People think that their memories, their emotions, their lives are easy to navigate. Madelyne has always torn through them, piece by piece, one strong emotion at a time.
Molly, however, demands order, even in this state. Even now, Molly exerts some control, tries to sort things in a way that she can understand.
It doesn’t really work as well as she hopes. Karen’s so guarded, so arrogant, so willful in her own way, that instead of going directly where Molly wants to go, instead of forming a familiar hallway that she can navigate, she finds herself and Maddy both (mirror images), sitting in the backseat of a car, listening to Karen spit out, “--Catholic, that’s not the point. We haven’t been able to conceive for a reason Daniel. This gives us a shot.”
The car guns forward; Molly and Madelyne clutch hands as it rocks forward, and Daniel Patton scowls. “It’s going to cost us nearly everything and might not even work. An-And having a kid with some other guy’s cum? ‘Cause mine’s not good enough? Maybe you’re the problem for once, Karen!”
“I’m the problem?” Karen’s voice climbs higher and higher in her own memory, overtaking the sound of the car. “You’re the one who keeps smoking, who complains about even getting it up--”
Molly shunts them out of the memory
And into another one: Molly, thirteen years old, smiling at a boy. -- about five years her senior, the difference in them stark from this distance Her hair is still long enough to pull back into a half ponytail here, her mascara smeared on thickly, her shirt low, and her jeans even lower Her stomach twists; she never knew that her mother had seen her like this, had seen her back against the wall to let this boy -- this man kiss her.
Karen watches, and though she says nothing, Molly can feel her emotions: her anger, her disgust, aimed at them both. The feeling of being so incompetent, of feeling so disappointed in her own daughter, that she’d raised a girl who was so willing to open her legs for anyone regardless of her own safety, her own reputation.
She turns on her heel, angry, and gets into her car with a slam. Molly watches her, her anger rising, and rising
Even as they find themselves in another memory, of the cabin, Karen fifteen years old, her hand held in front of her own mother. They’re mirror images of themselves: the same inky black hair, the same bright eyes, the same iron will.
Welts already are rising on Karen’s hand, and she glares up at her mother.
Her mother’s hand grips her switch tighter, and she brings it down.
Shame shoots up Molly’s spine, and she turns again, runs for the cabin door, the one she knows goes to the basement
And when she bursts through, it’s Karen, in 2005. Molly has no recollection of this, of Karen shouting up, “There aren’t any blankets, Julia! Fuck--” Her hands frantically move around the shelf, looking for the lantern Molly knows isn’t there anymore. She can distantly hear Teddy upstairs, wailing, and Julia’s voice half muffled in Karen’s panic.
Madelyne’s hand grips her tighter. It burns hot, with the power of the force, with Molly’s own anger.
“Dammit,” Karen swears, and she runs back upstairs. They follow her, and Molly’s grip on everything wavers for a moment, as she takes in how young she looked then, her glassy eyes, the amount of blood surrounding her. Teddy’s wailing and Julia’s face is streaked with tears.
Karen’s emotions are so high: the fear, the anger, the sheer will inside of her that everything is going to go the way she wanted it to, that Molly was going to leave her, and to hell about Teddy.
Molly reaches out
But Madelyne is the one who tugs her away before she can take a swipe at her own mother. Not that it would work -- she can’t feel it. She won’t ever feel it in the memory.
The memory here, Madelyne finds, is somehow worse than before. The office they’re in is made to look friendly, welcoming to parents. The woman across the table has deep crows feet, her hair is streaked white and grey, and the snoopy earrings in her ears are meant to be charming as she says, “Ms. Patton, I’m so glad that you’ve come in about your son. You said that he’s due in five weeks?”
And the ghastliest thing molly has seen so far is this: her mother, legs crossed at the ankle, wearing what she knows is a fake belly, the ultrasounds from molly herself tucked in a folder, and her posture straight. She doesn’t even focus on the rest of the conversation; just the look of the office, the sights, the knowledge that they had shabby wallpaper, that the letterheads were misspelled, that everything -- everything was cheap.
Everything was ill prepared.
Karen chose this. Karen wanted this.
Green flames bursts from her fingertips, and starts to ignite the memory, and distantly, Karen screams in the real world.
Her control
Slips
from her fingers
Not even MAdelyne can help control things, not even her screams for Molly to stop, to be careful deter her as she starts to tear through everything Karen Patton ever was, with little care for the damage she caused.
And why should she care? Why should Karen Patton’s life, why should her livelihood, her health matter when every memory was tainted, was full of anger or distrust or planning and no remorse?
The memories, the secrets unravel over and over and over again: Karen studying at college, Karen disdainfully placing molly’s drawings in the class, Karen’s relief to deliver boys, twin boys, god she was so happy to have boys; the immense relief of knowing that the forged signature worked, another fight with julia, the slow feeling of instinctual love for her sons---
She tears, tears, tears, at it all. Shredding and shredding, memories, thoughts, emotions cascading over her until one catches her off guard in the way that it stands out from the others: the discomfort, the guilt inside of it. Guilt is an emotion Karen Patton has rarely ever felt -- and Molly lets it overtake her.
This time, it’s Christmas, around last year. The decorations are bright, the lights are brilliant, and the source of Karen’s discomfort is a boy with black hair, and eyes that are piercing, and in Karen’s mind, all she thinks of is Molly’s own accusatory glances. He has to be about twelve years old, bundled up against the cold, whip thin and face angular.
Molly puzzles over this; but Madelyne is faster. She knows immediately why this boy discomforts Karen, as he says, “My parents aren’t here. I came here on my own.” His scowl deepens distrustfully. “They’re always late.”
Karen’s stomach roils, and Molly looks around. They’re in Maine. The boy’s parents were supposed to have been here an hour ago to talk to Karen because --
-- No.
Molly’s throat tightens up, and she wishes -- she wishes the coat were gone so she could see. So she could confirm it.
Karen shifts awkwardly, and Madelyne says, for the first time, “Forward. We have to go forward.”
So they do. They go forward in the day, until Karen is sitting in a den in a house that is above her paygrade, in a house that looks too immaculate, and she is watching the boy run upstairs.
Molly waits with bated breath as Karen says, “I never thought I’d run into either of you again. The adoption was -- it was supposed to be closed.”
“That’s what we thought,” the woman -- Janet Davis -- says, “Gryffin, though, he’s always been curious, smart. He found out, though we’re not sure how. I’m sorry he caused all this mess.”
Karen feels guilty. So guilty, squirming in her seat.
rief threatens to eat Molly up then and there. It’s only Madelyne who stays there, who forces her to keep listening. “I’m sorry, too. I think he’s mistaken. There are multiple Karen Patton’s out there. I haven’t had a child in years.”
Richard smiles, and Karen feels guilt pressing into her shoulders with how polite it is. “We thought as much. Again -- we’re sorry for troubling you. We’ll have a talk with Gryffin about this. Thank you for bringing him home.”
Karen nods, and she gets up.
Molly freezes the memory, runs to the shelves, searching for any photo Karen might have seen, for any confirmation.
And there it is, on the shelf. A smiling Gryffin, held by Janet. On his right shoulder, bare in the summer sun, is a horseshoe shaped birthmark.
Decades worth of anger, of rage, boils over in an instant. And in white hot anger, Molly shatters her mother's mind beyond repair.
