Unpossible by Daryl Gregory Page B

thought. Even though he won partial custody, he wanted to take everything from her.
    Finally she noticed the note, in a cleared space on the counter between a stack of dishes and an open cereal box. The handwriting was Steph’s.
    Paula marched to the yellow house and knocked hard. Steph opened the door. "It’s all right," Steph said, trying to calm her down. "She’s done her homework and now she’s watching TV."
    Paula pushed past her into a living room full of second-hand furniture and faded rugs. Every light in the house seemed to be on, making every flat surface glow: the oak floors scrubbed to a buttery sheen, the freshly-painted daffodil walls, the windows reflecting bright lozenges of white. Something spiced and delicious fried in the kitchen, and Paula was suddenly famished. She hadn’t eaten anything solid since breakfast.
    Claire sat on a braided oval rug, her purple backpack beside her. A nature show played on the small boxy TV but the girl wasn’t really watching. She had her earphones in, listening to the CD player in her lap. Lying on the couch behind her was a thin black woman in her fifties or sixties.
    "Claire," Paula said. The girl pretended to not hear. "Claire, take off your headphones when I’m talking to you." Her voice firm but reasonable. The Good Mother. "You know you’re not supposed to leave the house."
    Claire didn’t move.
    "The police were at the green house," Steph said. A rundown place two doors down from Paula with motorcycles always in the front yard. Drug dealers, Paula thought. "I went over to check on Claire, and she seemed nervous, so I invited her over. I told her it would be all right."
    "You wouldn’t answer your phone," Claire said without looking away from the TV. She still hadn’t taken off the headphones. Acting up in front of the women, thinking Paula wouldn’t discipline her in public.
    "Then you keep calling," Paula said. She’d forgotten to turn on her phone when she left the hospital. She’d stopped off for a drink, not more than thirty, forty-five minutes, then came home, no later than she’d come home dozens of times in the past. "You don’t leave the house."
    Steph touched Paula’s elbow, interrupting again. She nodded at the woman on the couch. "This is Merilee."
    The couch looked like the woman’s permanent home. On the short table next to her head was a half-empty water glass, a Kleenex box, a mound of damp tissue. A plastic bucket sat on the floor below it. Merilee lay propped up on pillows, her body half covered by a white sheet. Her legs were bent under her in what looked like a painful position, and her left arm curled up almost to her chin, where her hand trembled like a nervous animal. She watched the TV screen with a blissed-out smile, as if this was the best show in the world.
    Steph touched the woman’s shoulder, and she looked up. "Merilee, this is Paula."
    Merilee reached up with her good right arm. Her aim was off; first she held it out to a point too far right, then swung it slowly around. Paula lightly took her hand. Her skin was dry and cool.
    The woman smiled and said something in another language. Paula looked to Steph, and then Merilee said, "I eat you."
    "I’m sorry?" She couldn’t have heard that right.
    "It’s a Fore greeting," Steph said, pronouncing the word For-ay. "Merilee’s people come from the highlands of Papua New Guinea. Merilee, Paula is Claire’s mother."
    "Yes, yes, you’re right," Merilee said. Her mouth moved more than the words required, lips constantly twisting toward a smile, distorting her speech. "What a lovely girl." It wasn’t clear if she meant Claire or Paula. Then her hand slipped away like a scarf and floated to her chest. She lay back and turned her gaze back to the TV, still smiling.
    Paula thought, what the hell’s the matter with her?
    "We’re about to eat," Steph said. "Sit down and join us."
    "No, we’d better get going," Paula said. But there was nothing back at her house. And whatever they