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“It’s gonna be all right,” he told her, and rocked her, not really believing it, but it was the litany, it was the Psalter, the voice of the adult calling down the black well of years into the miserable pit of terrorized childhood; it was what you said when things went wrong; it was the nightlight that could not banish the monster from the closet but perhaps only keep it at bay for a little while; it was the voice without power that must speak nevertheless.
Her father was turning into a fat, apathetic pudding; the psychologists had their own terms for it—“dependency shock,” and “loss of identity,” and “mental fugue,” and “mild reality dysfunction”—but what it all came down to was he had given up and could now be canceled out of the equation.

