Mommy is on Daddo’s computer. I think she’s looking for other help. Grandma went home when the sun went down. It’s dark out now. But the lights are on in the house. Brian wanted to turn them off, but Mommy and him had an argument about it. Brian k ept saying he had to be allowed to “do his job” or else they would have “an excuse” not to pay him and Mommy said she’d give him all the money in the world if he did his job but she said “no way in hell” about turning off the lights. He’s sle eping at the dining-room table. I know because Daddo and I went to the front door when we heard the dogs growling at something outside. A neighbor couple was walking by and I peeked into the dining room and saw Brian asle ep. Now I’m quiet on the couch because Daddo is asle ep too. Bela, Mommy says. Come sit with me. I do. We’ll wake your daddo when we get tired, she says. She already told me we can’t all be asle ep with this man in our house. She said she was “worried enough already.” It’s not his fault, Mommy says. It’s not your daddo’s fault he’s making poor decisions. We’re tired. We’re scared. Nobody should have to go through something like this. I’m proud of you, Bela. Me? O, man. Yes. Do you have any idea how strong you are? Ninety-nine out of a hundred kids your age would’ve fallen to pieces by now. But you... you’re still with us. You’re ke eping it together as much as we are. And maybe that’s not saying much. I don’t know. Did you find someone else to come help? I ask. She looks at the computer. No. Up the hall, the dogs sit facing the door. Your daddo’s always snored, Mommy says. Even when we first met. The first time I ever sl ept over at his dorm he was so loud and I was like, Nope, I’m not dating a guy this loud when he’s unconscious. I smile. I like when Mommy talks about when she and Daddo first met. I tried to stop him, Mommy says. I plugged his nose. But he just woke up and looked at me like I was crazy. I tried putting a pillow like a wall between us. I even tried putting the pillow over my ears. But... there was no es caping it. I look at the computer and see the word: EXORCISM Back in college, Mommy says, there were a lot of kids interested in ghosts and stuff. It’s the kind of thing you get into in college for whatever dumb reason. There was one night your daddo and I went to a lecture at Madison Hall. It was a guy who claimed to be an expert. He talked about a lot of stuff and your daddo liked him, but I walked out
of there rolling my eyes. I somehow feel vindicated about that right now. Not sure why. Daddo snores. Before you were born, Mommy says, we went camping. And he was so loud I heard people in another tent asking each other if there was an animal outside. I laugh. They were like “Go check!” Mommy says. They unzipped the tent and actually checked. I remember feeling so secure. Because this loud man was mine now. That’s hard to explain, maybe. But I was glad for it then. On the screen, beneath that other word: DEMON He’s always been like this, your daddo. He’s always been optimistic. Something happens, he says okay we’ll fix it. Something really bad happens he says okay we’ll get through it. It started to drive me crazy. The way he’d just pop back up after we’d get knocked down. It happened all the time. From things as big as worrying about a house payment to things as small as someone stealing your parking space. Russ would say, “It’ll be a nice walk if we park farther away.” But thing is... and this is something he’s never gotten to understand... thing is, sometimes it’s nice to just vent. Sometimes when you complain, it’s not because you want to be told how to fix it. You just wanna say it sucks. Because sometimes it just sucks. Mommy is talking to me, yes, but it feels like she’s also talking to herself. She looks up the hall to the dogs. Then down to Daddo. Daddo has a full beard now. I think maybe it’s our biggest difference, Mommy says. That thing. Some people find strength in complaining. And I don’t mean doing it all day. But you ever notice how most old people are also real nit-picky? Your grandma’s not that old. I mean really old people. The ones who make it to a hundred and sit on their porches and point out all that’s wrong with the world. A lot of them got that far on spite. Your daddo... he has none. I think of Kelvin, of Other Mommy, saying she could fix them. No edge, Mommy says. And sometimes we wanna cut ourselves on our partners. Sometimes we wanna feel that sting together. That’s hard to explain. But there’s a lot of people in this world who make their way to the underbelly of society not because they’re failures but because there’s some truth to be found down there. I’m not saying only darkness is truth. And I’m not saying all truth is darkness. But your daddo... he doesn’t have a single light turned off in his body. There isn’t one shadowy hallway inside him. Not one corner for something to hide. No closets. She clicks out of one screen and goes to another and it’s a picture of a bunch of people standing in a foggy basement, looking at the camera. Mommy goes to a different site. But I have closets, she says. I do. I love your daddo more than you’ll ever know, but sometimes I wonder if you’re supposed to marry someone with a similar floor plan. She’s talking the way she does when she thinks I’m asle ep. But I’m sitting right next to her. I think we’re all changed by Other Mommy. Maybe I’m not saying it right, Mommy says. Then again, what are you going to remember about this in a year, in five, in thirty?
She takes my hand. Your daddo is a great man. I love Daddo. I know you do. On the computer screen is a list of names. I don’t understand them. They’re written how words were written thousands of years ago I think. Bela, Mommy says, why are the dogs looking in the dining room? I look up the hall. Both dogs are looking into the dining room. Mommy stands up. I follow her out of the living room and into the hall. She walks quiet on purpose. Brian? she says, quiet. But when we get to the dining-room entrance, we see he’s standing up by his chair, looking somewhere we can’t yet see. He puts a finger to his lips and says, Shhhh. He points to where we can’t see. Mommy st eps into the room, looks where he’s looking. O God, she says. Bela, don’t— But I’m already in the room too. I see her too. Other Mommy is on her knees in the dining room. Brian st eps toward her. Nobody move, he says. Other Mommy just stares at him. Her eyes are at the top of her head. I think of the list of names on Daddo’s computer. Russ, Mommy says. But not loud enough for Daddo to wake up in the other room. Nobody talk, Brian says. He gets closer to Other Mommy. I can hear her breathing. I see her knees don’t touch the ground. Ursula, Daddo says. He did hear her. He’s with us now. In the dining room. O my God, Brian whispers. O my God. Other Mommy’s mouth starts to droop toward the floor. Brian is too close. Get away from her! I say.
What are you doing? Daddo yells at him. But Brian doesn’t seem to hear him. He reaches out with a hand. He wants to touch her. Other Mommy’s mouth stretches all the way down to the carpet. Bela, Mommy says. Get back. Get back right— Other Mommy yells. And her voice is loud as an earthquake. And wind fills the dining room. And I’m thrown back to the carpet and Mommy’s hair is wild and Brian floats in the wind from Other Mommy. The wind doesn’t stop. The dogs are barking, the dogs are so loud. Bela! Daddo yells. He reaches for me, but the wind shoves him back. Other Mommy’s mouth is so big. Big as the doorway. She ke eps yelling. It doesn’t sound like a voice anymore. It sounds like it’s every sound at once, like her yell has always been in this house. Bela! Daddo is still reaching for me. But I’m flattened to the carpet just like Mommy is flattened to the wall behind me. Brian reaches forward, still trying to touch Other Mommy. He’s smiling. He looks so happy. He reaches. His fingertip touches her face. Take my hand! Daddo yells to him. He wants to pull Brian out of the dining room. Mommy is yelling at Daddo to stay away from Other Mommy. Take my hand! Daddo yells again. But Brian doesn’t take it. And Daddo reaches farther... Farther... Farther... Daddo! I yell. Other Mommy’s mouth gets even wider, wider... Bela, look out! Mommy yells. But then Brian flies forward against the wall and falls to the floor. I can sit up. I sit up. The wind’s stopped. Other Mommy’s voice is gone. And so is Other Mommy.
O my God, Bela, Mommy says. She comes to me. She helps me up. She pulls me out of the dining room. The dogs are at the foot of the stairs, looking up. Are you okay? Daddo asks Brian. But Brian is already gathering his stuff from the dining-room table. We warned you, Daddo says. Wait, what are you doing? Come on, you can’t leave. Brian is moving fast. He seems so happy. I’ve seen one, he says. Yeah, Daddo says. We told you— Where are you going? Mommy asks Brian. I’ve seen one, Brian says again. He’s heading for the front door now. Hey, Daddo says. Whoa. You said you had a plan. I’ve seen one! Brian says again. At the door he turns to look at Daddo and he says, It’s all I’ve ever wanted. To see one. You son of a bitch, Mommy says. Brian opens the door and hurries outside and Mommy chases after him. Then me and Daddo do too. Brian is walking fast to his car. You motherfucker! Mommy yells. Brian is still smiling. You don’t get it, he says as he puts his stuff in his car. This is so much bigger than you. I saw it, with my own eyes. Not on video. I touched it! What’s going on? Daddo says. You can’t be serious. He used us, Mommy says. Then, to him: You used us, you piece of shit. Is that really what happened? Daddo asks Brian. You’re really leaving us? But Brian isn’t waiting. He opens the driver’s door. Hey, he says. I don’t really give a shit what you think. I’ve been doing this for a long time, and tonight... I saw one. Daddo swings a fist at him but misses and Brian swings back and hits Daddo in the face. Mommy runs at Brian but he ducks into his car. He slams his door closed. Mommy kicks the door and he starts the car and Mommy kicks the door again and Brian drives away and he’s smiling as he leaves us. Daddo is holding his face, lying in the street. Mommy is yelling at Brian’s car as it leaves.
FUCK YOU! Her hands are fists. YOU FUCKING FUCK! Lights go on in some homes. Some neighbors are looking out their windows. Brian is gone. Why did he leave? I ask. But Mommy goes to Daddo and touches his face and Daddo winces. We have to do it ourselves, Daddo says. I know, Mommy says. We have to get rid of it ourselves, Daddo says. I know, Mommy says. They’re both shaking. Daddo gets up and then sits down on the curb and Mommy bends enough to check how bad his face is hurt. Why didn’t he help us? I ask. He was never going to help us, Mommy says. She’s so mad. So mad. I look back to the house. I think of Other Mommy’s mouth stretching to the carpet. I think of the cold wind. How? I ask. How are we gonna do it ourselves? I’m crying now. It doesn’t matter, Daddo says. That’s all there is to it. We have to. A neighbor comes out of his house and crosses the street to us. Are you all okay? he asks. No, Mommy says. Do you want me to call the police? No, Daddo says. No police. We have to do it ourselves. The dogs are at the front door. They’re looking out at us. Are you sure? the neighbor says. Yes, Mommy and Daddo say at the same time. Then they bring their foreheads together so that they’re touching and their eyes are close together and they nod together, like that, like they’re one person out here on the curb, one person making one big decision. And blood drips from Daddo’s nose.
And tears roll down Mommy’s face. But they look like they believe they’re making the right decision. And the neighbor slowly walks away. And Mommy and Daddo nod like that, like they’re talking without talking, through their touching foreheads, making a big decision, unaware the neighbor is leaving, maybe not really aware he was ever there at all.