Lisa knew, more than most people, that a phone call in the dead of night meant bad news. It had been such a phone call during her first year away at Ithaca College that had announced her parents’ death in a boating accident. At nineteen, Lisa had been ill prepared to handle such a shock and had passed out on the spot. When she came to, she found she was even more ill prepared to be an orphan. Despite her recent collegiate independence, she was emotionally immature and far too naive to handle the not insignificant life-insurance settlement bestowed upon her and her sister. That late-night phone call launched a six-year period of self-destructive behavior: drugs, partying, men. . . . The cycle ended only when she found herself pregnant with Ronni. Oh God . . . Ronni.
She threw the blankets off her and jumped out of bed. Allan barely stirred. He’d worked at the restaurant until 11:30 P.M. and then let himself into her apartment and her bed. When Ronni wasn’t home, she let Allan sleep over. She liked having him there, even liked being woken in the middle of the night by his soft caresses that turned urgent in his need for her. But his presence provided little comfort in her current state of dread.
With her heart hammering in her chest, she stumbled through the darkened apartment to the phone in the kitchen. The clock on the microwave read 1:47 A.M. For a brief moment, she thought about her Buddhism studies: acceptance of what comes, without question or attachment. . . . Buddhism was not a philosophy for mothers. But the call couldn’t be about Ronni. The universe wasn’t that cruel. Lisa liked to subscribe to the theory that everyone was allocated a certain amount of suffering. She’d used hers up when her parents died, when she’d gotten herself pregnant by an alcoholic, when she became estranged from her only sister. Ronni would be fine; she had to be.
Of course, since Ronni was at Kim’s house, this could be behavior-related. Kim was definitely the type to think that a sneaky viewing of an R-rated movie or smoking a cigarette warranted a middle-of-the-night phone call. And Ronni had been rebellious of late, pushing her boundaries, testing her mother. She’d been wearing too much makeup, copping an attitude, texting constantly with Lauren—Lisa let it slide. It was all part of being sixteen, of feeling around outside the nest before making the jump to midair. Lisa and Ronni were so close that the break was extra difficult, requiring drastic measures to push them apart. Kim had probably caught Ronni with a bottle of beer, or maybe even a joint. And because Hannah was perfect, almost robotic, really, Kim was pushing the panic button. By the time Lisa reached the phone, she was calm enough to answer.
“Lisa, it’s Kim.”
“Is everything all right?”
There was a pause, probably less than a second but long enough to make Lisa’s stomach plunge. Kim said, “Ronni’s at CPMC. Pediatric emergency.”
“What? Why?”
“It’s okay. She’s stable.”
Stable? Lisa didn’t like the ephemeral sound of the word. Panic threatened to paralyze her throat, but she choked out the words, “What happened?”
“They were drinking,” Kim continued. “I don’t know how they got the alcohol. Someone must have sneaked it in. Ronni fell.”
“What do you mean, fell?” Lisa’s voice had become loud and shrill. “What happened? What’s wrong with her?”
She could hear Kim crying softly on the other end of the line. “She took some drugs, too. And . . . she fell . . . through the glass coffee table. She cut herself.”
“Oh God.”
“She cut her eye.”
“Oh God!”
“You need to get down here,” Kim sobbed. She seemed to have given up any semblance of calm. “Hurry!”
Lisa hung up and turned to find Allan behind her, naked, bleary, concerned. “What happened?”
Tears streamed down Lisa’s face, but her voice sounded surprisingly normal. “You need to take me to the hospital.”
THE EFFICIENCY WITH which Lisa and Allan were ushered toward the pediatric OR waiting area was concerning, but it was the sight of Hannah, curled up in a chair like an abandoned kitten, that turned Lisa’s guts to liquid. She’d expected Kim’s tearful countenance; she’d heard it in her voice on the phone. But Hannah’s appearance was shocking, terrifying. . . . This was a girl who’d witnessed carnage—a car accident or a murder. Her ghostly pallor highlighted the black streaks of mascara that she’d unsuccessfully wiped at—or more likely, her mom had wiped at—smearing her face with gray soot. She wore a man’s sweatshirt, probably Jeff’s, making her neck and wrists look fragile and birdlike as they emerged from the large garment. Lisa looked at Hannah’s hands; they were a girl’s hands despite Hannah’s height and maturity, and they were stained red. Blood . . . her daughter’s blood.
Kim hurried up to Lisa, wrapping her in her arms. “She’s going to be okay.”
Lisa’s body froze in response to the hug. She didn’t want comforting from the woman who had let this happen to her daughter. “Where’s Ronni? Where’s the doctor?”
Kim instantly dropped her arms. She looked hurt, embarrassed, awkward. Lisa felt a quick flash of pity for her. Kim tried so hard to be the perfect mom, to do and say all the right things. She’d look on this incident as a personal failing. But Lisa pushed her empathy aside. Nothing mattered now but her child.
“I’ll get the doctor.” It was Hannah, suddenly come to life despite her inert appearance. She hurried toward the nurses’ station. They watched her for a second before Kim turned to Lisa.
“I don’t know how this happened. I told them the rules. . . . No drinking, smoking, boys, or drugs. I thought I could trust them.”
Lisa wasn’t in the mood for Kim’s excuses, but Allan said, “They’re teenagers. They can be sneaky.”
Kim continued. “Hannah’s never done anything like this before. I didn’t think she drank. I thought I knew her. I thought . . .” Emotion robbed Kim of her voice, and Lisa felt a minor swell of satisfaction. She wanted Kim to hurt, to feel at least an iota of the fear and dread Lisa was experiencing. But how could she? Hannah was here, tearful, traumatized, but basically fine. Not the perfect angel her mother thought she was, but fine.
Allan put a protective arm around Lisa. “The doctor’s coming,” he said, his lips in her hair.
The doctor, younger than Lisa would have liked but with an authoritative air she appreciated, approached. She had a clipboard and pen held to her chest. “Are you Veronica Monroe’s mother?”
“Yes,” Lisa answered. “Can I see her? How is she?”
“She’s stable.” That word again. “But I’m concerned about her eye. There are several tears in the retina and damage to the optic nerve.”
Lisa tried to form a sentence but found her tongue useless in her mouth. Allan stepped in. “What does that mean?”
“It means she needs surgery if she wants to keep that eye.”