She tosses the clump of Kleenex in a wastebasket across the room, then pops open the clasp on her pocketbook and pulls forth a pint of gin. She glances at the door, hunches down where she can’t be seen and swallows long and deeply. She screws the top back on, returns the bottle to her purse, leans back in the chair, and closes her eyes. She is waiting—I know—for the click, the magic moment when the drink hits its mark, making the sharp edges of reality cottony and bearable. Together we wait, but the click doesn’t come. She takes out the bottle, finishes it, and returns the empty to her purse.

She weaves her way to the door and puts her hand on the knob. I am hoping she’ll leave forever and spare us both this embarrassment, this awkward and hideous farewell. Instead, she turns and places her feet wide as in a fighter’s stance. Her hands ball into fists, her mouth opens wide. The sound, when it comes, is horrible, guttural, primal. It trumpets beyond the walls of my room like a mother elephant crying out for her devoured calf. Shadows move outside my door—bodies darken the window.

Merilee kicks off her shoes and squats. She wails and moans and wails, her arms wrapped around herself, rocking back and forth, the pocketbook dangling from her wrist.

Emme comes in. Silently, she lowers the shades and places a glass of water on the floor next to my keening mother. When she leaves, my mother curls up in a ball on the floor, puts her pocketbook under her head, and falls asleep.

INT. HOSPITAL ROOM

NIGHT

My mother is gone. Flo B. sits in the chair next to my bed devouring the latest issue of the Enquirer. The cover photo is the one old Flo herself took; blurry and grainy but undeniably me lying there, eyes open mouth slack. JACKIE’S LAST DAYS. The Australian’s photos must have sold to the International Tabloids. That’s where the big bucks lie. LES DERNIER JOURS DE JACKIE! LOS ULTIMOS DIAS DE JACKIE GOLD!

Of course, more reputable news outlets are also raking in the cash. Programs from Nightline to Hard Copy dug up footage of that former star of coma-controversy, Karen Ann Quinlan. Op-Ed pieces in the Times, debate the religious and moral ramifications of my plug-pulling. Will I be taken off life support? Enquiring minds want to know.

Here’s my vote: Pull the plug. Pull the goddamn plug! But they are afraid to seal the deal. “God forbid…” they whisper. “What if? What if…?”

What if I am that one in ten million who manages to pull through? No one wants the responsibility of signing off on me.