She listened for years to her son speak about increasing count (life, longer). He once walked home with the first black crystal and gave it to her. She didn’t know he had others. She didn’t know he would experiment and form something as dangerous as The Sky Father Gang. She should try something, anything, even if she doesn’t believe in it, yes, even if she doesn’t believe in it because the meaning of life is to feel some good even though what’s inside you is a waiting zero. She moves the screwdriver. Mom has okay days and bad. At her worst, she stays in bed where she coughs crystals into the spitting cloth (Chapter 2, Death Movement, Book 8). Her number skims a green lake, dives, and tadpole-swims away from her. During her okay days Mom sits in the triangle of sunlight entering her window and warms her face for hours. At the dinner table she acts in a way that doesn’t turn Remy’s head in the opposite direction. But most days are bad. Under the covers at night she traces with her finger the sharpness of her hipbones and imagines a man fitting both hands around her as if she were a clay pot, lifting her up, and drinking what liquid is left.
