when she watches him, she sees all his segments swelling and relaxing, independent of each other. They each seem to have a top and bottom plate that slide rather than one hard shell like an arthropod would have. So it’s more like armor than an exoskeleton. And Albert isn’t his real name, of course, but Tara doesn’t know his real name, because she can’t talk to him.
He has a lot of legs, though, and lots of little fine claws and then two big bulky claws too, like a lobster instead of a crab. He chitters at her, which freaked her out the first few times, and grabs her hand with one knobby manipulator. It’s all right. She’s already reaching out, too.
I didn’t call Tara’s father, just arrived to pick her up at the usual time. I’d talk to Tara first, I decided, and then see what I was going to say to Jerry. He’s a good guy, works hard, loves his kid.
He panics. You know. Some people do. Tara doesn’t, not usually, and so I wanted to talk to her first.
She sat in the back, big enough to be out of a booster seat but not big enough to be safe with the airbags yet. She was hitting a growth spurt, though; it wouldn’t be long.
RSD has all sorts of side effects. There are people who think it’s psychosomatic, who dismiss it, more or less, as malingering. I got some resistance from my mom and my sister when we decided to go ahead with the surgery, of the she’s-just-doing-it-for-attention and she’ll-outgrow-it sort.
My Tara was a brave girl, very tough. She broke her arm on the playground a few days after her eighth birthday. I didn’t figure out there were other issues until the cast was off and she was still complaining that it hurt. And then, complaining that it hurt more, and the hurt was spreading up her shoulder and down her side. And her right hand was curling into a claw while it took us nine months to get a diagnosis, and another ten months after that to get her into the trial, while she suffered through painkillers and physical therapy.
I watched in the mirror as she wriggled uncomfortably under her shoulder belt and slouched against the door, inspecting bitten fingernails. “How was school?”
“Fine,” she said, turning to look out the window at the night rushing past. It was raining slightly, and she had rolled her window down to catch the damp air, trailing her fingers over the edge of the crack.
“Hands in the car, please,” I said as we stopped under a streetlight. I couldn’t see in the darkness if her eyes were bloodshot, or if those shadows under her chin were bruises.
Tara pulled her fingers back, sighing. “How was work, Mom?”
“Actually, I got a call from Mrs. Mendez today.”
Her eyes widened as I pulled away from the stop sign. I forced my attention back to the road. “Am I in trouble?”
“You know it’s very dangerous, what you taught Silkie to do, don’t you?”
“Mom?” A plaintive question, leading, to see how much I knew.
“The fainting game. It’s not safe. People die doing that, even grownups.” Another stop sign, as she glared at her hands. “Silkie went to the emergency room.”
Tara closed her eyes. “Is she okay?”
“She will be.”
“I’m always careful, Mom—”
“Tara.” I shifted from second to third as we rolled up the dark street and around the corner to our own house, the porch light gleaming expectantly by the stairs, light dappled through the rain-heavy leaves of the maple in the front yard. “I need you to promise me you’ll never do that again.” Her chin set.
Wonderful. Her father’s stubborn mouth, thin line of her lips. Her hair was still growing back, so short it curled in flapper ringlets around her ears and on her brow.
“Lots of kids do it. Nobody ever gets hurt.”
“Tara?”
“I can’t promise.”
“Tara.” There are kids you can argue with. Tara wasn’t one of them. But she could be reasoned with. “Why not?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.” And she didn’t say it with the petulant
He has a lot of legs, though, and lots of little fine claws and then two big bulky claws too, like a lobster instead of a crab. He chitters at her, which freaked her out the first few times, and grabs her hand with one knobby manipulator. It’s all right. She’s already reaching out, too.
I didn’t call Tara’s father, just arrived to pick her up at the usual time. I’d talk to Tara first, I decided, and then see what I was going to say to Jerry. He’s a good guy, works hard, loves his kid.
He panics. You know. Some people do. Tara doesn’t, not usually, and so I wanted to talk to her first.
She sat in the back, big enough to be out of a booster seat but not big enough to be safe with the airbags yet. She was hitting a growth spurt, though; it wouldn’t be long.
RSD has all sorts of side effects. There are people who think it’s psychosomatic, who dismiss it, more or less, as malingering. I got some resistance from my mom and my sister when we decided to go ahead with the surgery, of the she’s-just-doing-it-for-attention and she’ll-outgrow-it sort.
My Tara was a brave girl, very tough. She broke her arm on the playground a few days after her eighth birthday. I didn’t figure out there were other issues until the cast was off and she was still complaining that it hurt. And then, complaining that it hurt more, and the hurt was spreading up her shoulder and down her side. And her right hand was curling into a claw while it took us nine months to get a diagnosis, and another ten months after that to get her into the trial, while she suffered through painkillers and physical therapy.
I watched in the mirror as she wriggled uncomfortably under her shoulder belt and slouched against the door, inspecting bitten fingernails. “How was school?”
“Fine,” she said, turning to look out the window at the night rushing past. It was raining slightly, and she had rolled her window down to catch the damp air, trailing her fingers over the edge of the crack.
“Hands in the car, please,” I said as we stopped under a streetlight. I couldn’t see in the darkness if her eyes were bloodshot, or if those shadows under her chin were bruises.
Tara pulled her fingers back, sighing. “How was work, Mom?”
“Actually, I got a call from Mrs. Mendez today.”
Her eyes widened as I pulled away from the stop sign. I forced my attention back to the road. “Am I in trouble?”
“You know it’s very dangerous, what you taught Silkie to do, don’t you?”
“Mom?” A plaintive question, leading, to see how much I knew.
“The fainting game. It’s not safe. People die doing that, even grownups.” Another stop sign, as she glared at her hands. “Silkie went to the emergency room.”
Tara closed her eyes. “Is she okay?”
“She will be.”
“I’m always careful, Mom—”
“Tara.” I shifted from second to third as we rolled up the dark street and around the corner to our own house, the porch light gleaming expectantly by the stairs, light dappled through the rain-heavy leaves of the maple in the front yard. “I need you to promise me you’ll never do that again.” Her chin set.
Wonderful. Her father’s stubborn mouth, thin line of her lips. Her hair was still growing back, so short it curled in flapper ringlets around her ears and on her brow.
“Lots of kids do it. Nobody ever gets hurt.”
“Tara?”
“I can’t promise.”
“Tara.” There are kids you can argue with. Tara wasn’t one of them. But she could be reasoned with. “Why not?”
“You wouldn’t believe me.” And she didn’t say it with the petulant
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