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Show Woodworth/1^7 She had gone after Ned then, screaming and trying to rip his skin with her fingernails. Startled, he had grabbed her. When she screamed harder, he had jumped out of bed. She chased him around the bedroom, calling him names for trying to erase the memory of his only son. And he had run from her. Timid, terrified. Always trying to keep a chair or the bed between them, running from her, naked and vulnerable. It filled her with a different kind of disgust, so that she didn't want to even look at him, and she grabbed her pillow and a blanket, and went to sleep on the couch. She listened to see if he would come downstairs to her, but he didn't. The house was quiet. After a few minutes, she heard a gasp, and then heard it again. Her ears, tuned by motherhood, strained against the ringing of /the silence, the ticking of the mantle clock. It was Marty, gasping and sobbing. The sound rose to a cresendo until it didn't sound like crying any more, but one long wail, broken by choked gasps. She listened until her daughter caught her breath, afraid that Marty would choke herself to death. But she couldn't go up there. The thought of going upstairs made her body feel numb. Incapable even of standing up. The thought of looking at Marty's red distorted face, of holding her wet face against her, made her whole body go cold and leaden. No. She couldn't go up there. She couldn't cry. She held the tears back until her chest and stomach hurt, and welcomed the pain. Remembering Jake doesn't hurt any more. She thinks about it rationally. It was just something that happened. She looks at the clock. 2:^7. The afternoon would go faster if she could sleep for a while. But it's too hot to sleep, the whole aitmosphere seems to be bearing down on this bedroom. A drink will help her sleep. Something cool, icy. A gin and tonic, with enough |