spotless. Finally she says, Nothing's wrong with me **

that winning this election won't cure. It's been a long,

93.

hard campaign, and the polls say it's too close to call.

Nothing I didn't know.

But there's something **

more. Something I can't quite put my finger on.

I mean, even for Mom, this woman is unapproachable.

"Can I ask you something without you getting mad?"

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

Of course.

Scrub. Scrub. Scrub.

She's gonna get mad for sure.

"Well, what if you don't win?"

She stops scrubbing, fires at my eyes with her own.

I.

can't think like that, and I don't want you to either.

94.

Do you think I could just tuck my tail between my **

legs, come home and play housewife? Never again!

So...what? If she wins, she'll spend most of her time n DC.

But what if she loses? Either way, guess who else loses?

95.

Mom Pours a Glass of Wine A fine pinot noir, grown here in the valley. I've come to appreciate good red wine. Mom allows some with dinner sometimes. And once in a while, she allows it after dinner.

"May I have some more too?"

She slides the bottle across the table, and I fill my glass to the brim.

Mom and I sip in silence for a while, but eventually the building buzz in my brain opens my mouth.

"Do you miss us when you're gone?"

Now you might think "yes" would pop out from between her lips, quick as a jack-in-the-box wound tight. No way. She tilts her head slightly, as if to tip the right answer into her mouth. The maneuver fails.

Suddenly, she doesn't look like a politician. She folds up, small, a woman twice her age, beneath the burdens she will forever carry.

I don't blame her for not wanting to be here. Who does?

96.

We Empty Our Glasses Mom opens another bottle, pours for us both. I'm getting drunk with my mother, and **

neither of us can think of a thing to say. Finally, she says, I'd better go to bed.

"Sure, Mom. Me too."

I go around the table, give her a hug. "Love you."

She turns, looks me in the eye.

Love you too.

She pauses, stutters, A...are you...all right?

Anger flares. I want to shout, "Like you suddenly care?"

Want to cry, "Save me!"

Something acidy rises in my throat. If I break down, say those things and more, then what?

But she has already closed herself again, snapped shut like a heavy door.

97.

"No," I say simply. Wineglass in hand, I start to leave, turn to see her choke back a sob.

In the living room, the TV is on, but Daddy has drunk himself into oblivion.

Cool. I'll be there soon myself. The rest of the house is dark, and I leave it that way.

I stumble up the hallway, into my bedroom. Turn on the little lamp beside my bed **

Think about calling Ian.

But it's late, and it's Friday night. He's asleep or out.

98.

Out, Where I Should Be Where any self-respecting sixteen-year-old should be on Friday night. Out, getting drunk with friends or, better yet, a really fine guy, instead of tying one on at home with my marble-hearted mother, no less. At least I caught a couple of tears, which leaves me wondering if she ever just breaks down or freaks out. She used to freak out a lot before the accident. At least then we knew she had feelings.

But that was before she came to be completely drained of emotion.

I wonder if I would have liked her when she was young, pretty, desired.

Did she like herself then?

Before she had children?

Before she met Daddy?

99.

Raeanne I Called Mick As soon as the whole house fell quiet except for whiskey-fueled snores. Sneaking out, getting drunk, getting high. What better way to spend Friday night? Especially after too many hours stuck at home listening to Mom's political bullshit. Aaagh! Save me.