The two stared at her mutely. Maybe they couldn’t hear her over the stereo? Or maybe the drugs they were so obviously on had rendered them incapable of comprehending language. Neither of them looked particularly surprised that a stranger had just burst into the living room. They were numb, completely fucked-up. Lisa glanced at the coffee table and saw tin foil, lighters, a plastic bag containing a white substance, and a half-empty bottle of vodka. Jesus Christ.
Lisa hurried past them to the back bedroom where Ronni always slept. As she moved down the hallway, she heard the muffled screams. It was Ronni crying, crying for help, crying for her mother. . . . Had she cried for Lisa as she crashed through the glass table in Kim Sanders’s basement? Had she screamed for her mom as the glass sliced into her hand, her face, her eye? No one would say; no one was talking. But that night, fourteen years ago, she had cried and Lisa had run to save her.
The air in Ronni’s makeshift bedroom was close and stuffy. The baby’s screams were still muted as Lisa fumbled for the light switch. She flicked it on, bathing the room in the glare of a dusty bare lightbulb. That’s when she saw that a heavy blanket had been thrown over Ronni’s portable playpen. Someone, the blond girl or her skinny boyfriend, had placed it there to stifle the noise. Lisa whipped it off and saw her baby. She was lying on her back, her face red and covered in tears and snot. Her dark curls were pasted to her forehead, and her onesie was damp with a combination of perspiration, tears, and drool. Ronni flinched as the light shone into her face.
“It’s okay, baby.” Lisa dove into the playpen and picked up her daughter. She was instantly assaulted by the smell. Ronni’s diaper was overflowing, shit coating the back of her pajamas up to the collar. “It’s okay . . . ,” she whispered, making shushing noises as she wrapped a blanket around the little girl. Ronni’s tiny chest was still heaving with sobs, but she was starting to settle. She clung to Lisa, burying her moist face in her mother’s neck.
Lisa’s hand was covered in shit, but she didn’t care. It struck her that, pre-Ronni, this scenario would have been unimaginable. She probably would have chopped her hand off if it had this much poop on it. But motherhood had changed her. It had made her tolerate things like poo and barf and snot and sleeplessness. And it had made her fierce, capable of killing to protect her child. With her baby held tightly in her arms, she stormed toward the front door.
The guy and girl were still on the sofa. The girl’s eyes were closed, though she sat upright and didn’t seem to be sleeping. Lisa paused. “You can tell Curtis that he’ll never see his kid again,” she yelled over the music.
The girl’s eyes slowly opened. Both of them looked at Lisa dully. Finally, the girl spoke. “Something stinks.”
Curtis did see Ronni again. Once. He brought the playpen over to Lisa’s and tried to explain. He’d been given tickets to see a band. He thought his friends could look after Ronni for a couple of hours. He thought she’d sleep the whole time. How was he to know she was going to shit herself and scream her head off?
Lisa pushed his chest, shoving him toward the door. “Stay the fuck away from my daughter.”
“Fine by me,” he growled. He stormed out of the apartment, the door slamming in his wake. Not once did Curtis look back at Ronni, sitting in her high chair with a bowl of macaroni, witnessing the whole exchange. Lisa realized then that Curtis really didn’t give a shit, not about Ronni and not about her. Some small kernel of decency had kept him semi-available, had pressed him to accept the occasional babysitting gig, but he didn’t love Ronni, not really. There was no one Lisa could count on. She was all Ronni had in the world. And vice versa.
When Lisa reached her daughter’s hospital room, her friend Yeva was standing in the hall. “I heard about the infection . . .” Yeva rushed toward her and wrapped her in a warm hug. It was a long, lingering embrace, and Lisa knew that Yeva’s eyes were closed, that she was emanating love from her heart and trying to wrap Lisa in it. Yeva was a yoga friend. They hugged friends, acquaintances, and even strangers the way most people hugged only newborn babies or kittens. Full-on. A month ago, Lisa had wanted to be filled with that kind of love, to give hugs like that. It seemed so silly now, all the mindfulness, presence, acceptance. . . . Yoga: the opiate of the West Coast.
Finally, Yeva released her. “How’s Ronni doing?”
“She’s been sedated. I don’t think it’s really sunk in.”
“She’s strong,” Yeva said, squeezing Lisa’s hand. “She’ll overcome this.”
“When you were sixteen, how would you have handled losing your eye?” The question came out more pointed than Lisa had intended.
Yeva said, “Ronni is a kind, beautiful spirit. She can still do anything she puts her mind to.”
Lisa’s voice wavered. “All she ever talked about was becoming a model. So that’s out now.”
“Why?”
Lisa shot her a look. “Have you seen a model with a glass eye?”
Yeva pressed her lips together but didn’t answer. “I brought supplies,” she said, digging in the canvas bag under her arm. She extracted a stainless-steel thermos and passed it to Lisa. “Ginger tea with licorice root. It’s calming.”
Lisa accepted the thermos. “Thanks.” But it was going to take more than herbs to calm her. Her daughter was permanently disfigured; she was disabled. . . . Yeva could sugarcoat it all she wanted, but it didn’t change the facts.
Yeva was still fishing in the bag. “I brought some teas for Ronni, too. Uplifting blends. Calming blends. And I brought her a book of affirmations.” She handed a small hardcover book to Lisa. “If she picks a few that she likes, I’ll print them out and we can post them around her hospital room.”
Lisa looked at her friend: so sweet, so positive, but, ultimately, so ineffectual. “You’re really nice,” she said.
Yeva flushed a little. “I want to be here for you.”
Of course she did. Good deeds caused a serotonin surge, not to mention karma points. “I know you do. But I think that Ronni and I should be alone for a few days. While she processes all this . . .”
“Okay.” Yeva sounded slightly relieved. “Just text me if you need anything else. I could bring you some food. Some green juice? Or hummus wraps?”
“I’m fine, but I’ll let you know.”
As Lisa walked her friend to the elevator, Yeva continued her upbeat monologue. “This doesn’t change who Ronni is. She’s an amazing, beautiful soul, and whatever happens on the outside doesn’t change that. Tell her that this will only make her stronger. She may go on to even greater happiness because she was able to overcome this challenge.”
They stopped at the elevators and Lisa pushed the button. “Don’t worry,” she said, giving Yeva’s arm a reassuring squeeze. “I know how to take care of my daughter.”
hannah
TEN DAYS AFTER
“Oh my god. Did you hear?” It was Lauren, looking airbrushed and photoshopped as she approached Hannah’s locker. She was wearing skinny jeans, a low-cut T-shirt with a chambray shirt unbuttoned over top of it. It was a casual outfit, but on Lauren, it looked so stylish, so pulled together. Hannah, in her tights and hoodie, instantly felt frumpy.
“I can’t believe it,” Hannah responded. “It’s so horrible.”