20 Chapter 20: Flawed Copies, Part 3

"Oh, never mind," the driver said. "Forget it, just sit down." She pressed a button, and Elisabeth's change slid out of a slot on the side. The fellow MacHale scooped it up, and handed it to her. "Don't let me catch you on my bus again without a card, you hear me?"

"Yes ma'am," Elisabeth mumbled through her wallet. The imitation leather tasted bitter on her tongue. She folded it up, slid it into her right back pocket, and plopped down on the nearest seat.

Her cousin's features softened. Most MacHales held cushy, white-collar jobs. For one to be a bus driver - or a carpenter, for that matter - had to mean some sort of fall from grace. "You hurt, or something?" she asked. "Do you need to go to a hospital?"

Elisabeth looked at her left hand. It had blossomed to a dark shade of purple. She caressed it with the tips of her fingers. Forks of pain shot up her arm. "Uptown," she said.

The bus let her off at Saint Moira's Academy. It was a big change from P.S. 193, Elisabeth thought with a slight pang, another thing for Anne that she could never afford. It was three twenty-five. She watched from across the street as the students exited. Two security guards stood at the gate. Were they waiting for her? Surely Fran had made it clear, with however much money it took, that Elisabeth was not allowed on school grounds.

She saw her daughter.

Anne slung her backpack over her mint-green uniform, her trademarked MacHale sapphire eyes skulking. She slouched as she walked alone, the other girls clinging together in the tight cliques of their own brands.

Elisabeth pulled the hood of her sweat jacket tight over her fiery hair. She tried to look inconspicuous as she walked to the nearest pay phone. She slipped in two coins, and stabbed at the buttons. Across the street, Anne stopped, reached in her pocket, and took out her phone. "Please," Elisabeth whispered, "please." Anne held it to her ear, and Elisabeth heard a click.

"Mom?" asked Anne.

"How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would it be, calling from a pay phone?" Anne looked in her direction. "Oh God, Mom, you're so stupid. You're calling from across the street."

Elisabeth smiled, in spite of it all. The expression fell from her face as the wail of sirens approached. "Uh-oh," she said.

"Uh-oh?" Anne asked. "What did you do this time?"

"Get out of there," said Elisabeth. "Meet me at the C train on Ninety-Sixth Street, downtown platform. Hurry."

"Mom, I'm not supposed to - "

"Just hurry," Elisabeth said, cutting her daughter off. She hung up and trudged down the street, away from the sirens.

She stopped at an ATM. She had just over two hundred dollars left in her checking account. She withdrew it all, and stuffed the bills into her wallet. Her hand burned and throbbed. She was sure at least one bone was broken, but there was no way she could go to a hospital. She reached the subway station, bought a one trip card, and raced to the downtown platform.

Elisabeth spun, her mind racing. Where was Anne? Did the police get to her, or did she just decide not to come? What sort of poison had her grandmother been filling her mind with? She walked the length of the platform, searching the crowd of Aldreds, Smiths, and Nicholsons. Her stomach churned. She wanted to lean over the edge and be sick.

She wanted someone to take her home.

"Mom?"

Elisabeth faced her daughter. "Anne," she said. She stared at her, at her red hair, blue eyes, and pale skin with freckles in the exact same places as her own. Two holes dotted her right nostril and eyebrow. "Grandma made you take them out, I see."

"Yeah," Anne said, staring at her. "Mom, what happened to your hand?"

"I always told you," Elisabeth said. "I always said you're too beautiful to have your face pierced up like that."

"Yeah," said Anne, "but at least you understood that it's my face."

The C train coasted into the station on its magnetic cushion, its engines humming in harmony. Elisabeth looked over her shoulder. "Come for a ride with me," she said. Anne took a step back, her patent leather shoes skidding on the platform. "You don't have to get off with me, but please, I need to talk to you, and it's the only safe place we can do it."

"Stand clear of the closing doors, please," the nasal recording said over the decrepit loudspeaker.

Anne met her mother's gaze, and then stepped inside. Elisabeth hurried after her, pulling her shattered hand in between the closing doors at the last second. She cradled it against her chest, and sat down.

"What did you do to your hand?" Anne asked. "That comes first."

"I broke it," Elisabeth said, "on Grandma's face."

"Wow," said Anne. She swallowed. "That would explain the police."

"Did they see you?" Elisabeth asked.

"No, I slipped off campus just as they pulled in." She sat lengthwise on the bench, pulling her knees up to her chin. "Why did you hit her?"

"I don't know," Elisabeth said. "I can't control myself anymore."

"You just... hit her."

Elisabeth bit her lip. "She said that I was responsible for Aunt Chloe killing herself," she said.

Anne stared at the ruddy lump of her mother's fist. "Was that the same thing your boss said?" she asked.

Elisabeth nodded. "Oh Anne, I know this has been so hard for you."

"No, you don't." Anne raised her head to reveal black rivers of mascara running down her cheeks. Elisabeth reached out to wipe them, but her daughter turned away. She pulled her hand back.

"Do you have any idea what it's like?" Anne asked. "Aunt Chloe kills herself, you're off in jail and then in the nuthouse, and now I have to live with Grandma. I hate her." Her voice broke over the last few words.

Elisabeth swallowed. "I'm sorry," she said.

"I don't blame Aunt Chloe," Anne said. "If I was programmed by someone like Grandma, always telling me I disappointed her and was letting the brand name down, I'd kill myself too."