near the highway's edge, a patch of fuzzy brown material dangled from a cable that stretched between the I-beams. She was too wrought up to be curious, but her trek took her closer to the material. She gazed down at it, taken aback for a moment by its childlike shape. A lump formed in her throat when she recognized it as a teddy bear.

Marti collects teddy bears . . . Forget about Marti!

The bear's covering had retained most of its brown coloring and fuzzy texture, but a clump of cotton stuffing, gray and lumpy, spilled from a burst seam. Val surprised herself by untangling the bear from the cable and pulling it close to her body. She walked to the nearest picnic table and laid the bedraggled bear on its top. Then she swung her legs over the attached bench and sat down.

Poor Teddy. Where's the child who cared about you? Did she get angry and throw you away? Like Marti did to me? Val's gut wrenched. She was as much to blame for their separation as Marti, maybe more so. But that didn't stop the hurtful thought.

She settled her forearms on the table and stared at her clasped hands. Marti would want to take the bear in and heal its wounds. Like she healed me. Old memories reeled slowly across the screen of her mind--taking her back five years . . .

Loneliness drove Val to the poetry club meeting. Her partner, Erin, had often dragged her to the monthly meetings where a few professional, but mostly amateur, poets met. The members discussed poetic form and function, read their original works to each other, and tried to be supportive while honestly critiquing each other's efforts. Following the meetings, they socialized over coffee and donuts.

But six months ago a drunken driver had ripped Erin and her poetry from this earth, and Val had struggled ever since to cope with a world dimmed by her partner's loss. Now here she sat at the Poetry Club, thoroughly engrossed. A woman about her own age, with long, blonde hair and sensitive brown eyes, was reciting a poem that dove directly into Val's soul.

"Would you like some coffee?" The unexpected voice startled Val, and her body jerked as her gaze leaped upward. She knew the stark loneliness she was feeling must be etched on her face, for she saw the blonde poetess hesitate. Then the woman spoke again. "Sorry, if I'm disturbing you . . ."

"No," Val replied. "I mean yes." She felt her face flush, and she stood up so abruptly that the smaller woman took a step back. "I mean, no, you're not disturbing me, and yes, I would like some coffee." She recovered enough grace to extend her hand. "My name's Val Zeeran, and I really liked your poem, Ms . . ."

"Forget the 'Ms.' Just call me Marti. Marti Redmond."

Val shook Marti's hand and then moved with her toward the refreshment area.

"Thank you for the compliment." Marti's smile warmed Val as they got their coffee and settled at one of the tables. "I just joined the club last month. Are you a member?"

Val cleared her throat and stared down at her styrofoam coffee cup. "No. I came here often with a friend. She used to write poetry."

"Used to?"

"She was killed six months ago in a car accident." Val took a deep breath. It was still so hard to say out loud. Beautiful, loving Erin. Center of my life. Dead. Gone. Forever.

"I'm so sorry." Marti patted Val's forearm then squeezed it gently. "Did my poetry remind you of hers?"

"Not really. But your poem expresses exactly the way her loss has affected me. I feel abandoned, bereft. Strangely, though, the poem also makes me feel better; as if I've finally taken the first step toward acceptance."

Marti nodded. "I tried to imagine what it would be like to lose someone you love. I'm glad I've helped you."

I'm glad I've helped you. A stiff breeze rustled the tree leaves, rousing Val from her reverie, but a smile lingered from her recollection of their first meeting. Marti had walked right into the void left by Erin's passing. She hadn't replaced Erin; she had formed a place uniquely her own, and with loving patience, she had healed Val's lonely heart.

They discovered that they were alike enough to get along well together and different enough to keep their love fresh and interesting. For five years, they had done almost everything together. They were inseparable.

Then, on Monday, they had a rare argument, and each said terribly nasty things to the other. Marti calmed down first and wanted to discuss it; but Val, the volatile one, refused. Too hurt to talk, she avoided Marti during the day and slept in the guest room at night.

All week long, neither had talked to the other, and Val vacillated between wanting to patch things up and getting angry all over again. This morning, Saturday, the anger had won, and here she was, heading alone for the vacation they had planned together.

If Marti wants to come, she can get there on her own. Val squirmed at the uncharacteristic meanness of her thought. She and Marti had never been mean to each other . . . until Monday.

Maybe everything could be settled once she agreed to discuss it with Marti. If I can get the guts to do that, Val thought. But how do I know whether she still wants to? Val only knew for sure that the hum of joy she usually felt from their love had turned into dead silence. And that scared her.

She heard some chattering and saw a family opening a picnic basket several tables away: mother, father, and three children. The smallest, a boy who looked about five years old, noticed her gaze. While his parents were occupied with putting out food, he darted over to Val's table. She smiled at him as he turned a frowning look toward the table. "Your teddy bear's broken," he said.

"Yes, it is," she agreed.

He climbed up on the opposite bench and began to shove the stuffing back through the burst seam.

"What's your name?" Val asked.

"Tony," he replied, intent on his repairs.

Val watched him work awkwardly. After his fourth attempt, he looked up and pushed the bear toward her. "Will you help me?"

"Sure, let's give it a try." She directed Tony's hands as they pushed the stuffing back into the bear's body, bringing fullness to the arms and legs as they worked. From the corner of her eye, Val saw the boy's mother point toward her, and the father came over. Val looked up at him, and the man nodded and smiled, which she took as permission for her and his son to continue their project. Finally, although the open seam still gaped, all the stuffing had been replaced. The bear actually looked halfway decent. She debated whether to give Tony the bear, and then decided he shouldn't be offered a gift from a stranger. "Thanks for your help," she said.

Tony looked at her with obvious delight that the bear was in better shape. He touched the split seam with a careful finger. "He needs something to heal his hurt."

Val sucked in a quick breath, then nodded. "You're right. He needs sewed back together. I'll have to get a needle and thread somewhere." The boy smiled, climbed down from the table, and slipped his hand into his father's. Val met the man's eyes. "Your son's a very caring boy."

"Thank you," the man said, then he and Tony waved and walked away.

Val sat at the table for about ten more minutes, musing over Tony's last remark. How many little kids ever say "heal"? It mirrored her own thoughts when she first saw the torn and battered teddy bear. Was it some kind of omen that he happened to blurt out that specific word? Or just a coincidence?

For Pete's sake, woman. You could sit here for eternity mulling over this. Get off your duff and get going. Clasping her fingers across the bear's burst seam, she picked it up. She returned to her car, laid the teddy gently on the front passenger seat, and drove away.

Two hours later, Val stood in front of her and Marti's apartment door, with the teddy bear propped in one arm. Uneasy about entering, she pushed the buzzer instead. She heard a noise and knew Marti was looking through the security peephole. She held her breath, wondering if the door would even be opened. A click relieved that part of her apprehension, but when the door swung in and a sober-faced Marti appeared, Val had to force her voice through a tightened throat. She pointed a finger toward the broken teddy bear. "Here's someone who's hurting and needs help to get healed." Then she aimed the finger toward herself. "Two someones."

Marti's brown eyes gazed at the forlorn teddy bear then back at Val. One corner of her mouth twitched, whether from amusement or nervousness, Val couldn't tell. But Marti opened the door wider. Val, her heart thudding so hard she thought it must be visible, stepped through and held out the teddy bear. She nearly moaned when Marti moved forward and embraced them both.