The aftermath has nothing to do with math or quantum cooking. It has to do with the absence of Amanda B., the woman who left mom and me for another life on this planet. The aftermath is what happens after a brown pelican dives into a sea of petroleum, the Gulf of Disaster. It’s a disaster and mom is a disaster and she doesn’t remember how to cook or clean or eat. She eats toast without the bread. She uses butter instead of sugar. She drives on the right side of the road. Drinks beer before 9AM. She calls our dog Bobo the Mutt Mr. Kitty Cat. She calls people by the same name, Amanda B., Amanda B. Mom thinks she is a fireman. Runs into every building screaming, Fire! Fire! Man, even the children mom rescues from non-burning buildings know to let her roll with it. Those babes don’t say a word. They just listen to mom’s gushing. Not even the therapist or the psychics can fix her or know where ‘she’ is at. I want to move out. I want to get a room at a hostel or hotel. I want to swim away from this disaster in my mermaid suit and find what mom has lost, or let go, to the sea.