Femlandia by Christina Dalcher

Author:Christina Dalcher [Dalcher, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2021-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

Thirty-Six

I told you I don’t want to talk about it,” Emma says, pulling away. She’s perched on the edge of my bed, arms tightly crossed over her breasts, her blond hair braided into twin ropes that fishtail down her back. Emma has never worn braids. Not that I can remember.

There are other things off about her. Instead of denim shorts and a faded T-shirt, she’s wearing a kaftan. I take a second look through eyes that need several more hours of sleep. Yes, my daughter is draped in a fucking kaftan. It gives her an aloof, regal look, the kind that says Don’t touch me, and I’ll speak to you when I goddamned feel like it. Worse, the garment is about a foot too long for her, so it isn’t Nell’s. And the embroidery on the sleeves looks suspiciously similar to the handiwork I saw on Jen yesterday.

“Where’d you get that?” I say, fingering one of the intricate floral designs on her left arm.

Emma retracts her hand. “Mother Jen let me borrow it. She said I could keep it if I want to.”

I’ve only just realized my daughter is speaking again.

“Mother Jen? I thought she was Sister Jen,” I say. “And welcome back to the world of spoken English, by the way.”

“Oh, that. Mother Jen says I have to communicate if I’m going to fit in here. And all the girls call her Mother Jen.”

“Leila didn’t.”

“Leila’s not me.” She does a lazy, one-shoulder shrug, which I ignore.

“What else does Jen say?” The false smile on my face is so frozen, it may crack at any moment, falling off me in shards, revealing the grimace underneath.

“Mother Jen says it’s important to talk about my feelings.”

“That’s terrific, sweetie,” I say, the smile almost hurting now. “Why don’t we start with how it feels to be pregnant? Then we can talk about how it feels to lie to your mother—your real mother. And if all that goes well, we can talk about how you feel you might have gotten pregnant and what you feel you’re going to do about being sixteen years old and expecting a baby.”

“I don’t have to talk to you if I don’t want to.”

Suddenly, I’m speaking to a stranger. This woman-child sitting next to me isn’t my daughter. My daughter has been abducted by aliens. Or infested by parasitic body snatchers. Or kidnapped by a secret federal agency for experimentation. Or brainwashed by the ghost of Charles Manson. What the actual shit?

I sit up now, wincing as the wound on my leg rubs the wrong way on the bedclothes, then fall back and wince all over again when my head makes contact with the wood behind me. I feel a scream work its way up inside me, and I stifle it. Screaming would only show how weak I am.

“Okay. Let’s start over again,” I say. This time, I’m more careful about sitting up. “I get that you didn’t want to tell me. And I guess I even get that it’s easier to talk to a stranger.

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