Daddy's story about my mother's life was thorough enough, but it left me with many more questions. I knew Daddy wouldn't answer them. He had said he wanted to let it be. I couldn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned but my eyes wouldn't stay shut. I nodded off periodically and had nightmares about my mother and her escape. In one, we were running through a snow-covered forest hand-in-hand, wearing nothing but long T-shirts. All of a sudden, my mother slipped and fell through some ice.

"MOMMY!" I cried out. I held out my hand for her to grab but she couldn't reach. She drowned and I cried for her, my tears freezing into icicles. Someone with a face I couldn't see because he was wearing a ski mask grabbed me and put handcuffs on my wrists.

"I FOUND X5-452!" he called to the others. Others? I tried to turn around but whoever had me held me tight so I kept looking forward. I was crowded by people I knew from school, poking and prodding me.

"I'M NOT X5-452! LET ME GO!" I screeched. I squirmed and was finally released. I broke the handcuffs off and whipped the mask off my captor. It was Zack.

I woke up with a scream vibrating in my throat. I really couldn't sleep after that. I got up and pulled on some ankle socks. The clock on my dresser read 2:34 AM. Daddy would be asleep no doubt, but to be sure I tiptoed into his room. He was lying on his side, glasses off, snoring softly. I crossed the room to make sure he had set the breaks on his wheelchair—after a long night he sometimes forgot. The double frame that held two pictures of my mother sat on his nightstand. One had her posed with her Ninja motorcycle in that leather jacket and yellow-tinted sunglasses with black frames. The other picture was the one of her sitting on the beach with Zack, his arm around her. I remembered my nightmare and shivered. As I was exiting the room, I saw the pictures of me at ages one, two and three he had on his dresser. Since my hopes of a good night's rest was pretty much demolished, I wandered throughout the penthouse, counting pictures of me versus pictures of my mother. To my disappointment, there were 26 of me and 32 of my mother. I was mildly insulted. I shuffled back into Daddy's room. I was sure he was out for the count. On my way out, I stubbed my toe on a side table in the living room and cried out. I clamped my hands over my mouth and glanced at Daddy's room. Daddy didn't stir.

"Shhh," I whispered to myself. A small spot of blood began to spread on the tip of my sock where my big toe was. That damned marble table! Walking gingerly, I snuck into Daddy's office, where his elaborate collection of computers were set up, including the headset Daddy used to talk to his colleagues without taking a hand off the computer keyboard and a small television. I pulled up a chair and turned on the main computer.

PASSWORD? asked the popup.

Oh, great. I hadn't planned on a password. I tried about a hundred words only Daddy would know: Eyes Only, Guevara, Mandicore…every one gave me an ACCESS DENIED popup.

I blew my bangs out of my face and thought, It must be numerical. I typed in Daddy's birth date, month and year.

ACCESS DENIED.

I typed in mine.

ACCESS DENIED.

I typed in my mother's.

ACCESS DENIED.

I tried Aunt Cindy's and Bling's before I finally figured it out. I uncertainly typed in my mother's Mandicore ID: X5-452.

WELCOME BACK, Logan Cale, greeted the more friendlier popup.

The desktop was filled with at least fifty folders of files and programs—so many, I got dizzy. At a closer look, I saw they weren't even labeled in English, but in what looked like Russian! Daddy really went through a lot of trouble to make sure no one would find what I was looking for.

Don't worry. It's all in a matter of finding the right one, I thought. I randomly clicked on a folder in the center of the desktop labeled Глаза Только. It turned out to be simply old episodes of Eyes Only. I was tempted to watch some, but decided against it. I didn't want Daddy to discover I had broken into his computer. Another one that was labeled Девочка Ребенка tuned out to be pictures of me, mainly baby pictures. Finally, I found the folder I was looking for: pictures from Mandicore. It was labeled Злые Картины. Before Daddy had gone to bed I asked if there were any pictures of my mother in Mandicore. He said there was, but he had destroyed them.

The pictures were stomach-churning. They weren't pretty. At first glance, one couldn't tell if they were male or female—all of them had their heads shaved. The first one was my mother. Her Mandicore picture had "X5-452" and her barcode number typed underneath it. The picture was placed above her picture of what she had looked like as an adult, with "a.k.a. Max" typed underneath that one. In her Mandicore picture, her skin was pale but she still had full lips. Cuts and scrapes marked her face and forehead. I found pictures of the people Daddy had mentioned: Tinga, Jace, Zack, Eva and one named Brin. On Eva and Zack's Mandicore pictures, though, were red lines streaked across it, with DECEASED written in white letters. There was no picture of Eva as an adult, of course.

Just like my mother had, Tinga, Jace and Brin grew up to be beautiful and Zack was very handsome and strong-looking. I wept bitterly and silently when I read about Zack's suicide to save my mother's life. Daddy's story had mentioned it, but to see it written on paper made it seem so final.

I looked around the room, surrounded by the face of a person who was long dead. It infuriated me. I dug my fingernails into my palm until I felt the skin breaking and bleeding. I turned off the computer and went into my room. I knew what I had to do: for Daddy's sake as well as my own. I dug around in my closet until I found a hammer I had hid in there last time I'd thought about destroying everything. The itch had returned to surge through my fingers and body until I couldn't stand it. Still in my robe, nightgown and slippers, I went down to our garage and saw my mother's black Ninja motorcycle leaning there, waiting for her to return. I held the hammer like a bat and I smashed the windshield in one whack. It felt good. So good, I smashed the taillights and the hubcaps (all though since I wasn't that strong, I barely dented them), but it wasn't enough. Still holding onto the hammer, I went over to my father's vigil where he lit candles to commemorate my mother. The candles had long since gone out but I laid the framed photo back and let the hammer come down hard onto the glass. It shattered without much noise, but I carefully closed Daddy's door before I continued, just in case. The next frame I went for was completely glass. It had a small rhinestone emerald implanted into a glass heart at the lower right-hand corner. One whack demolished the entire thing. The picture had my mother posed under a tree, pink with cherry blossoms. It was taken at Daddy's cabin upstate. One by one, I cracked the glass of each picture holding my mother's face, even a wedding portrait of her and Daddy. I had no remorse and felt quite a bit mad—I was enjoying this! It was as if I had been dammed up all this time and was finally letting loose. I missed only once and hit the wall instead, making a small dent. Soon all thirty-two picture frames through which my mother peered at me were either cracked or destroyed. Still holding the hammer in my trembling hands, I surveyed my destruction. I dropped my weapon to the floor, narrowly missing my feet. I scurried to my bathroom and heaved up everything I ate two days ago. After taking a shower, I got dressed and packed a small duffel bag. After doing what I did, I couldn't face Daddy. I slung the bag over my shoulder and made my way out. While I was waiting for the elevator, I grabbed onto the 14K gold chain that held my mother's wedding ring and yanked as hard as I could. The chain snapped and I laid the broken necklace on the table in the foyer. To Max With Love still shined in the dimness.

Once I got outside, I looked around. The air was chilly. Homeless persons huddled around flaming trash cans. Where was I to go now? Bling lived too far. Aunt Cindy would tattle on me to Daddy. The only person who came to mind was Gina Robinson, my best friend. Her parents, Drs. Charles and Lillie Robinson, were at a convention in Portland for a week, leaving Gina home alone. I looked at my watch. It was 4:18 AM. Sighing, I rubbed my hands together for warmth. The temperature must've dropped twenty degrees since my visit to Aunt Cindy's. I was wearing a heavy pink sweater over a white button-down shirt with a 70's collar and sleeves that ended at the folds of my elbows. My jeans were a size too big and heavy. I wore on my feet heavy socks and ankle boots with rubber soles so I could easily make the trek by foot to Gina's. My gloves were thick, but my fingers were still being nipped at by the cold. I took a long look at the building. I knew I would return, but not for awhile. I needed a mental health day…or week…or maybe a month.

Gina lived in a penthouse two streets over from where Daddy and I lived. As an only child she was a self-proclaimed "overly-spoiled little brat" and was a brain, although she wasn't quick with numbers as I was. We had been inseparable since third grade.

The walk took me a good hour and a half. I slipped twice: once on my butt and once flat on my back. It was still dark when I approached Gina's building. I took the elevator to the floor her place was on and knocked on the door. I heard the faint click of her Jack Russell's nails walking across the room and then barking.

"Shh, Norman," I heard Gina groan from inside. "Who's there?" she called out. I inhaled sharply, afraid to say anything. Gina opened the door and loomed over me, wielding a steel bat. I screamed and covered my head. Gina screamed back. Then, she realized who it was.

"Maxine?"