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Show Motherlunge a novel ' 8 left, my older sister-eyebrows meeting in a new vertical wrinkle, teeth indenting lower lip-had never looked so determined while doing a simple thing, nor more lovely and impressive. She flung her change at the fee attendant in a gesture of release, pressed firmly on the gas, and we were off. Our mother had always told us that a headache is a sign of fear, a sign of turning away from the Reality of Love. Somewhere over the Midwest, I had developed a headache that day, bad. But I was having it as surrogate I thought, for my sister and the imminent loss of Jack, about which we'd been quiet. I personally hadn't turned away from shit, I told myself. For it was only a few months before, I privately recalled, that I'd pried Adam's skinny thighs apart, begging baby, let me in! Love-I reassured myself that day, pressing firmly on the flesh between my thumb and index finger, seeking acupressure's indirect and likely apocryphal relief-Love; I want it. But meanwhile we drove on in silence, both windows open in Pavia's two-door coupe, the safety straps slapping out a happy rhythm on our similar sets of breasts. There was traffic as we got closer to the city. Our lane moved slowly toward the gleaming and uneven mass of tall buildings, fake-seeming and impressive; traffic helicopters hung above us like sci-fi insects. Would we ever get to Pavia's house, I wondered? My headache throbbed against my eyeballs and my earlier sense of purpose-vague, galvanizing-drained away as through a shunt. What was I doing there? I squeezed the chi point again, took a cleansing breath, and closed my eyes against the scene. "We're halfway," Pavia told me, turning up the radio, "We're halfway there, almost home," and these fractions were the only topic between us as Pavia bisected again |