Paula took days to confirm Liv’s surgical appointment with Dr. Juan Cassio in Bolivia. She was, after all, torn between two major stories now, and she had me to thank for both. The rising number of parents sending their teens to foreign countries for plastic surgery constituted a bona fide trend. And balancing the sensitivities of my personal revelation—girl saw body in pit, remembered later—required a deft hand, and could not be hurried.
Stuck in my hospital bed, with Liv screening my calls and her “surgical holiday” only a day away, I had to spin Alice into action, even if it was Thanksgiving. Alice’s official mission was to inform Liv of my car accident, although I doubted Deborah would relay the message. I hoped if Alice made my wreck sound bad enough, Liv might stick around, or at least stop by the hospital on her way to Logan Airport.
Alice thought it odd to find Deborah, rather than packing or fixing Thanksgiving dinner, on the front lawn talking shades of yellow with the owners of Park Pro Painting.
“These people,” Deborah had stage-whispered behind her hand to Alice, “don’t mind working on holidays.”
The next morning, in the wee hours, Alice drove by the Lapins’ house again as instructed, and was surprised to see Deborah’s car in the driveway and the houselights blazing well past their six a.m. scheduled flight departure. It seemed Deborah and Liv hadn’t left for their trip after all. Alice’s news of my hospitalization had worked, I declared, stripping off my johnny, ready to be discharged. Alice’s conclusion was more mercenary. Deborah had decided that the money for the trip would be better used to finally paint the house, Alice presumed. Either scenario sounded good to me; all that mattered was that Liv’s trip wasn’t happening. And choosing the perfect historical yellow could be all-consuming.
Call it foolish optimism: I even bet Alice that Deborah would leave Liv alone.
Liv wasn’t making any bets. She chose Thanksgiving night to give Shane his early Christmas present. The rest is history.
“He’s lucky,” Paula said gravely on the phone. “Assault with a deadly weapon can carry a sentence of up to ten years. He was a minor. It happened the day before he turned eighteen. It’s an injustice: he just gets charged with a misdemeanor, has a strike on his record, and only has to go to juvie for six months. The system must be reformed.”
“It’s a clean slash right over the cheekbone, long but not deep, so it wasn’t much more painful than a paper cut,” Erik said. His friend was the plastic surgeon who had been consulted, and sharing information with me was okay, because processing is healthy. “Still, it’s impossible to repair without stitches. There wasn’t much anyone could do, no matter how skilled. Eventually it will scar. It won’t be pretty.”
Mom said, “Along the way, someone failed her. Someone allowed her to mix with the wrong crowd.”
Ricker said, “It is unfortunate to the extent that it hinders your progress.” Okay, she didn’t say that. But she was thinking it.
Only Alice said, “Go to her. Immediately.”
Now I charge past the metal trash can on the curb and up the walk, fly up the stairs, and hammer on Liv’s front door. Stacked on the welcome mat are two foil-covered turkey dinners, a fruit-stuffed cornucopia with a tag that says Saint Theresa’s Parish, and a cellophane cone of autumn-hued carnations. I lift the flowers and peer at the tag: Wishing you a speedy recovery. Fondly, Ryan Lombardi. Water saturates everything, tiny beads across the foil and the cellophane. It’s classic Deborah, leaving this gaudy, soggy display to show the world that so many people care about the Lapins.
I bang harder. The handle is altogether missing now, but no matter, because the door eases open. Liv wears a ladylike kelly-green peacoat, tights, and gloves, like an old-fashioned traveler ready to board a steam train. Her hair is drawn back into a neat bun. A rectangular plastic bandage stretches across her cheek from under her left eye, nose to ear. “Come in,” she says, like it’s a regular day, her voice and movements light. I step in, wiping tears of panic away with the heel of my palm. On the round table in the middle of the foyer is a hand-drawn card for LIVVY propped against a bouquet of supermarket flowers: pink carnations losing petals and browned baby’s breath. Three pearlized suitcases of different sizes are lined up next to the door.
“It’s the holiday season. A time for gratitude,” Liv says.
“Oh, Liv.” I start to bawl.
Liv throws up her palm. “Stop! You’re not allowed to sob. Turn right around and leave if you’re going to do that.”
I swipe at hot tears with my fingertips. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”
“You must have heard by now. I tried to break up with Shane, and he got mad and just started slashing all over the place. Everyone knows he carries a knife.”
A gift that goes beyond the recipient, tied with a fat bow. Liv and I both bound our presents with ribbons. Shane got his, but I chickened out and left Liv’s stocking alone. If I had let Liv know that I was onto her madness, that I knew, maybe somehow her face would be whole.