Sissy Spacek Chemo Patient (pt 1).

Her cousin yells for her to come on in so Jackie does, and finds Monica in the suite’s half bath taking a Poloroid of her snatch. Money, Jackie says, setting her purse down on the unmade bed she assumes is her cousin’s, the other one across the room made as tightly as a drum. What in the fuck are you doing.

This guy pays me for them, Money says, lowering her leg from the edge of the sink and shaking the picture that falls out of the machine. I mail them to him. He says I’ve got a real pretty pussy.

Jackie takes the picture from her and looks. It does have a certain quality, she agrees.

Jealous, Money says, pinching Jackie’s elbow. You wish you had one at all.

I will someday, Jackie says, finding a chair. It will be hand crafted by a blonde, talented surgeon so in love with his work that he marries me and we move to Paris.

The room is bare of anything besides the beds; there is wire on the windows. Jackie is signed in for twenty minutes maximum, and was reminded that this is strictly enforced. Money flops down on her bed. Her black hair has the haphazard chop of a person who cuts it herself. She pulls at threads, opening her mouth several times to speak and then closing it with a snap.

You got twelve minutes to tell why you had me haul my ass all the way to County Health and Welfare, Jackie says. And cousin, that bus was disgusting.

I’m getting out in a couple days, Money says; she swallows. I been doing really great, no mess ups or anything. When I’m out I need you to do something for me. Something big, something really, really big.

Jackie taps her nails together, looking at the construction paper pumpkins taped up all over the headboard: three dozen faces grinning at her. I’m here because I love you, she says. You look good, girl, you look like you finally got it licked this time. But you fucking bitch, I am having less than absolutely nothing to do with you and yours.

It’s my mom you hate, Money reminds her. I didn’t do anything to you, I was just a kid. And they were making me be in those movies too, you know that. At least you guys left, I was there for another three years.

And how is mom? Jackie sneers, leaning forward. How is old Aunt Faye? She still making her mark on the world? Still selling those tapes to truckers and music teachers?

She’s out in the parking lot, Money says. She’s going to talk to you if you let her.

Jackie’s bravado is replaced by pure shock; she sinks back, her hands curling into fists.

Please talk to her. Money puts her hands on Jackie’s knees. You do this for me, I’ll do something for you.

Jackie slaps her hands away. What the fuck are you going to do for me.

Get you Shawn’s ashes, Money says.

Her cousin pales; she raises an eyebrow. That’s right, she says, nodding. Mom’ll give them to you, swear to god.

Jackie is petrified, not moving until the door opens and an orderly tells them firmly that their time is up. I hate you, Jackie says as Money hugs her. I hate you to death.

I hate you too, her cousin says, but it don’t matter. Promise me you’ll talk to her.

Jackie does because Money once gave her clothes and taught her how to walk, leaving before she beats the hell out of her. She keeps pace with the addicts down the hallway until she is let out through caged doors into a yard of autumn trees, and the sight of her aunt sitting in a two-tone El Camino across the street. Faye notices Jackie and rolls her window down, waving her over. Jackie counts to ten, and then comes.