I am not a jewelry person. Except for my ruby engagement ring that I never remove, good jewelry is wasted on me. I am careless, and I misplace it.

The charm bracelet was different. I was given it by my favorite Uncle Frank in 1957; I was a junior bridesmaid at his wedding. 1957 was also the year my father molested me--French kissing and genital fondling. He did it two or three times, then stopped. My recollection was that my mom was pregnant. When we were going up the steps of our local Catholic Church, he told me: "What I did was wrong. If I ever try to do it again, you need to stop me. Say, no daddy, it is wrong." This admonition was probably more traumatic than the molestations. I felt responsible; had I seduced my daddy against his will? Since I always resented sharing him with my mom, my fear seemed plausible. I never told anyone; who would believe me? Besides, what would happen to Daddy if people knew what he had done?

That day in Church he received Communion. Had he confessed what he had done? Didn't the priest suggest he get help for his daughter? Didn't my dad think what he had done was a serious sin? One psychiatrist speculated that my dad had a brief manic episode.

I told my first husband about the incidents two years after we were married. When I got sick two months after the birth of my first daughter Anne in 1973, I told my mom but she discounted it as psychotic ravings. When I got sick again 12 years later, I told all my brothers about me and my dad at a family meeting; I am still not sure how many of them believed me. I wanted to make clear I couldn't take care of dad if my mom's heath broke. Then I told my mom, and this time she believed me. Significantly I kept my daddy's secret until he was lost to Alzheimer's Disease and no one could hold him accountable.

I always thought it was significant that I had my first manic episode in 12 years when my oldest daughter turned 12. My dad was saying all sorts of things, talking about the other woman; I was terrified that he would reveal our secret. I was desperate to keep my daughters away from him, but felt guilty that I was shunning my senile dad.

I loved my charm bracelet, wore it most of the time. For each birthday and graduation, I added more charms. In June 1973, right before I was hospitalized at the St. Vincent's loony bin, 2-month-old Anne and I spent a lovely day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. I carried her around in a front pack all day. The day started strangely. Some disreputable guy on a bicycle handed me these strange writings claiming to be from the planet Uranus. He said I was a special person, and could be trusted with these truths because my shoes didn't come from animals. Later I found he was part of a group called the purple people.

In a strange state, I wandered around the museum, in and out of public and private areas. I felt like a time traveler, who might have lived in these civilizations whose art was displayed. I had read too many historical novels about these civilizations. Several employees greeted me as someone they knew, then realized they didn't. No one interfered with me, but I knew they were puzzled where and when we had come from.

Finally, after several hours, someone approached me. He wasn't a security guard. He said, "who are you and what do you want? What are you doing here? Did you used to work here, you look so familiar?" He seemed incredibly relieved when I said I wanted the exit. As he escorted me out, he stated, "you lost a charm bracelet." I expected him to give it to me. Instead, he warned, "you have been videotaped and you can never come back here again." Scared, I didn't ask for the charm bracelet, but left hurriedly. I had never heard of videotaping; it sounded terrifying.

I had checked several items, including my glasses (I usually wear contact lenses). When I was hospitalized the day after, I lost my contacts because they thorazined me so heavily that I was barely conscious for three days. I told my husband that my glasses were at the Metropolitan Museum. He didn't believe me. He ordered new glasses, and was told it would take a week to make them.

The day I was discharged, my mother took me to the Metropolitan to get my glasses. I was nervous. When I asked for my stuff at the lost and found, the attendant took down a brown paper parcel tightly wrapped with lots of writing on it. He looked at it for a while before he gave it to me. Thank God there was a door right next to the lost and found. I truly expected to be hauled away and questioned. Of course, my charm bracelet was not in the parcel.

Immediately after the peak experience of Anne's birth, I was certain of my writing destiny. I planned to write about reconciling feminism and motherhood. Losing my charm bracelet seemed to symbolize losing my writing dreams. Writing seemed to dangerous for a good mother who grew up honoring family secrets.

The Metropolitan Museum has always been my favorite place in Manhattan. As I submitted my backpack for inspection at a recent visit, I told the security guard it was full of writing stuff. He asked if he could soon expect to see my book at Barnes and Nobles. I said it would take longer, because I couldn't decide whether or not it was a novel. I told him I was looking for a videotape made of me 34 years ago and told him the story. He said it couldn't possibly be true; they didn't have videotape 34 years ago.

What happened to the charm bracelet?