"Honey, please. You can't do this."

"Mom, it's already done. I paid the security deposit, the pet deposit (which is out-and-out thievery, considering how run down the damn place is to start with), and the first month's rent. Now, you can be a sweetheart and sign to vouch for me so I can have my utilities cut on, or you can allow your pregnant daughter to go live in an apartment without electricity or water till the next check comes in. You're choice."

"Scribe, you're being unreasonable! You still have your room here with me, or Eva has a spare bedroom. You wouldn't have to worry about rent or utilities or groceries."

"I always chipped in before, but since the Incident, everyone has been treating me like a delicate, half-witted invalid! It's getting on my nerves, Mom! I love you, but I'm about to smother."

"I'm just worried about you. You're pregnant."

"Oh, then you have noticed. As seldom as you mention it, I was beginning to wonder."

"Sweetie, please, I'm trying to adjust. I'm happy about a grandchild, honest I am. I'm just... just a little ambivilant about the... uh..."

"The father. Yes, I know." Scribe finished duct taping a box of books. "I'm going to have to have someone carry most of this stuff for me. The doctor doesn't want me lifting anything over twenty pounds, just to be on the safe side."

Scribe put a hand to the small of her back and leaned into it, grunting. "Jesus. Two more months to go. I'm going to be Shamu by then. It's a good thing I have wide, child-bearing hips, because this little booger is far from little."

Her mother looked so miserable. Scribe went and sat beside her on the couch, taking her hand. "I know you're worried, but you don't have to be. Mom, I should have moved out ages ago, you know that. It was sheer inertia that kept me here. I mean, I'm in the same room I was in when I was in third grade, for crying out loud."

Her mother smiled faintly. "I still remember that Snaggletooth poster you had over your bed."

"So do I. I need a place where I haven't been anything but a grown-up. I'm not really sure you can understand. You went right from home to marrying Dad, and having me."

"I don't like the idea of you being alone."

"Millions of women manage it everyday."

"Well, they haven't gone through what you have."

"That's over, Mom. I'm safe."

"But they're still out there."

Her eyes softened. "Yes." Then she said briskly, "The only one I was worried about is out of the way."

"It was kind of funny, what happened to him."

Scribe's smile was just a touch nasty. "I bet he didn't think so."

"Scribe! That's hardly like you."

"It didn't used to be like me. I've remembered a few things about Mr. James, Mom. He was a thoroughly nasty person who richly deserved what happened to him. The sort of things he did, the only surprise is it took him that long to end up beaten to a pulp, with a bullet between the eyes."

"That's... a little cold, dear."

Scribe's eyes were like rain washed stone. "He almost made me lose my baby. It wouldn't have hurt my feelings if he'd been skinned alive. Think, Mom. What were you wishing on the person who'd snatched me while I was missing?"

Her mother looked down for a moment, then tipped her face up to look at her daughter. "Something along the lines of Indian torture," she admitted.

"Mm. We're more alike than I thought. Mom, have you heard anything else from the FBI, or the police? Any questions, anyone coming around?"

"No, not for almost three weeks. I think... I think maybe someone watches the house sometimes, but it's sporadic. That's part of what worries me. They must be thinking that one of them will come back after you. Them, or one of their women."

"I think the women are out of the country by now, too, Mom. They didn't waste much time, once they got out on bail."

"I would have thought that they'd have been watching those two pretty closely."

"I'm sure they were. You have to understand about the Bellewoods, Mom. They're resourseful people. I'm pretty sure they just sort of slipped into the private Bellewood underground and were moved out to be with the rest of their family."

"You don't sound bothered by that."

"I'm not." Scribe looked at her mother assessingly, then said, "I've remembered a few things I don't feel the authorities need to know, but they might make you a little easier in your mind. I wasn't abused while I was up there, not like they seem to think. I wasn't chained up, and I wasn't really locked up. The area itself was more or less my prison. I knew I couldn't walk out of there, so I didn't try. I didn't say anything about that, because there's some people who believe that if I didn't keep trying to escape, even unto death..." she rolled her eyes. "then I more or less deserved whatever happened."

"Oh, baby, that's just not true."

"I know, Mom. But you know how people's minds work. I was treated decently, well fed." She looked down. The rest was going to be hard, and her mother wasn't going to understand some of it, but she needed to say it. "I was raped, but not by James. He wasn't the father of my baby, so you can wipe that trouble from your mind."

"From what I've heard of him, that's a relief. But if it wasn't him, Scribe, who? Who hurt you?"

I looked into her eyes and said firmly. "No one. No one hurt me. I didn't want it at first, but I fell in love with him." She was shaking her head, eyes closed. "No, Mom, listen to me. I know it's hard to accept. God, it almost drove me crazy. But he loves me, and I fell in love with him."

"This is... is some sort of post traumatic thing, Scribe. It's that... What? Copenhagen thing?"

She sighed. "Isn't it a good thing, loving my baby's father?"

"You don't love him, Scribe."

"How do you know?"

"I just do. It's not possible."

Scribe snapped, "Dammit, don't say that! All my life people have been telling me what is and isn't possible for me. I had a gym teacher in junior high who kept telling me I could jump that hurdle, she knew I could jump that hurdle, I had to try to jump that hurdle. I kept saying I knew I couldn't. She said I had to try, or get an F for the day. I tried. I lost four inches of skin off my shins, and I didn't get over the hurdle. I told her, "I have to live in this body, I know what it's capapble of better than you do." Well, Mom, I have to live with my heart, and I know what it's capable of better than you do."

Scribe hauled herself up off the couch. "There's really no point in this. Flat statement, Mom. I love him. He loves me. We made a baby together. If he ever lets me know where he is, I'm gone."

"Scribe!"

"No, Mom. Just... no. I love you. I'll always love you. But he's my life, him and this baby. Try to understand that. Now..." She picked up the duct tape again. "I want a box for my cat figurines, and my photographs."

Scribe's POV

She didn't like it, but she signed the vouchers so I could have light, heat, and water. I think Mom believed that I'd never leave home, that I'd remain the genteel maiden aunt, fussing over Rachel's children once she started to reproduce. The idea of me having a child of my own is almost beyond her conception (if you'll pardon the pun.)

I've moved into my apartment. The neighborhood is seedy, but respectable. There's never more than one drunken argument in the middle of the street a night, and the gang shootings are blocks and blocks away.

I had to move out. It wasn't so much that she was smothering me, like I'd said (though there WAS that element.) I have to be alone, in case Jerry comes for me.

He wouldn't dare come around my house: my mother would report him in a heartbeat, and he knows it. She would think that she was doing it for me. She wouldn't know that she was ripping my heart out.

I suppose there isn't much chance, but I have to be ready, just in case. I've only unpacked certain things. Others I keep in the boxes, strapped tight, ready to be carried away. My figurine collection, my photos, a few personal momentos, the poetry and manuscripts I've written over the years and never dared show to anyone. I want Jerry to read them someday. Copies of my medical records. A picture of one of my sonograms. (I haven't looked at it. I still don't want to know the baby's sex, but I want to keep it. Jerry will want to see it.)

I live quietly in my new apartment for almost a month. Mom comes by every day, till I tell her firmly that I need more time to myself. I'm on welfare (much to my family's chagrin). It wasn't hard to get approved for disability, with what happened. My Denver psychiatrist's report helped. And there are all sorts of programs for expecting women, so I do okay.

Except that I'm lonely. I miss Jerry so much. And Ron, and Lally, and Justine, and the boys, and baby Janelle...

I'm a little surprised one day by a knock on the door. My heart starts beating faster, because every time... it could be him. But it isn't, of course.

This time there are four rather scruffy looking young people standing on my front steps: three boys and a girl, none of them much over or under twenty. The girl, a slightly plump girl with long, dark Shirley Temple ringlets at odds with her nose ring, says, "Miz Scribe? I know we shoulda called ahead, but I hope you'll take a coupla minutes to talk to us."

I regard them. Well, they don't look like gang or cult members. "I don't know you, dear."

"We're The Romantics? Our lawyer tried to talk to you a month ago 'bout a video we wanted to do?"

I remember something vaguely about that. "To the best of my knowledge, he basically said, 'We're doing it, and since we don't come right out and say it's about you, there's nothing you can do about it, so neh neh neh neh neh neh.'"

She actually blushes. "Yeah, we kinda got the feeling that was his attitude. Well, it ain't ours. There might not be any legal reason you can charge us on, but we got some ethics."

A young man with eyeliner and tiny chains looped through both earlobes says, "We wanna get your blessing on this video before we release it. We're just startin' out, but our agent says we have a real good shot at bein' signed by a big label on this. It turned out good. We'd like your approval. Will you watch it?"

"It's about me, hm? And, I'm assuming, what happened?" They nod. "No harm in watching. Come on in."

I get them inside, get them seated, and bring a round of iced tea. While I'm fixing it, I hear the boy with spiked orange hair whispering to the one dressed head-to-toe in black leather that he knew I was going to be a cool person.

I sit, and the girl slips the tape into my VCR. "It ain't anythin' original. We do our own stuff, but this is a cover of a real, real old song. We kept readin' about you in the papers an' hearing about you on tv, an' this just sorta came to us. I... I hope it ain't, like, terrible wrong, and hurts your feelings, or anything."

She starts the tape. It begins with a fairly credible recreation of the bank robbery. The girl with the nose ring (except she's removed the nose ring for the video) is playing me. They even got a fair approximation of the clothes I was wearing that day. The three boys, dressed like Ron and his crew had been, burst in and begin robbing the place. Then the boy with the chain earrings (only I can't tell that till a little later in the video, because he's wearing a ski mask) spots my character, and the music starts.

I almost laugh. It's a grunge version of 'You Made Me Love You.'

The music is raw and powerful instead of dreamy. The little girl lead vocalist has a style reminiscent of one of our state treasures--Janis Joplin.

"You made me love you I didn't wanna do it, I didn't wanna do it." Okay, no chloroform soaked rag in the van, just some grappling that comes close to necking, at least on the boy's part. Kind of eerie and threatening, with the ski mask still in place.

"You made me want you, and all the time you knew it, I guess you always knew it. You made me happy sometimes. You made me glad. But there were times you made me feel so bad." They kind of gloss over how I get all the hell the way up into the mountains. The next scene is just... we're there.

He finally pulls off the mask, and boy, is he cute. My girl does a visible double take. You can almost see the lightbulb flash over her head with Hey, this might not be so bad written on it.

"You made me cry for I didn't wanna tell you, I didn't wanna tell you. I want some love that's true. Yes, I do, 'deed I do, you know I do." And now I can see where the controversy might come in. The rape scene is pretty graphic for something that might go out on national television, but it's sort of tasteful, too.

"Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, gimmie what I cry for. You know you've got the brand of kisses that I'd die for. You know you made me love you" My God, they almost got the expression on the boy's face right. Jerry looked like that: so intent, so yearning, so determined.

There's a musical bridge with scenes that indicate that the two are growing close. The gentleness when he touches her in the last scenes make my throat constrict with longing.

"You made me cry for, I didn't wanna tell you, I didn't wanna tell you. I want some love that's true. Yes, I do, 'deed I do, you know I do."

The ending is a little different from my story. The authorities burst in on the two, now lovers, and the boy is dragged away while the girl crys.

"Gimmie, gimmie, gimmie, gimmie what I cry for. You know you've got the brand of kisses That I'd die for."

The last scene is her with an amublance man putting a blanket around her shoulders, sorrowfully watching them drive him away, while she rubs the slight bulge of her belly. "You know you made me love you."

The tape goes over to noise, and they all look at me anxiously. At last I say, "Could I ask that you change it, just a little?"

They all nod vigorously. "We have a little cash left in the budget. What do you want?" the boy in leather asks eagerly.

"Can you give it a happy ending?"

They exchange glances. At last the girl says, "You know, we have an alternate ending. When the cops break in, they're gone, and you see them running through the woods together, and the impression you get is that they're gonna escape. They kiss right at the end. That was my personal favorite, but the lawyer said you might sue if we made it look too much like you were, ya know, really into it."

"You're lawyer was wrong. I'd prefer the happy ending."

"You got it."

"Would it help if I signed something saying this was all right? Or that I actually endorsed it?"

"You don't gotta do that. But if we can say so, like in interviews..."

"Sure."

They were relieved. Getting up to go, we shook hands all around. The boys wandered out to the car, but the girl lingered for a moment, shyly. When we were alone, she whispered, pointing at my belly, "Um, is... is that really...?"

I smile. "Yes. Would you like to feel the baby move? He's been active today."

The girl tentatively presses her hand to the swell of my belly. In a moment, I feel the strong, internal push of an elbow or foot, and the girl's face lights up with wonder."Oh, wow. That is so cool!"

I nod and, on impulse, give her a quick hug and whisper, "Honey, don't tell anyone, but that video? It's more accurate than the cops think."