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"Shhhh!" I hiss into the swaddling..
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"Just channel surfing," she says with her breath held in, passing the joint she's just lit.
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"Holy cow, she's preggers!" Jean says. "The apple doesn't fall far from the nest, I suppose."Things have gone too far. I have to get in touch, get her away from that evil woman. But how I will track her down? And once I track her down, how will I approach her? What will I say? I will tell her to stay in school. I'll tell her that there's nothing wrong with her and that I love her and that I was just so young and immature back then, and I've really grown. As I'm thinking and planning and plotting, I fall into a dream of Biancka's show. Only in my dream, it's a game show. It's called Pain Match Point, and the opener goes something like this: There are those who take hard knocks and fall down, and then there are those who make use of life's challenges as opportunities to build character and overcome them. This show sets the bar for character, and Baby and I have made the final round.Our ultimate challenge is to be the first to make it out of a dark, humid dungeon. There is some secret key--a loose brick or hieroglyphic instructions, but the room is pitch-black and we don't even know how big it is--we haven't found the walls yet. Baby is slumped at my feet, looking at me with disdain. Despite her attitude, the privacy of this dark and sound-proof oubliette gives me the nerve to finally speak to her. I tell her everything I've wanted to say--not just since her appearance on Hoss, but ever since the day she left. How truly, deeply sorry I am. How little I know that means. How much I wish I could have a do-over. A take two. How I'm going to make this right, I swear.This only seems to make her scowl more intensely. And it soon becomes clear that this game show is not for anyone's entertainment--it is Biancka's sick fantasy to see us rot and die in here. The cell is hot, and I'm getting short of breath. Bugs start to crawl up my legs. I beg Baby to help me.She stands up slowly before me, her head coming straight up on her long neck, like a cobra. She surpasses her full height, and keeps going until we're eye to eye."I'm your mother," she whispers, as I whimper and plead. She stamps her feet and the ground shakes. She grows taller and taller, staring down at me and chanting."I'm your mother! I'M your mother!" Her head expands until she has filled the cell, and I am pushed into a corner, suffocating in folds of her acned skin. The ceiling begins to crack from the pressure. It's going to burst. You think I don't care. I care. Do I ever. Her life does not belong to me. I am nothing but a crumpled molt, a shed skin.I wake up with ringing in my ears. I whip off the soaked sheet Jean must have laid over me. The lights are out, except for the TV. A documentary about infomercials. I walk into Jean's room and sit at her bedside. She's asleep on her front, one side her face smooshed into the pillow, drool rolling down her cheek, her eyelashes fluttering with each exhale."We're going to have to start working again," I say to her. I say it softly, not waking her, just a rehearsal. I try to imagine how this will go. "Both of us."LEAH FINKELIllustration by Sherwin Tija
