At the last of his relentless rolls, Arianne finally spoke up. “Too full to fall asleep? Get up and move around, then.”
For some reasons, he felt fretful. He tried to pull her into him as an antidote. “Could say the same about you. You know what’s on my mind, don’t you? I’ll be honest with you—if you ever want to see your mother, you can. Always, anytime you want. You needn’t affect nonchalance after you see her every time; I know you wanted to see her a great deal.”
Hearing him mention Helen lit up her fuse, causing her to shove him away from her in frustration. “Don’t mention her! She doesn’t even wanna lay her eyes on me, so why the heck should I plead with her to look at me like some sad, pathetic thing, huh? I’m not without my dignity and pride, you know; there’s no way I would still come with puppy-dog-eyes begging for her to take me in after she abandoned me over and over again! No!”
Her outburst stole Mark’s response away, leaving him speechless. Combined with the fact that his mind was also split on some other “matter”, he found himself hard-pressed on how to organize his riposte. In the end, he chose to give up talking entirely.
Arianne stomped her foot on his thigh. “Speak, mister! Why aren’t you talking?”
He quickly seized onto her delicate foot and sighed. “What am I supposed to say? I don’t even know what to make of this thing between the two of you. Every time we raise this topic, you turn into a woman-shaped nuke, and I don’t enjoy masochism. You want me to shut up about her, don’t you?”
It was Arianne’s turn to be tongue-tied. She might shout about wanting the world to shut up about Helen, yet another deeper, subconscious part of her yearned for her—every news, every information, everything about a mother who never was. Their blood tie had become an invisible, unbreakable thread; it bound her, tortured her.
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