Удушье (Choke)

And the little cooz said, 'Lots and lots?'

'And lots and lots and lots,' the Mommy said. She put her hand for him to take and said, 'We have to be fast. We have a train to catch.'

Then leading him through the aisles, tugging his boneless little arm toward daylight outside the glass doors, the Mommy said, 'You are mine. Mine. Now and forever, and don't you ever forget it.'

And pulling him through the doors, she said, 'And just in case the police or anybody asks you later on, I'm going to tell you all the dirty, filthy things this so-called foster mother did to you every time she could get you alone.'

Chapter 10

Where I live now, in my mom's old house

, I sort through my mom's papers, her college report cards, her deeds, statements, accounts. Court transcripts. Her diary, still locked. Her entire life.

The next week, I'm Mr. Benning, who defended her on the little charge of kidnapping after the school bus incident. The week after, I'm public defender Thomas Welton, who plea-bargained her sentence down to six months after she was charged with assaulting the animals in the zoo. After him, I'm the Ameri­can civil liberties attorney who went to bat with her on the malicious mischief charge stemming from the disturbance at the ballet.

There's an opposite to deja vu. They call it jamais vu. It's when you meet the same people or visit places, again and again, but each time is the first. Everybody is always a stranger. Nothing is ever familiar.

'How is Victor doing?' my mom asks me on my next visit.

Whoever I am. Whatever public defender du jour.

Victor who? I want to ask.

'You don't want to know,' I say. It would break your heart. I ask her, 'What was Victor like as a little boy? What did he want from the world? Did he have any big goal he dreamed about?'

At this point, how my life starts to feel is like I'm acting in a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by people on a soap opera being watched by real people, somewhere. Every time I visit, I watch the halls for another chance to talk with the doctor with her little black brain of hair, her ears and glasses.

Dr. Paige Marshall with her clipboard and attitude. Her scary dreams about helping my mom live another ten or twenty years.

Dr. Paige Marshall, another potential dose of sexual anes­thetic.

See also: Nico.

See also: Tanya.

See also: Leeza.

More and more, it feels like I'm doing a really bad imperson­ation of myself.

My life makes about as much sense as a Zen koan.

A House Wren sings, but whether it's a real bird or it's four o'clock I'm not sure.

'My memory isn't any good,' my mom says. She's rubbing her temples with the thumb and index finger of one hand, and says, 'I worry that I should tell Victor the truth about himself.' Propped on her stack of pillows, she says, 'Before it's too late, I wonder if Victor has a right to know who he really is.'

'So just tell him,' I say. I bring food, a bowl of chocolate pudding, and try to sneak the spoon into her mouth. 'I can go call,' I say, 'and Victor can be here in a couple minutes.'

The pudding is lighter brown and smelly under a cold dark brown skin.