"I have some errands to run and we have to get you registered for school. You're already a month behind."

"School?!" Robyn looks as if I've just slapped her across the face. "I am so not going back to school."

"That's ridiculous," I counter. "Of course you are."

"The h.e.l.l I am!" Robyn says, her voice is pinched with anger.

"Criminy!" Rob shouts. "Can we just have a little peace and quiet around here?"

"You have to go to school!" I say again to Robyn and then turn to Rob, as if giving directions. "She has to go to school!"

"Why in the h.e.l.l does everything need to be decided at eight o'clock in the freakin' morning?" Rob growls back.

"Robert Skinner!" I complain. "Don't you dare tell me that you're considering that our daughter will not go back to school?"

"Relax, will ya?" Rob yells back. "All I'm saying is that Robyn hasn't even been back home twenty-four hours and already you're planning her whole life out before breakfast."

I stump balled fists on my hips. "I'm not planning her entire life! But I do expect her to get her high school diploma."

"Well, why don't you at least talk to the girl, and see what's goin' on in her head?"

"Rob, a high school diploma is non-negotiable. You of all people should realize that."

"What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"It means that if you'd gotten yours and gone on to college or some vocational school we wouldn't be sc.r.a.ping by just to make ends meet," I declare with more bitterness in my voice than I intend.

Rob nods slowly, his eyes screwed in umbrage.

"Oh, I get it. It's time to play the 'blame game', huh?"

"I'm not blaming you, Rob. I'm just trying to point out that Robyn can do better. Better than both of us. But she needs the chance to succeed."

"Oh, and you're livin' in some dream world where you like to think you're a CPA; you're an accounts payable clerk, for cripe's sake!"

"Well at least I'm trying to get back to school and better myself Unlike you!" I shout back.

"Rub my nose in it, why don't you? Tell me again what a complete failure I am again. I don't think I heard you the first thirty thousand times," Rob shoots back.

I huff out an anguished breath.

"This is not about you, Rob. It's about Robyn."

"Well then. Why don't we ask Robyn what Robyn would like to do with her life?" Rob asks.

We both turn to Robyn, but she has long since left the room.

It is then I hear the screak of the shower faucet.

October 28, 2002.

I stare at the cursor on my computer screen. It is only three o'clock and I've yet to complete the report that Carmelita said she must have for the board meeting tomorrow. Thoughts like a school of minnows dart pell-mell inside my head, cluttering any meaningful contemplation I try to achieve. I've become accustomed to staying until at least six in order to catch up, but I doubt I can even make it to five, much less six.

Robyn hasn't been back a month yet and the mood at home is fraught with ominous clouds of discontent. She informed me that she will not not go back to school, but that she wants to get a job. Never mind trying to reason with her about the types of jobs she is qualified to do; my helpful comments are kindling for the fiery arguments that inevitably end up with Robyn storming out of the room, raging against me. go back to school, but that she wants to get a job. Never mind trying to reason with her about the types of jobs she is qualified to do; my helpful comments are kindling for the fiery arguments that inevitably end up with Robyn storming out of the room, raging against me.

A large flat screen TV appeared last week; which she claims was given to her by a "friend". Adding insult to my injury is that after work I come home to find Robyn lounging around the house; sometimes with girls she says are friends but who look more like professional exotic dancers rather than high school aged teenagers. Invariably, the television is blasting out nearly obscene lyrics to a beat that sounds like something out of a ghetto. Never mind about the soft p.o.r.n of the music videos that plays out on the screen. I order the volume to be lowered. After a period of time, I am met with the sudden fall of silence, like a great, black, velvet curtain, followed by the slam of the front door. And then I am alone.

Rob is no help. His newfound sobriety means that he is absent; attending AA meetings even more than when he was submerged in beer at the bars. When he is home, he lobs clever plat.i.tudes my way; little gems such as "Let go and let G.o.d," or "Live and let live", which only make me want to flatten his head with a baseball bat.

And the pain is back. Inside my gut, like a worm, creeping through my stomach, dragging behind it, boughs of th.o.r.n.y pine needles of misery. I refuse to let my mind explore the worry that my beating by BLU BOY may have done any significant damage to my recent surgery.

I close my eyes and realize that I'm so tired I could lay my head down on my desk and easily plummet into an unconscious sleep. Biting my lip, my eyes travel to my purse under my desk. I reach down and dig through the side pocket until I find a small note of paper. On it is only one word: Freddie Freddie. His name followed by his phone number. I know I shouldn't. I can almost see Sister Margaret's stern look of disapproval. But I dial the number anyway and before I am ready for it, the soft cadence of his voice greets me.

"h.e.l.lo?"

My voice catches in my throat. I stare at the cradle of the phone where I am trying to will my hand to replace the receiver, but I remain frozen.

"h.e.l.lo?" Freddie says again.

"It's me," I say timidly.

"Margot." If a voice can smile, I am certain Freddie's is doing so at this very moment.

I called him the day after Robyn came home to let him know that all my prayers had been answered and I supposed I thought we would never speak again.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

I tell him of my frustrations with my beloved daughter.

"You're both trying to adjust," he says. "Give it some time."

"I don't know that I have that much patience," I say, only half joking.

"Your daughter isn't the same person she was. She's seen and done a lot of things that most people don't even know exist in this world."

"I know, but-"

"She came back, Margot. That's the only thing that matters."

I nod but say nothing. I wipe away a tear that escapes down my cheek.

"Thanks Freddie."

"No sweat."

"I gotta go," I say.

"Take care," he says.

And then he is gone. I hang up the phone and sigh.

Although it is late October, summer clings to Pittsbug like a heavy wool sweater. My window is down as I coast along Power Avenue. I avert my gaze from the worn cyclone fence and the dying stumps of brown weeds in the front yard, keeping my eye on the front window, as if to glean any advance information of what Robyn and her friends might be up to. There appear to be more cars on the street than usual, and I peer at neighboring houses to see if anyone nearby might be having a party. But everything looks like it does every other day of the week. Neighbors shielded from one another by brick and mortar; doors and walls and locks, bulwarks against hospitality.

Above the tired groan of the Corsica engine I catch the rhythmic thump of rap music and realize that the closer I get to the house, the louder the music becomes. The repaired front door hangs open and a clot of young people occupy the front porch. Profanity flies from my mouth like a flock of startled birds. I flatten the accelerator, wheeling into the driveway with such force the shrieking tires testify to my rage. I yank the car into park, and stalk from the driveway towards the house. Already the kids on the front porch dart away, one even leaping over the porch railing that makes him look like he's trying out for the summer Olympics.

I stand at the front door, shocked by what I see. In the living room, another array of teenagers loom, standing in groups of twos or threes. On the couch at one end is a young man and girl necking, his hand down her pants. Several of the kids are holding Budweiser beer bottles. On the television I see a man and woman, both naked, having s.e.x on top of an office desk. The woman is moaning and writhing in apparent ecstasy. My stomach lurches. Two kids catch a glimpse of me from the corner of their eye.

"Oh s.h.i.t!" one of them says.

At that moment, Robyn herself emerges from the kitchen. As she walks, she twists off the lid of bottle of beer.

"What in the h.e.l.l is going on here?" I shout at no one in particular.

"Mom!" Robyn says.

Everyone's eyes are suddenly fastened onto me. Kids begin to leave quickly. The couple on the couch stand up, the girl smoothing her hair and edge towards the door. I realize that I know her. It is my daughter's friend Jenny. She shoots a look of daggers towards me.

"What is that?!" I bellow, my finger pointed towards the television.

Robyn casually glances at the screen and then shrugs. "It's a movie," she replies.

"It's a p.o.r.nographic movie!" I yell.

"p.o.r.no's mainstream now, Mom."

"Not in this house, it's not," I menace. I stomp towards the TV, but Robyn beats me there, quickly popping out the DVD. The TV now makes a low, hissing noise, as if it too, is angry.

"Fine. Whatever," she says.

"I suppose drinking beer is also mainstream?" I say, yanking the bottle out of her hand.

Cold beer sloshes out of the bottle, all over my hand and onto the carpet.

"We were gonna have all this cleaned up before you came home," Robyn says, as if this explains everything.

I am so angry, I feel as if I have tunnel vision, and all I can see is my disobedient, intractable daughter. I look around and realize that we are alone.

The pungent stink of beer brings me front and center with countless past fights and arguments with Rob.

"This is unacceptable, young lady!" I am screaming again. "You won't go to school. You say you want to work, but I seriously doubt that you've even applied for a job. And now I come home to this! I won't have it!"

"I have too!" she shouts back. "I've been to every clothing store at the mall, but no one's called me yet."

"And so you think it's okay to hang around the house drinking beer and watching p.o.r.n movies?!" My voice is incredulous.

"Everyone does it," she replies, rolling her eyes at my prudishness.

"Not everyone. Not this family."

"Oh my G.o.d, Mom; don't start up with 'this family' c.r.a.p," Robyn says, quoting the air with her fingers.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means we're not this incredibly happy family all sitting around the dinner table talking about how happy we all are like some stupid TV commercial."

The late afternoon sun streaks into the room, into my daughter's eyes. The sunlight makes her blue-brown eyes look like two perfectly round harlequin opals.

"I didn't mean that. What I meant was-"

"You're so frickin' rigid," she spits out in disgust.

"Rigid?" Needles of hatred slash through my body. "Is it rigid for me to have expectations for you? Is it rigid for me to expect you to go onto college, have a career? Have a decent life? Something better than what your father and I have?"

She shudders out a heavy sigh. "You're just proving my point," she says. "Look at Dad. He works, but he also knows how to have a good time."

"Your father is a drunk!" I shout, immediately regretting my outburst.

Robyn's eyes well with tears. "Stop it!" she shouts. "Can't you ever just stop! You didn't want to have me in the first place! Why can't you just admit it?"

I blanch. "Oh Robyn, that's not true."

"Don't talk to me about truth!" she shrieks. "It is is true. I've been an obstacle for you since the day I was born! You couldn't finish college because you got pregnant and you haven't let me forget it for a single day; always blabbing on and on about LMC and getting your accounting degree until I just want to puke!" true. I've been an obstacle for you since the day I was born! You couldn't finish college because you got pregnant and you haven't let me forget it for a single day; always blabbing on and on about LMC and getting your accounting degree until I just want to puke!"

"Oh baby. I never meant it like that." I set the beer on top of the coffee table and make a move towards her. But now it is Robyn who is in a rage.

"No! I'm so sick of you! I hate you! Do you hear me? I hate hate you!" you!"

She stomps towards the front door.

"Robyn, please," I cry. "Please stay. We can work things out. Please."

Through my own tears the front door seemingly quavers as it slams closed.

I sit on the coffee table, dropping my face into my hands and sob. The telephone rings but I let it go. I gaze out the living room window. The street is bleak and dest.i.tute. Tree limbs stretch to the sky like desiccated roots. I realize that I am drenched in sweat. Nausea churns deep in the pit of my stomach. I press my hand to my forehead and feel laminated with sweat. I rummage through recent memory trying to figure out exactly where my pack of Rolaids might be. I think I recall seeing them in the kitchen drawer next to the silverware.

I stand up, but must steady myself by holding onto the TV to maintain my balance. I close my eyes and inhale several deep breaths, calling to mind the words of my doctor. Discussions Discussions of of persistent persistent stomach stomach pain pain or or b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y vomit vomit that that might might indicate indicate a a return return problem problem stemming stemming from from surgery surgery. Never mind about several strategic placed body blows by a vengeful pimp. I swallow down pearls of worry and open my eyes, certain that one or two Rolaids will relieve my symptoms.

October 29, 2002.

I pull a slick wad of hair from the trap in the bathtub, grimacing in repugnance as I deposit it into the trash. Flicking on the tub faucet, I rinse my gloved hand with water. Sloshing water over the porcelain, I next sprinkle Comet all over, avoiding the caustic acid vapors that hang in the air. I run water over my sponge and begin scouring the ringed walls of the bathtub.

I hear the familiar tinks and knocks as Rob helps himself to his usual Sat.u.r.day morning coffee; the opening and closing of the front door as he retrieves the morning newspaper.

The ordinariness of our lives should be a comfort, but this day it is not. Worries over Robyn's whereabouts is a fever in my mind. I endlessly rehea.r.s.e what I will say to her upon her return. And last night was sleepless. Pickles has been missing since the break in. I know it's just a cat, but the loss is compounded by apprehension of Robyn's safety. I dandled thoughts of my daughter in my head until nearly two thirty this morning, until finally drifting off into troubled dreams.