He responds to her cue that I am lying, and he is prompted by the promise of the reward: Let her give him peace, please God, give him peace, just let him be, let him go back into his shell. My mother rolls her eyes: That’s the most insane excuse she’s ever heard spew out my mouth. Beck’s that he loses them when he’s shuffling to the bathroom, that he can’t help it because he’s slow from the drugs. My eyes are frozen wide, this can’t be happening. Like a relay race in which she just puffed through the first leg, he is stepping in and now she can let go. He takes the Kleenex, and as his voice gains momentum, my mother’s trails off. Mom has told him I drop them so he will have to pick them up a premeditated attempt to sicken my father with clever trickery. He is clutching the life out of the Kleenex, getting the germs all over him, his adrenaline-soaked palm mixing with its deadly hosts. No little fucking bitch of a slut is going to make me sick picking up her goddamned crusty Kleenexes.” The coffee table is all that’s between us. “I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it.
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