Letters to Jenny by Piers Anthony

doctor on a book about kidney disease, dialysis and kidney transplants, and I interviewed doctors, nurses, and patients and learned a lot. The doctor changed his mind after I found a publisher for the book, and I had to drop the project, which I think was too bad; it was a good book. But by that avenue I got to know pretty well folk who were being saved from dying by the doctors and nurses, and what it took to keep them alive. If you want to know a lot about kidney dialysis, I can tell you, but not in this paragraph. I have also had some absolutely infuriating encounters with callous or incompetent doctors and nurses. So I have seen both sides. Just so you know that when I tease a person or a profession, that does not necessarily reflect my underlying opinion. Each profession seems to have its good examples and its bad ones, and this is true for writers as well as doctors and nurses.
    Oh, I almost forgot: yes, the wrens are doing nicely.
    The eggs are still there, and all seems well. Our magnolia trees continue to bloom. I see them when I ride the bicycle out to fetch the paper in the morning—it’s a mile and a half round trip—and the bunnies along the drive. Also when I do my exercise run, which covers most of our tree farm. We have pretty big blue passion flowers now, too. And yes, I saw a dragonfly exactly like the one in the corner of the envelope, green and blue; it was probably the one who posed for that picture.
    So have a harpy day, Jenny, and don’t forget to ask about that paintbrush program. You don’t have to wait to get all the way better, to draw again; you can do it now, if they have the setup.
    Mayhem 19, 1989
    Dear Jenny,
    Yesterday I finished the novel proper, and this morning I finished the Author’s Note for
Isle of View
, I’m sending a printout, which your mother may or may not read to you, as she sees fit. No, don’t blink your eyes angrily at her; she has reason. Let me explain.
    You may not remember much between when you were hit by that car, and the time my first letter helped bring you out of your long sleep. (I feel like a prince!) It was a bad time. The Author’s Note describes it in fair detail. You walked through the valley of the shadow of death, and your family felt the terrible chill of it. That part of the experience is not fun reading. You may not care to listen to it now.
    I have sent this because I want your folks to go over it and tell me where it is wrong and what parts should not be left in. I have named you only Jenny here, because I am afraid that folk could discover who you really are if I gave your full name, and there are some folk who shouldn’t. But I can change that if you wish. I will modify it as required, and ship the novel, Note and all, to the publisher. Along about OctOgre 1990 it will be published. By then I hope you are long out of the hospital and maybe out of your wheelchair, Jenny, and getting on with your life. I doubt you’ll ever be a star Olympic athlete, but you can be a lot else, regardless. I hope you like the novel, when. There’s a lot more than just Jenny Elf in it, of course, but Jenny is a major character.
    I have tried to avoid subjects that I fear will bring you disquiet, but I seem to have been blundering into them anyway. I assumed that your mother’s description of your present hair style was the way it’s always been, and that you liked it that way. Now I learn that you had waist-length hair, before the accident. I’m sorry if I hurt you by my comments; it was the last thing I wanted to do. Let me tell you a bit more about hair, in my family. I wouldn’t let my wife cut her hair, for the first ten years or so of our marriage, so she wore it waist length. But she complained that it was hot, especially here in Florida, and finally I realized that I did not have the right to make her uncomfortable. So she cut it, and has worn it short since. But our daughters—that’s another story. The first one I claimed as mine; Penny was my