Удушье (Choke)

'Yes,' she says, 'I fought against everything, but more and more I worry that I was never for anything.'

The monitor shows the garden, old women hunched over walkers. Mired in gravel.

'Oh, I can criticize and complain and judge everything, but what does that get me?' my mom keeps saying in voice-over as the monitor cycles to show other rooms.

The monitor shows the dining room, empty.

The monitor shows the garden. More old people.

This could be some very depressing website. Death Cam.

Some kind of black-and-white documentary.

'Griping isn't the same as creating something,' my mom's voice-over says. 'Rebelling isn't rebuilding. Ridiculing isn't re­placing ...' And the voice in the speaker fades out.

The monitor shows the dayroom, the woman facedown in her puzzle.

And I dial-switch from number to number, searching.

On number five, her voice is back. 'We've taken the world apart,' she says, 'but we have no idea what to do with the pieces ...' And her voice is gone, again.

The monitor shows one empty corridor after another stretch­ing into darkness.

On number seven, the voice comes back: 'My generation, all of our making fun of things isn't making the world any better,' she says. 'We've spent so much time judging what other people created that we've created very, very little of our own.'

Out of the speaker, her voice says, 'I used rebellion as a way to hide out. We use criticism as a fake participation.'

The voice-over says, 'It only looks as if we've accomplished something.'

The voice-over says, 'I've never contributed anything worth­while to the world.'

And for ten seconds, the monitor shows my mom and Paige in the corridor just outside the crafts room.

Out of the speaker, scratchy and far away, Paige's voice says, 'What about your son?'

My nose pressed to the monitor, I'm so close.

And now the monitor shows me with my ear pressed to the speaker, one hand shaking something, fast, inside my pant leg.

In voice-over, Paige says, 'What about Victor?'

And for serious, I am so ready to trigger.

And my mom's voice says, 'Victor? No doubt Victor has his own way of escaping.'

Then her voice-over laughs and says, 'Parenthood is the opi­ate of the masses!'

And now on the monitor, the front desk girl is standing right behind me with a cup of coffee.

Chapter 18

My next visit, my mom's thinner

, if that's possible. Her neck looks as small around as my wrist, the yellow skin sunk into deep hol­lows between her cords and throat. Her face doesn't hide the skull inside. She rolls her head to one side so she can see me in the doorway, and some kind of gray jelly is caked in the corners of each eye.