I never saw Julie run.  As the door locked behind me and I approached the sign-in book, I sensed tonight would be different from other visits. Opening the bag of frozen yogurt for the nurse's inspection, I noticed across the hallway, the door to Julie's room slightly ajar.

"She's had a difficult session," a tall bearded attendant mentioned as I moved toward the room. No more warning prepared me for the change.

Julie and I had spoken earlier in the day on the phone.

"Yes, I'll be by later tonight. Anything you'd like? Chocolate?"

"Did you hear?" she said. "I tried again."

"When? How?"

"They took my watch. Ya' know the small metal clasp?"

I pushed the door gently. The room was lit by a sole table lamp that cast shadows on the sink in the corner of the room and the desk strewn with crayons and construction paper. My eyes stopped at the bed. Julie was curled on her side, head resting on a pillow at the foot of the bed. I stepped beside her. She didn't blink, she just stared into nowhere. I set the bag of yogurt next to the lamp and leaned over my friend.

"Julie?" Softly, "Julie, its Katherine." I touched her gently. Still she was oblivious to my presence. I'd left the door open not knowing if help might be needed. Would she struggle or cry out? Would my visit sooth or trigger?

I was just a friend, not a best friend or even a close one. We'd shared some secrets at the gym while working out together. Women do. Somewhere between my WASP establishment, suburban lifestyle and her street-wise, world-traveled athletic career, we found a common bond. I'm not sure what it was that brought us together, but as I gave the yogurt to the nurse and returned to Julie's room I closed the door. We were alone. Whatever she was feeling and whatever we would share in the moments to follow was private. And I was not afraid.

I pulled the stiff backed chair flush with the bed and held her left hand with my right. The bandage on her wrist was clean and pink against her brown skin. My shoulders tightened as I imagined the pain she felt cutting through her skin with a dull metal point. Leaning forward I touched her arm.

"I'm here, I'll stay. You're not alone, Julie."

Who knows what to say, what's comforting, what's right?

She didn't move. As I silently stroked my troubled friend, I noticed her "projects" on the wall. Crude collages and paintings with more insight and feelings than I'd ever seen in a museum; a rainbow in the corner with silver stars, a house surrounded by overlarge flowers; a mother, father, children. A dream she had. A dream we shared.

Julie's body jerked and her eyes closed. I watched the pain of her unspoken thoughts as she relived a private hell. Time passed. I don't know how much. She struggled, the tension never ending. I held her hand, red polish chipped, nails ragged.

She was the best in the world; 1980 Olympics, faster and stronger than anyone. But the moment passed for everyone that year and for a runner in her prime, four years waiting for the starting gun is more than a lifetime. We'd talked about it; her return in '84 stifled by a slight muscle pull, retraining in '88 finally stopped by the reality of twenty-eight years.

Others had been disappointed, athletes with dreams, but they didn't commit suicide, or try.

Julie's body jerked. Then with deliberate determination she turned on her back. Her eyes fixed on a point somewhere outside the sealed window, somewhere in the darkness. She held onto me still and I moved to her side. Resting my hand on the bed opposite her waist I felt her physical power. She hadn't eaten for weeks, at least anything of substance, yet her body was hard and muscular. For hours Julie ran the corridors, past the nurse's station, past the conference room and kitchen, full stride; still strong, still powerful.

The pain experienced behind her closed eyes eased for a moment. She looked at me and stared.

Finally, I said, "Julie, Julie, I care." She never blinked. A tear fell in spite of my efforts to be strong. Slowly, she released my hand and brushed my cheek. Her dark, full lips, parched from medication, began to move. I leaned closer.

"When I was little, I was raped."

Time passed and the tears I had fought so long lined my taut cheeks and stained my silk blouse. She stared at me and painstakingly pulled me closer. Her lips barely moving, she whispered, "I love you Katherine, like a sister." She held me. "We are alike, aren't we?"

We held each other. I heard the door open, then close, behind me. Slowly, I pulled away.

"Close your eyes and sleep." I stroked her forehead and held her hand into the night.

I couldn't change what happened. But for a time in her life, a moment we shared, Julie stopped running.