life had been tampered with.
Molly
wasn’t complaining. She was moving on. Grasping the world by the horns and moving on. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same? Wasn’t Molly enough to make her feel happy? Maybe her daughter didn’t mean that much to her. Sadness suddenly rained down and drenched Molly, too. This was terrible. Here she was with her mother—a person she
should
feel completely happy and comfortable with—and instead she felt as if she were with a weird stranger whose mood was like a storm on the horizon, just about to break. Molly wished Lucy would break and let all her sadness out of her.
Molly stared at her mother’s plate. The two of them sat staring at Lucy’s scrambled eggs.
Then, thankfully, Molly’s senses snapped to.
Molly knew from experience that the more a person thought a certain way, the more that way of thinking would become a habit.
Molly wouldn’t be dragged down by her mother’s blackness like this.
“Lucy, you’ve got to pull yourself together,” she said suddenly, feeling more like a mother than a daughter. “What are you going to do—be miserable for the rest of your life? And I’m sorry to bring this up, but you’re not exactly much fun for me and Petula. I mean, Petula now avoids you because you always do a sort of sad moan when you stroke her… and I… well, I just can’t handle it. You should be feeling good.
Primo
is coming tomorrow. He knows exactly how you feel. I mean, Cornelius took years of
his
life away, too, so you can talk to him about it. And Forest’s coming, remember. He’ll help you feel better.”
Molly watched as her mother took a sip of tea and dribbled it down her chin. How, she thought, could a person do that? Then she noticed ketchup smeared all down the front of her own sweatshirt. But dribbling tea was a bit different. It was as if the shock of being woken up from the hypnotic trance had made her mother faulty. It was as if her batteries weren’t working properly.
Then Molly felt bad. Her mother wasn’t a machine. What was she doing relating her to a machine? Her mother was a living, breathing, broken person. It was too much to bear.
Molly got up. She must get some air and get away fora bit. This fog of Lucy’s was suffocating. She couldn’t wait for Rocky to arrive. He’d help
her
feel better.
“I’m just going outside to talk to the new gardener,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll see you later.”
Upstairs, Molly went to the porch and opened the front door. Petula stood on the other side of the graveled drive next to the turbaned gardener who was stroking her. Molly smiled because it was a relief to see someone normal, someone who liked animals, doing something friendly.
But then a very peculiar and frightening thing happened. There was a loud BOOM, and Petula and the man vanished into thin air.
Three
“S o let’s go over this one more time.” Primo Cell stood to the side of the library and fidgeted with the cuffs of his tailored blue shirt, trying to be business-like but finding his usual powers of deduction flummoxed. “Petula was on the drive and…” He twisted around, his leather-soled shoe pirouetting on the Persian rug. “You’re certain it was Petula? I mean, it might have been another dog.”
“Yeah, man, that’s right,” enthused Forest, shaking his shag of gray dreadlocks. Forest was an aging Los Angelean hippie who’d traveled the world. He’d lived with Eskimos and bushmen, Chinese monks and Indian sadhus. Now he lived in Los Angeles, where he grew vegetables, kept chickens, and ate a lot of tofu and turnips. “Sometimes our memories play tricks on us,”he said, adjusting his bottle-glass spectacles. “It might have been a different hound or even the guy’s backpack.” Forest had odd habits and sometimes he talked rubbish. Molly listened to him now. “Or maybe it was a big bag of dog biscuits with a
picture
of a pug on the front.”
“No.” Molly stabbed at the fire with a poker as she remembered
Molly
wasn’t complaining. She was moving on. Grasping the world by the horns and moving on. Why couldn’t Lucy do the same? Wasn’t Molly enough to make her feel happy? Maybe her daughter didn’t mean that much to her. Sadness suddenly rained down and drenched Molly, too. This was terrible. Here she was with her mother—a person she
should
feel completely happy and comfortable with—and instead she felt as if she were with a weird stranger whose mood was like a storm on the horizon, just about to break. Molly wished Lucy would break and let all her sadness out of her.
Molly stared at her mother’s plate. The two of them sat staring at Lucy’s scrambled eggs.
Then, thankfully, Molly’s senses snapped to.
Molly knew from experience that the more a person thought a certain way, the more that way of thinking would become a habit.
Molly wouldn’t be dragged down by her mother’s blackness like this.
“Lucy, you’ve got to pull yourself together,” she said suddenly, feeling more like a mother than a daughter. “What are you going to do—be miserable for the rest of your life? And I’m sorry to bring this up, but you’re not exactly much fun for me and Petula. I mean, Petula now avoids you because you always do a sort of sad moan when you stroke her… and I… well, I just can’t handle it. You should be feeling good.
Primo
is coming tomorrow. He knows exactly how you feel. I mean, Cornelius took years of
his
life away, too, so you can talk to him about it. And Forest’s coming, remember. He’ll help you feel better.”
Molly watched as her mother took a sip of tea and dribbled it down her chin. How, she thought, could a person do that? Then she noticed ketchup smeared all down the front of her own sweatshirt. But dribbling tea was a bit different. It was as if the shock of being woken up from the hypnotic trance had made her mother faulty. It was as if her batteries weren’t working properly.
Then Molly felt bad. Her mother wasn’t a machine. What was she doing relating her to a machine? Her mother was a living, breathing, broken person. It was too much to bear.
Molly got up. She must get some air and get away fora bit. This fog of Lucy’s was suffocating. She couldn’t wait for Rocky to arrive. He’d help
her
feel better.
“I’m just going outside to talk to the new gardener,” she said awkwardly. “I’ll see you later.”
Upstairs, Molly went to the porch and opened the front door. Petula stood on the other side of the graveled drive next to the turbaned gardener who was stroking her. Molly smiled because it was a relief to see someone normal, someone who liked animals, doing something friendly.
But then a very peculiar and frightening thing happened. There was a loud BOOM, and Petula and the man vanished into thin air.
Three
“S o let’s go over this one more time.” Primo Cell stood to the side of the library and fidgeted with the cuffs of his tailored blue shirt, trying to be business-like but finding his usual powers of deduction flummoxed. “Petula was on the drive and…” He twisted around, his leather-soled shoe pirouetting on the Persian rug. “You’re certain it was Petula? I mean, it might have been another dog.”
“Yeah, man, that’s right,” enthused Forest, shaking his shag of gray dreadlocks. Forest was an aging Los Angelean hippie who’d traveled the world. He’d lived with Eskimos and bushmen, Chinese monks and Indian sadhus. Now he lived in Los Angeles, where he grew vegetables, kept chickens, and ate a lot of tofu and turnips. “Sometimes our memories play tricks on us,”he said, adjusting his bottle-glass spectacles. “It might have been a different hound or even the guy’s backpack.” Forest had odd habits and sometimes he talked rubbish. Molly listened to him now. “Or maybe it was a big bag of dog biscuits with a
picture
of a pug on the front.”
“No.” Molly stabbed at the fire with a poker as she remembered
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