51

51

F lora no longer thinks of herself as Flora. Nor does she think of herself as Jodi. She is simply: the Mother.

The Mother's first order of business is to gather supplies. She swings her legs off the couch and stands.

"Flora?" It's Connor's voice. He sits in his chair, his legs deadweights beneath him. "Flora, what just happened?" His eyes are wide with horror.

The Mother's feet move stiffly across the floor, thump thump thump, slowly and deliberately toward the garage. Her movements are stilted, like a foal learning to walk with bricks for feet. Behind her, Michael lies unconscious in his chair. Belinda is gone.

A small, sunken voice bubbles up from within the Mother.

please stop you have to stop

But the Mother is not bothered by it. This body is merely a means to an end. She owes it nothing.

When she reaches the garage door, she pushes it open and steps onto the landing of the stairs. Suddenly, she is propelled forward, pushed from behind, and she tumbles down the stairs, landing with a THUD on the cement floor below. The Mother has a singular focus and is unfazed by sensation, but even while drowning under the surface of consciousness, Flora feels the crack splat splice of her right leg. Pain shoots up to her hip, through her spine, electrifying.

The Mother uses her hands to twist her torso, and Flora feels a broken rib poke around her insides, its jagged edge like a knife on her lungs. Belinda stands in the doorway, a dazed look in her eyes, her hands still outstretched from the push that sent the Mother reeling.

run Belinda run get out of here

But Belinda's focus is on the Mother's leg, where something thick and round pokes out from beneath the skin of her calf. It looks like one of those stuffed bones they make as treats for dogs.

"Flora, I'm sorry," Belinda says, "I didn't mean—"

Flora's consciousness fights for power. She struggles, pushing against the Mother like a face pressing into a latex wall. She wants to tell Belinda that this is not her, that Belinda is not safe here, that the Mother does not feel pain, she will retaliate—

THWACK

—Flora watches as her own hands swing a shovel into the side of Belinda's head. The woman crumples to the floor, a single drop of blood running down her temple.

The Mother stands above the fallen woman, effortlessly bearing weight on her newly broken leg. A moment later, Flora wakes up to this pain and wishes she were dead, wishes the Mother would end this thing.

She scans the garage with her one good eye. She limps over to the tall shelf unit. With each heavy step, thump thump thump, the bones in the broken leg shift like unset jelly in a mold of skin. The Mother runs her fingers over the boxes on the shelf until she finds a coil of thick rope. She grips it tightly and pulls it from its spot.

The Mother turns back toward the main house. She steps over Belinda's unconscious body on the way but lands crack on two of Belinda's fingers. The bones crunch beneath her weight like salt beneath a tire. The Mother does not stop.

Flora wills her hands to reach for Belinda's pocket as she passes,

the birth tusk if I could just get the birth tusk but she is no longer in control of her limbs. The signals her brain sends are stamped out before they arrive.

The Mother walks slowly back through the living room. Flora tries to turn her head, tries to look toward Connor or Michael, tries to send them some kind of signal. She can just barely hear Connor's voice, something about what did you do what did you do. But the Mother has a singular focus, and Flora is unable to deter her. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs, she looks up.

no God no not the stairs don't go upstairs

The Mother hooks the thick coil of rope loosely around her neck to free up her hands. With her right hand on the railing, she starts her journey up.

ayyyyyeeeeeeeeeee

The first step on her bad leg sends her hip completely out of alignment. A loud pop accompanies the movement.

ooooommmmmppphhhhhh

The third step, again on her bad leg, jostles the hip joint back into place before dislocating it again with the weight shift.

The steps are slow and deliberate, the Mother oblivious to the pain. Each step tears and splinters and cracks the leg a little more. And each one also brings her closer to Iris, the only thing that keeps Flora alert enough to withstand the torture.

Finally upstairs, she labors down the hallway

not the nursery stay away from the nursery

and into the bathroom. Her bad leg gives out completely, hanging loosely from the hip joint. The Mother leans against the wall, hopping on her left foot and dragging the right behind her, using the wall as both a guide and a crutch.

In the bathroom, the Mother removes the rope from around her neck and places it on the countertop. She stands square in front of the mirror and stares at her reflection. The face is blurry, as if the mirror is foggy. Flora witnesses her right hand rise toward her face and cover her bad eye—and that's when the reflection comes into focus.

Flora's good eye is her own, but her nose and cheeks are Jodi's, smaller and birdlike. Her lips are torn at the corners, like she licked a knife and sliced both sides, and drool drips down her chin.

Flora feels her mouth curl upward in a smile, the cracked parts igniting as the lips stretch wide. But in the mirror, her expression does not change. Her mouth does not move.

Until suddenly, the reflection morphs rapidly—the image flickering like a TV on the fritz—and lands on a new face: Zephie. She's there, frantic, as if she has been trying to get through, and shouts, "Get out!"

The two words fly out of the mirror and smack the Mother in the face. The house rocks like an earthquake.

Flora's back ignites. The rash lights up and glows like a starter log on a rekindled fire. Zephie's appearance has angered the Mother. She turns quickly away from the mirror, away from Zephie, and toward the bathtub. Flora watches as her own hands reach for the spigot and turn on the water. She locks the drain. The bath begins to fill.

no no no no

There's a knock on the door. "Flora?" It's her father.

For a moment, the Mother has stepped into a memory. Michael's voice tugs at something primal within her, traveling her consciousness through space and time to another bathroom, another bathtub, another infant.

Flora wants to scream for him to run, grab Iris and get away from here, get away from her. But instead, she watches as her hands open the door to reveal his kind face.

"Flora," he says, "what are you doing?" Then he spots the bone protruding from her skin. "Jesus, your leg." The sight of it straightens his spine, a shock to his nervous system.

Her mouth curves into another smile, and she watches helplessly as her right arm reaches out to him. His expression is wary, and she's hopeful that maybe he realizes this isn't really her, but then her other hand is reaching up, her fingers aligning so that she can twist his neck with a quick snap—

get the fuck out of here Dad grab Iris and get the fuck out

—and thankfully her dad ducks at just the right moment, looking at her with horror. He knows now, knows this isn't his daughter.

"What the hell?" he says, backing out of the room, not taking his eyes off the Mother, who stalks him slowly with her limp, dead leg.

He makes a break for it, running into the nursery and toward the crib. Flora hears that the bathtub is almost full now and is about to start flooding over.

The Mother crosses the hallway to the nursery. Her blood and bodily fluids have oozed from her leg, leaving a slimy trail behind her like a giant snail.

"Flora," her father's voice calls from the nursery. The Mother finally arrives in the doorway. "Flora, if you can hear me in there, this isn't you," her dad says. "Stop this. You can stop this now and we can fix it. We can fix everything." He is crying.

The Mother cringes in disgust at his tears.

you're right Dad it's not me run from here leave

Michael holds Iris, who complains about being pulled from slumber. The crying tugs at Flora, but not just in the typical way. She can feel it tugging at the Mother, too. Literally pulling her body toward the baby like a homing device. Flora senses the Mother's deep desire to take her little girl. It is the only thing driving her, like a rat in a cage pressing a button for more food.

Iris still wears her swaddle, wrapped up tightly into Michael's chest. He steps away, walking backward, attempting to bargain with the Mother.

"Flora," he says, "we love you. Iris loves you. Whatever you're thinking of doing, you will regret it. Trust me, please, oh God, please."

Flora wishes he would kick her in the leg or stab her in the neck. But she knows that her father won't hurt her. That's how he ended up in this position, cornered in the nursery, blocked by the crib and rocking chair and Flora's lumbering body. A strength pulses through her veins that frightens her. An inhuman strength.

kill me Dad you have to kill me

The Mother is close to him now, close enough that Flora can smell his oaky aftershave. His cheeks are wet; his hands hold her tiny baby with gentle love. Flora's heart breaks.

But then Michael swiftly turns toward the open window behind him, climbs onto the sill, and holds Iris closer to his chest. A moment later, he jumps and disappears from view.

oh God Dad oh God please be okay please let Iris be okay

Flora's back flares in angry pain as the Mother realizes her plan has been thwarted. She exits the nursery, out through the now-flooding hallway, the slippery wet slowing down her crooked gait. Frustrated by her own slow pace, the Mother drops to all fours, moving more quickly now, dragging her dead leg and using her arm strength to pull her more efficiently through space. She crawls like an injured spider down the stairs and out the front door.

Outside the house, only a faint moonlight illuminates the world. Clouds cover the stars. The Mother stalks the bushes under Iris's window, but she doesn't find Michael there. Instead, she sees a trail of blood.

No. That's not right. She can't see it.

She can smell it.

With her nose close to the ground, she follows the trail like a hungry wolf, smelling not only the faint drops of blood but also Iris's soft newborn scent. The one Flora used to drink in while Iris was sleeping on her chest. The Mother licks her cracked, split lips and army-crawls around the side of the house. Thorny bushes poke through her sweatpants and scratch her arms.

The moon is brighter behind the house, and Flora can see the back patio clearly. Connor is there, his face half-illuminated by a fire he has lit in the chiminea. He sits on the ground and moves himself around with his arms, clearly still under the impression that he cannot use his legs. From the shadows behind him appears her father, Iris tight in his arms. The Mother crawls up the stairs of the back deck and stands, regaining her height, but now seeming to grow many inches beyond Flora's actual stature. For the first time in her life, Flora looks from above down to the men below.

And then a voice a few feet behind her and to her left: "Jodi, we demand you go !"

The Mother whips around to find Belinda, streaks of dried blood painting one side of her face. And held in front of her, wielded like a weapon—the birth tusk.

Flora's back flares again, and the Mother lets out an inexplicable noise. Something like a freight train in the form of a scream. Again, the house rocks, vibrating from the power of the Mother's anger, but this time it is so forceful that Belinda loses her footing. The birth tusk falls, skidding toward the Mother, landing at her feet. The Mother hisses and recoils from the tusk.

Flora knows this is her chance.

touch it grab it get the birth tusk you can do it

She wills herself to bend down and uses every ounce of energy she has within her to compel her left hand, which is closer to the tusk, to reach out. Her fingers fight against her, like she's pushing through mud, swimming upstream. The Mother resists Flora's efforts, but Connor, understanding what's happening, whistles loudly. The noise distracts the Mother just long enough that Flora is able to grab the birth tusk.

Her hand sizzles like she's touching a hot griddle. Like it did when she was a toddler, curious about the stove. She reacts to the burn instinctively, throwing the tusk away and high into the air behind her. Her hand is now imprinted with the designs from the hippo's tooth: a lion's head and a circle with sprouting long legs mark her palm.

Connor sees the flying tusk and shouts, "Michael, watch out!"

But a moment later, the Mother looks up to find that the birth tusk is traveling back toward her, like a boomerang. It flies through the air efficiently, turning end over end, right toward the Mother's chest. Flora tries to keep her feet planted where they are, willing the tooth to stab her in the heart, but the Mother's downward force is too strong. She falls to all fours again, dodging the flying tusk.

"Belinda!" her father cries out, but it's too late.

The tusk sticks thwack into the soft flesh between Belinda's shoulder and chest bone. She looks down, surprised and not comprehending.

Within seconds, the Mother is crawling to Belinda in fast motion. Once there, she uses Belinda's body to pull herself to standing, so that their faces are close. Silence fills the space between them. The only noise is the crackling of the now-roaring fire.

The Mother's spindly fingers wrap themselves around the birth tusk and unceremoniously pull it out. Belinda cries in pain as a steady stream of blood pours from that spot. The Mother holds the tusk even though it burns her skin, and Flora doesn't know why she's not recoiling from the hippo's tooth as she did before. But a moment later, she understands.

The tusk rises and the sharp end finds its way to Belinda's neck. Flora tries to resist as she watches her own hand prepare to slit the woman's throat. It's only a centimeter away now. The Mother wants to do this quickly, because she feels the burning tusk—the only pain she recognizes. But Flora fights her, and the internal struggle is so strong that it puts her body at a momentary standstill. It's just enough time for Belinda to duck out of the way and heave herself toward the others by the back door.

Flora grips the tusk harder, concentrating on nothing else. The Mother, thwarted again and angry, tries to throw the tusk away. But this time, Flora refuses to loosen her fingers. A migraine builds behind her bad eye, a physical manifestation of the inner battle between these women. Flora drops to her knees and drags herself toward the chiminea. The Mother fights her, resisting with every move, but finally, Flora has the advantage. She thinks of her daughter's smile and smell and tiny fingers and chubby cheeks and dark hair and pouty lips. She thinks of her cooing and gurgling and even her crying. She thinks of the rise and fall of her chest, the way she holds tightly onto Flora's index finger when she drinks from a bottle, the way her arms splay above her head when they escape from the swaddle. These images are powerful motivations. More powerful, even, than the Mother's superhuman strength.

Flora drags her body toward the fire, the Mother protesting in her freight-train discord, the deck and house and earth shaking. Flora sees the sound waves of her screams: blurry pulses of air emanate from her body. Like she is a stone in water, her fury rippling through the atmosphere. Flora works against herself. The hardest force she has ever fought is right here, within her own body.

Finally, she makes it to the chiminea. She hears Belinda and her father shouting for her to stop, shouting that there must be another way. But Connor does not protest. There's a reason he started the fire. He understood there was no other way. Just like Zephie understood when she tried to burn down the house.

Flora grabs the hot opening of the chiminea and lifts her broken, battered body onto her knees. The Mother understands now what Flora is trying to do, and she flares her back in protest, but Flora ignores this pain. She knows it is nothing compared to what is coming. With one final push of the only strength she has left, fueled by the images of her baby's perfect lips and hands and smile and sweet eyes and soft belly, Flora heaves the birth tusk into the fire.

The ivory, unable to catch a flame, sits in the center of the angry orange and red, seemingly untouched. And for a moment, nothing happens.

But then— WHOOSH! —the flame ignites like lighter fluid, shooting sparks into the sky. Flora's eyes look up, up, up, as the fire gets taller and taller, dwarfing the Mother and the whole group and soon even the house. High above, a form takes shape in the brilliant, blinding light of the flames. Its edges are soft, its lines alive and dancing. But Flora recognizes it at once: the giant hippo head of Taweret.

The fat head curves and gives way to the huge nose, the widening nostrils. Its eyes are small beads trained on the Mother. It sucks air into its huge mouth, like it did in Flora's bedroom, but this time it shoots fire from its nostrils like a braying dragon.

First Flora's feet catch fire, like when Jodi tried to destroy the tusk. Nothing else around her burns, even though she stands on a wooden deck; this fire is meant only for the Mother.

The flames quickly climb up her body, licking her calves, wrapping themselves around her knees and her thighs. As the fire reaches her torso, she smells melting plastic and charcoal and rubber and dirt. Her nostrils are moist with the stench of her own burning flesh.

Flora allows herself to fully sink in now, fully drown within the Mother's consciousness. She disappears from her body as it is completely overtaken by flames.

Beside her, the others scream.