More Twisted

small, yes, but the furniture, electronics and appointments were the best—the rewards of Liz’s hard work in recent years. Two feelings vied within the woman: She half-hoped the girl would be tempted to reconnect withher mother when she saw how much money Liz had but, simultaneously, she was ashamed of the opulence; her daughter’s clothes and cheap costume jewelry suggested she was struggling.
    The silence was like fire. It burned Liz’s skin and heart.
    Beth Anne unclenched her left hand and her mother noticed a minuscule engagement ring and a simple gold band. The tears now rolled from her eyes. “You—?”
    The young woman followed her mother’s gaze to the ring. She nodded.
    Liz wondered what sort of man her son-in-law was. Would he be someone soft like Jim, someone who could temper the girl’s wayward personality? Or would he be hard? Like Beth Anne herself?
    “You have children?” Liz asked.
    “That’s not for you to know.”
    “Are you working?”
    “Are you asking if I’ve changed, Mother?”
    Liz didn’t want to hear the answer to this question and continued quickly, pitching her case. “I was thinking,” she said, desperation creeping into her voice, “that maybe I could go up to Seattle. We could see each other . . . we could even work together. We could be partners. Fifty-fifty. We’d have so much fun. I always thought we’d be great together. I always dreamed—”
    “You and me working together, Mother?” She glanced into the sewing room, nodded toward the machine, the racks of dresses. “That’s not my life. It never was. It never could be. After all these years, you really don’t understand that, do you?” The words and their cold tone answeredLiz’s question firmly: No, the girl hadn’t changed one bit.
    Her voice went harsh. “Then why’re you here? What’s your point in coming?”
    “I think you know, don’t you?”
    “No, Beth Anne, I don’t know. Some kind of psycho revenge?”
    “You could say that, I guess.” She looked around the room again. “Let’s go.”
    Liz’s breath was coming fast. “Why? Everything we ever did was for you.”
    “I’d say you did it to me.” A gun appeared in her daughter’s hand and the black muzzle lolled in Liz’s direction. “Outside,” she whispered.
    “My God! No!” She inhaled a gasp as the memory of the shooting in the jewelry store came back to her hard. Her arm tingled and tears streaked down her cheeks.
    She pictured the gun on the dresser.
    Sleep, my child . . .
    “I’m not going anywhere!” Liz said, wiping her eyes.
    “Yes, you are. Outside.”
    “What are you going to do?” she asked desperately.
    “What I should’ve done a long time ago.”
    Liz leaned against a chair for support. Her daughter noticed the woman’s left hand, which had eased to within inches of the telephone.
    “No!” the girl barked. “Get away from it.”
    Liz gave a hopeless glance at the receiver and then did as she was told.
    “Come with me.”
    “Now? In the rain.”
    The girl nodded.
    “Let me get a coat.”
    “There’s one by the door.”
    “It’s not warm enough.”
    The girl hesitated, as if she was going to say that the warmth of her mother’s coat was irrelevant, considering what was about to happen. But then she nodded. “But don’t try to use the phone. I’ll be watching.”
    Stepping into the doorway of the sewing room, Liz picked up the blue jacket she’d just been working on. She slowly put it on, her eyes riveted to the doily and the hump of the pistol beneath it. She glanced back into the living room. Her daughter was staring at a framed snapshot of herself at eleven or twelve standing next to her father and mother.
    Quickly she reached down and picked up the gun. She could turn fast, point it at her daughter. Scream to her to throw away her own gun.
    Mother, I can feel you near me, all through the night . . .
    Father, I know you can hear me, all through the night . . .
    But what if Beth Anne didn’t give up the gun?
    What if she raised it, intending to shoot?
    What would Liz do then?
    To save her own life could she kill her daughter?
    Sleep, my child . . .
    Beth Anne was still turned away, examining the picture. Liz would be able to do it—turn, one fast shot. She felt the pistol, its weight tugging at her throbbing arm.
    But then she sighed.
    The answer was no. A deafening no. She’d never hurt her daughter. Whatever was going to happen next, outside in the rain, she could