Judgment Day is here.
Part Three
The Future
This is the last dayof the life I imagined for myself.
This is a day I imagined for myself.
This is a day I imagined.
This is a day.
Imagine.
This is a day I—
“Clementine,” I say.
My grown daughter doesn’t smile at the sound of her name.
Online Natalie, Offline Natalie.
Good days, bad days.
Dirty, clean.
Lost, found.
Hello, ladies!
Clementine’s hair is the shortest I’ve seen since she was two years old. It’s cut into a severe little bob. A tattoo, some sort of symbol, is inked into the soft of her wrist. She’s my height, my weight. She stands the same way I stand: straight and still, like a blade of grass. She’s wearing an expensive-looking winter puffer coat, dark blue jeans, and waterproof boots. At the sight of so much modern clothing, my heart gives a double-panged squeeze. Then my eyes travel to my daughter’s face, and the breath leaves my body.
This is my daughter,the child who made me a mother.A fully grown woman. No ring on her wedding finger. She’s never given birth. I can’t explain how I know that. I just do. A mother always knows.
I turn to my husband. “Well,” he says. “What a wonderful surprise.”
Clementine cocks her head, gives her father a funny expression, one that tells me they haven’t been colluding behind my back. He didn’t ask her to come here. He’s as surprised to see her as I am. Good.
“When you live without a telephone or internet, then everything must be a surprise,” she replies evenly.
There’s a noise by the porch. All three of us turn to the house. Mary is looking at us through the window. She sees us and disappears quickly out of frame.
I turn back to face Clementine, who’s now staring at the house with a nakedly emotional face. Her first sign of distress.
Run, Natalie. Take your chance. Push her to the ground and take the keys and get into the car and go.
Instead, I behave courteously. “Do you want to come inside?”
It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Heller Mills. I’m Lucy, one of the producers assigned with preparing you for the interview tomorrow. Before we get started, though: Are you comfortable? Can we get you anything? Coffee? Water? Kombucha?
And while I haveyou—this might be rude, please tell me if it’s rude, but I just need to know: Is it nice, having so much access to choice after so many years of living so sparsely? Or are you overwhelmed?
“So this is how you live,” Clementine says. She’s standing in the doorframe. She leans forward to get a good look around the kitchen, but her feet stay planted on the threshold. Like Shannon all those years ago, who seemed so obviously afraid to take a single step farther into her bedroom, lest she get sucked into the swirling vortex of this ranch. Good instincts, these women.
I stand by the kitchen counter, seeing the world through my daughter’s eyes. This shabby little shithole. The fire in the corner; Maeve’s sock puppets on the kitchen table. The cracks in the ceiling, little slivers of bright blue sky. I note, in relief, that it’s not so cold today; the house feels warmer than usual. I hope she doesn’t have to pee. I’d hate to have to show her the outhouse.
Clementine shivers. She pulls her zipper up to her chin. She shakes her head in sadness, or maybe disbelief. Then she looks at me, and her expression twists with anger. “My God, Mother, do you seriously still smile all the time? For what? Forwhom?”
