"I am sorry. You are who?" Frankie stared at the woman in mistrust.
The woman, playing with the hem of her shirt, ran the hem through her pinched fingers, stuttering, "I am your mother."
The woman's skin was covered in clammy perspiration, her skin had a yellowy-grey tone. The scabs on her arms, the bruises covering the top of her arm, indicated the obvious. She was an addict. The upset and confusion Frankie had been feeling was quickly replaced with concern and pity.
"You are confused, Renee, was it? Why don't you let me get you some help? We can get you into rehab." Frankie closed the space between them, placing a hand reassuringly on her arm.
"No, n- I am your mother. You are Francine, my Francine." She sounded crazy, freaking out as she insisted she was her mother.
"I underst
