Momscrolling

Mom feels the bailiff's hand on her forearm.

She doesn't scream.

The bailiff's hand is cool and soft and concerned.

The bailiff says, Breathe for me, sweetheart.

Breathe, sweetheart.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Mom tries.

She closes her eyes.

Mom is sweating.

Her clothes stick to her skin.

She tries to breathe.

She breathes in.

She breathes out.

Mom is trying to breathe.

Mom's heart is pounding.

Mom can't stop shaking.

The bailiff is holding her hand.

The judge is talking to both attorneys now.

The jury has at some point been excused.

Folks are gathering their things and leaving.

Reporters are reminded to stay outside in the hallway.

Mom is crying.

Mom is trying to breathe.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Mom is sweating.

Mom's body is trembling.

Daughter is crying.

That day and night, Mom receives over 100 emails from Anon7777777@qmail.cum.

Each one contains a video, or photo, or batch of photos.

It is too much.

It feels like more than "too much."

It is unbearable.

Mom talks to a legal consultant whose name she struggles to recall at a desk in a small tidy room.

Mom tries to turn off the email notifications.

Daughter swears she does not know who is sending these messages.

Mom is terrified.

Daughter is traumatized.

Dad is in shock, in jail, by himself.

Mom is having a panic attack a day now.

On Monday, she has one while waiting in line at a grocery store.

On Tuesday, she has one while waiting in line to drop her car off at the dealership for its regular maintenance checkup.

On Wednesday, she has one while walking up to her front door.

She has them in bed, in the shower, in the living room, in the kitchen, everywhere.

Her body does not belong to her anymore.

Her mind is no longer her own.

Daughter is not sleeping.

Daughter is not eating.

Daughter has dark circles under her eyes.

She is out of school.

She has lost her job.

Her friends try less and less often, now, to reach her.

She just does not respond.

She is in her room.

She is lying in her bed.

She is staring at the ceiling.

Mom is crying.

Daughter is crying too, but noiselessly.

Daughter cries like breathing now.

Daughter aches to be alone and out of earshot of her Mom.

Living with Mom is like living with a guilt-producing machine that is constantly on the fritz.

Mom makes loud sudden noises of grief sometimes.

Daughter suffers bursts of guilt.

Daughter can go whole afternoons not moving.

Her phone has died.

She has not plugged it in.

Dinner today is whatever.

Mom has had a rough week.

Mom's head is pounding.

Mom is sick of being sick.

She's sick of feeling this way.

She's sick of all the silence, and the panic attacks, and the emails.

She's sick of being dead inside.

Daughter's head pounds.

Daughter dreams.

Mom shows up in Daughter's dream.

Mom says, You don't understand.

Mom says, Honey?

Daughter wakes up.

Mom is standing over her.

She is done crying.

She is done making sudden noises of guilt-inducing panic.

Mom says, Hi sweetie.

Daughter says, Mom, please.

Mom says, I'm not mad.

Daughter says, I know, Mom.

Mom says, You know I love you.

Daughter says, I know, Mom.

Mom says, I just wanted to make sure you knew.

Daughter says, Mom, please.

Daughter is lying in her bed.

Mom is standing over her.

She says, I want you to know, you are the most important thing in the world to me.

Daughter is in dirty smelly clothes.

Just panties and a camisole.

The camisole has twisted about in her sleep.

One of her small breasts is poking out.

Mom sees it, takes a brave, difficult, heroic breath, and then looks again, and sees it differently.

Mom says, Honey, I want you to get up.

Mom says, And take a shower.

Mom says, Because tonight, I think, we're going to go to dinner.

Daughter does not move.

Mom is still standing over her.

The floorboards creak under her weight.

Her shadow blocks the light from the hall.

Mom says, It doesn't have to be anywhere nice.

Mom says, It could be somewhere 'just alright.'

Daughter says, no, thank you.

Mom sighs.

Mom says, Okay.

Daughter says, Takeout.

Mom says, You want to order something?

Daughter shrugs, stretches, yawns.

Daughter looks beautiful, writhing on her back.

Mom has watched a problematic quantity of videos.

Who is Anon7777777@qmail.cum?

Can she simply ask them?

Should she?

She knows she should ask her attorney what to do.

But Mom is sick of her attorney.

Mom is sick of the legal system.

Mom is sick of talking about Dad.

Daughter balls up and resists Mom's efforts to help her get out of bed.

Mom says, Fine.

Mom leaves.

She goes into the spare room and lays on the daybed and orders a sushi platter with her phone.

The doorbell rings.

Daughter is still lying in bed.

Mom brings a piece of sushi into Daughter's room and offers it to her.

Daughter opens her mouth wide and goes, Ahh.

Mom's eyes crinkle.

She puts the sushi on Daughter's tongue.

Mom is watching porn nightly.

The porn stars Dad and Daughter.

The porn also stars people Mom does not know.

Some of these people are at least as young as Daughter.

They are roughly Daughter's age, Mom tells herself.

Daughter is spending entire days in bed.

It has been weeks since her last shower.

Daughter wears only panties and camis.

She changes out of gross ones and into clean ones only sporadically.

Mom comes in dragging a laundry hamper and collects all the stinky garments.

Mom sniffs at the panties.

They don't all stink the same.

Some don't stink at all.

Most smell more like urine than anything.

One pair is scabbed with smells so strong that even Mom is repulsed.

The stain reeks of teen girl cunt, piss, and sweat.

She puts these back in the hamper and questions what she is doing.

Why is Mom smelling her daughter's dirty underwear?

How dare she?

Mom sits and watches TV for a minute.

Then she goes and fetches the repulsively smelly pair again.

Mom lays on her back in bed with the disgusting panties clasped to her nose.

She huffs Daughter's crotch stench and gazes droopy-lidded at the laptop on Dad's pillow.

She holds Daughter's fine, young malodors in her brain like she is clutching a bouquet of flowers.

Mom rubs firm, fast circles around and around her vulva.

She doesn't rub directly on her clit.

She is going slow, savoring her pleasure, smelling the roses so to speak.

Mom has no pants on, just her modest Mom-underwear.

She has her covers drawn, demure about what she is doing.

Under the covers, under her underwear, Mom is rubbing everything but her clitoris.

Mom has her hand in her panties.

Mom is watching a video of Dad and Daughter.

Daughter, she thinks, has a really lovely vulva.

Daughter says "Daddy" in the video.

Mom takes another deep breath in through Daughter's dry, crusted gusset and hears "Mommy" every time she hears "Daddy."

Daughter says, I can't believe you.

Mom gasps and rips the panties off her face.

Daughter is wearing clean panties and a smelly cami.

She is standing in the doorway.

She looks upset.

She looks despairing.

Daughter has heard the laptop audio in the silent silence of the home these past many days.

She has heard it a lot.

Today, she has something to say.

Daughter knows what Mom is pretending not to do under the covers.

Daughter is disgusted.

She knows what is in the videos.

She has seen herself in them.

She has seen the strained faces, the sweaty bodies, the menagerie of genitals.

She used to be excited to be part of something so big and secret.

Now, she is just embarrassed and ugly-feeling and tired.

The guilt and the shame, she's so sick of it.

Mom says, Oh, my baby girl.

Daughter apologizes.

Mom frowns and cries and rejects the apology.

Daughter weeps.

She hunkers down and curls up in the doorway.

She says she is sick of being alive.

Daughter says, I just want to die.

Mom says, No, please, I don't want to lose you.

Daughter says, Like how I didn't want to lose Daddy?

Mom says, I miss Daddy too.

Daughter says, You sent him to jail.

Mom says, I wish I hadn't.

Daughter says, Well you did.

Mom says, Come here, please.

Mom's upper lip still smells faintly.

The video Mom had been watching has not finished playing.

There is a loud wail, now.

Daughter does not move.

In the video, Daughter is screaming with pleasure.

Mom pauses the video.

The room goes quiet.

Daughter is lying on her side in the doorway.

Daughter's hair is in her eyes.

She is sobbing.

Mom sits up.

Mom frets for a second about being pantsless.

Mom comes to Daughter's side, anyway.

Daughter looks at Mom without pants.

Mom is a little embarrassed.

But she is the kind of Mom that does not let her kid suffer, even if she is suffering, too.

Mom puts a hand on Daughter's face.

Daughter says, Don't.

Mom puts a hand on Daughter's cheek.

Mom brushes her hair from her face.

Mom pulls her daughter close.

Mom puts a hand on the back of her head.

Daughter resists.

Mom is trying to comfort her daughter.

She is not trying to touch her or take her anywhere.

Daughter is shaking her head.

She says, Please.

Mom says, Shhh.

Mom strokes her hair.

Daughter cries.

Mom cries too.

The house is quiet.

The neighborhood is silent.

It is 3pm on a Sunday.

Daughter is asleep in her bed.

There is a knock at her door.

It is Mom.

Mom is dressed in her nicest dress.

Her hair is pulled back.

She has earrings on.

Mom asks Daughter to please get up.

Mom tells her to take a shower.

Mom gives her a clean dress.

Daughter complies.

Mom and Daughter are sitting across from each other at the dining room table.

Mom has cooked a meal.

Daughter is clean and pretty.

Mom has put on her nice dress and her best earrings.

Mom is smiling.

Mom has poured wine for both of them.

Mom is trying to get her daughter to laugh.

To get her to smile.

To make her happy.

Mom is laughing.

Mom is telling jokes.

Daughter is not.

Daughter is just sitting.

Daughter is staring.

Mom's smile begins to falter.

Mom says, Maybe you'd prefer I cut to the chase.

Daughter says, What?

Mom says, I am your Mom.

Daughter says, I know.

Mom says, I know that things have been hard.

Daughter says, Yeah.

Mom says, For you, especially.

Daughter says, Yes.

Mom says, It's been really bad.

Daughter says, You bet.

Mom says, I want you to feel better.

Daughter says, So do I.

Mom says, You are such a special gift to me.

Mom says, You are such a smart and special girl.

Daughter says, Mom.

Mom says, And you are a truly beautiful young woman.

Daughter says, Mom, no.

Mom says, Please, just listen.

Mom says, We can't keep going on like this.

Daughter says, Okay.

Mom says, It isn't good for either of us.

Daughter says, Okay.

Mom says, I've had to start taking pills.

Mom says, My doctor gave me a prescription.

Daughter says, Okay.

Mom says, And the reason he prescribed those pills is because, lately, I have been having these terrible panic attacks.

Mom says, Every day, almost.

Mom says, Sometimes several times a day.

Mom says, They just come on.

Mom says, And I can't stop them.

Mom says, Because I can't stop thinking: where was I?

Where was I?

Daughter says, Mom--.

Mom says, You and Dad.

Mom says, You two never think things through.

Mom says, If you had just—.

Mom says, I could have helped you guys to be more careful.

Mom says, We wouldn't have had to go through all this.

Mom says, There is no going back, I know.

Daughter is crying.

She has stopped eating.

Her hands are shaking.

Her heart is pounding.

Mom takes Daughter's hands.

Mom says, I want to fix this.

Mom says, I really want to fix this.

Mom says, Do you want that?

Daughter is crying.

Daughter says, Yes.

Mom says, Good.

Mom says, You're the only thing in the world I've got left.

Mom says, Now, please.

Mom says, Finish dinner.

Mom says, I worked hard on this one.

Daughter tries to eat.

It is hard to swallow.

Her stomach is churning.

Daughter is crying.

She is so confused.

Mom is smiling.

She is talking, again.

Mom says, Listen.

Daughter says, Okay.

Mom says, When Dad gets out of jail, when everything is done, and all this messiness is behind us...

Daughter is stricken to hear what comes out of her mother's mouth next.

But, also, she is okay.

Mom is just dreaming aloud.

She is saying, Wouldn't it be nice if the three of us could be together again?

Wouldn't it be wonderful if our family were whole and healthy?

Wouldn't it be amazing?

Wouldn't that be nice?

Wouldn't that be something?

Daughter nods, slowly.

She agrees.

Mom smiles.

Mom pours more wine.

Mom is tipsy.

Mom says, I am just trying to look on the bright side.

Daughter does not reply.

Mom says, Sweetie.

Mom is holding out her hand.

Mom is sitting at the table.

Mom is holding her hand out to Daughter.

Mom says, Please.

Daughter is frozen.

Her fork is still, in her hand.

The tines touch but make no sound on her plate.

Mom moves her chair closer.

She puts her hand on her kid's cheek.

Daughter glances at Mom, blushes, and looks down at her plate.

Mom tugs gently, with the pad of her thumb, pulling an affectionate smirk onto her daughter's lips.

Daughter feels the smirk Mom makes her make.

Daughter smirks for real.

Mom says, There she is.

Daughter is still looking at her plate.

Mom is still looking at Daughter.

Mom says, You are so terribly pretty.

The smirk turns back to a frown.

Daughter's tears resurface.

Daughter is scared.

She is so confused.

Daughter says, Mom, I can't do this.

Mom is frowning.

She is crying too.

Mom says, Baby, no, I didn't mean—.

Daughter stands.

She is still looking down.

She is trying to leave the table.

Mom is pulling her by her wrist.

Sweetheart—!

Daughter is resisting.

Daughter does not look.

Daughter does not know where to look.

Mom says, Look at me.

Daughter looks at Mom.

Daughter sees.

Daughter sees the way her mother is looking at her.

She is embarrassed.

She is crying, as always, as ALWAYS.

Mom pulls again, as gently as a mother.

Daughter lowers into her lap and lets Mom kiss her face.

Daughter's tears are salty silk.

Mom's kisses are deeply tannic and warm.

Daughter's dress is soft and smooth.

Daughter's thigh through the fabric is warm to the touch and palpably freshly shaved.

Mom palpates it with her palms and fingertips.

Mom's heartbeat quickens in Daughter's chest-mashed ear.

She is anxious, all over.

She is scared and unsure.

She does not want all of this.

Part of it scares her.

She does not want the scary part of this.

Mom does only what feels sure and okay.

She hugs and kisses her little girl.

She shushes her.

She strokes her hair and her arms and her back.

Mom loves her daughter.

This is all.

In the morning, the dishes are clean and dried.

The kitchen is scrubbed.

The dining room table is cleared.

The floor is mopped.

The lights are dimmed.

The house smells nice.

Daughter is not in her room.

Mom is not in hers.

They are at the courthouse.

Mom's lawyer is not with them.

Instead, a man is there.

The man is older.

He is handsome.

His ears are large and stick out and his teeth are a little crooked, but his eyes are deep-set and blue and he is unwavering in his enthusiastic defense of Dad.

The judge overrules objections from the prosecution.

She lets the handsome man speak.

She likes him a lot.

And so does the jury.

He holds the jury rapt.

The defense attorney calls the prosecutor things like a good man, a serious talent, brilliant.

Even the prosecutor warms to him.

Dad's sentence is reduced from 18 months in jail to 3 years probation with mandatory community service. Also, for the first six months, Dad must go back and spend weekends in prison. He is prohibited from leaving home otherwise, must wear an ankle monitor at all times and, of course, may not be permitted unsupervised access to his daughter for the remainder of his life.

Dad rides home in the passenger seat.

Daughter is silent in the back seat.

Mom talks about the defense attorney.

Dad smiles and shrugs and chuckles.

Mom puts her hand in Dad's lap at a stoplight.

Dad holds Mom's hand.

Daughter stares out the window and watches the houses, the cars, the signs and streetlamps pass by.

At home, Mom brings out a dusty bottle of special, old wine and three glasses.

Mom and Dad sit on the couch together and drink.

Mom asks Dad if he remembers how they came by the wine they're drinking.

Dad is quiet for a while.

Then he smiles.

He laughs.

Dad says, You stole it.

Mom says, You dared me to do it.

Daughter looks at the wine in her glass.

She sniffs it.

She sips.

The wine tastes like wine.

The wine has a strong Mom smell.

Daughter drinks a little more.

Mom and Dad are reminiscing.

They are smirking and touching each other.

They are sharing stories, telling them both to and with each other.

They are kissing now that the stories have led them back here, to right now, to the sofa.

Daughter is watching her parents.

She is unsure how to act.

Daughter finishes her wine.

She sits her glass on the coffee table.

Mom refills her glass.

Mom pats the cushion between her and Dad.

Mom says, Come and sit, sweetheart.

Daughter sits.

Mom hugs Daughter.

Dad kisses her head.

Daughter feels a warmth inside.

Her belly feels as warm as fresh grapes in sunshine.

Mom and Dad kiss each side of Daughter's face.

Daughter snorts irrepressibly.

Mom and Dad laugh instinctually.

They love Daughter.

They smile at her.

Daughter blushes.

She looks away.

Daughter is embarrassed.

She is a little anxious, still, but less than usual.

Mom puts her hand on Daughter's blonde head.

She pets her girly-smelling hair.

Daughter lets herself lean against Mom.

Daughter closes her eyes.

She is dead tired.

She is sleepy enough to zonk right out.

She has had a long month.

A long month.

Mom has her soft arm around her.

Dad has his hard hand on her leg.

He is gently holding her thigh.

Daughter's mind is so awake inside her sleepy body.

Her parents embrace her whole teen body between them.

Mom says, Are we okay?

Mom and Dad and Daughter are quiet for a moment after she asks, and for another long moment after that.

Her question almost seems to fade into the past.

Dad says, We don't have to be okay.

Mom says, What if I want us to be?

Daughter says, I think I'm starting to feel more okay.

Dad finds Daughter in the den on her phone.

Daughter says, Mom's gone, you can't be in here right now.

Dad says, Excuse me? I own this den.

Daughter says, I'll call the cops on you.

Dad sits down directly on Daughter's bare legs.

Daughter pulls her legs out from under him and drapes them onto his lap.

Daughter ignores Dad otherwise.

Dad watches TV while Daughter texts.

Daughter doesn't mind when Dad changes what's on.

Daughter missed Dad's awful shows.

Daughter's phone dings.

One new message.

Dad says, Is that the cops, then?

Daughter smirks and says, Wren.

Dad says, I thought you two weren't talking.

Daughter says, We weren't.

Dad goes back to watching TV.