“Ronni?” Lisa called, louder this time as she moved back to the kitchen. She scanned cluttered counters and the fridge magnets for a note but found none. A glance at the door confirmed the presence of Ronni’s shoes. She was here; she had to be. Her heart hammering in her ears now, she ran back to the bathroom and tried the door. It was locked.
Panic took over. “Ronni! Ronni!” she screamed, rattling the door handle. “Answer me, goddammit!” She threw her slight body at the flimsy door. It gave a little under her weight, but she wouldn’t be able to knock it off its hinges. She beat it, pounded it, kicked it, screaming until her throat hurt. “Ronni! Please! Answer me!”
A bobby pin. When she was a kid, she would pick the lock on her sister’s door with a bobby pin. She sprinted into her daughter’s room and combed through the clutter on her dresser: hair bands, nail polish, earrings, and there, next to a sticky bottle of some kind of hair product, were four bobby pins. She ran back and inserted one into the lock. She jiggled, felt the cheap locking mechanism release.
There was a moment before she opened the door, when she pleaded with God, the universe, the higher power, whatever . . . Don’t let this be. But she already knew. As she opened the door and felt it stop, a weight blocking its path, she knew. She slipped through the gap in the door and saw her. Ronni lay crumpled on the linoleum, in her pink robe, inert, pale, so pale. . . . Lisa dropped to her knees and grabbed for her baby, pulling the limp form into her arms, pressing it to her chest. There was blood on Ronni’s mouth and her chin, splattered onto the fleece of her robe. “What did you do?” Lisa screamed at her lifeless form. “What did you do?” Then a bubble of blood appeared on her daughter’s lips, then another. Breath. Ronni was alive. She set her daughter down and ran to the phone.
kim
SEVENTY DAYS AFTER
When Candace Sugarman arrived at Kim’s door on a Saturday morning, Kim knew it must be serious. Now that Jeff’s LSD use was admissible, their odds of winning had obviously changed. Kim had made Jeff call Candace immediately, made him admit that his so-called friend had ratted him out to his yoga-loving wife who, in turn, had snitched to Lisa Monroe. And that wasn’t to mention the current state of her husband’s face. What judge or jury was going to side with a man with two black eyes and a swollen nose? Candace must be here to tell them they were going to lose the case now. They should pay up before their dirty laundry was aired in open court.
“Would you like coffee?” Kim asked, leading the attorney into the quiet kitchen area. Hannah was studying in her room (Kim had just been about to sneak upstairs to ensure she wasn’t watching Netflix on the laptop she deemed necessary to view Khan Academy); Aidan was at soccer practice; and Jeff was on a forty-kilometer bike ride in preparation for the August triathlon (despite everything going on in their lives, her husband remained dedicated to his training regimen).
“I’m fine,” Candace said, climbing onto a breakfast barstool. For the first time, Kim noticed the lawyer’s wan countenance and shaky demeanor. Candace was one of those plain, almost masculine women who exuded competence, confidence, and composure . . . but not right now. Right now, she looked like she might cry.
“What’s wrong?” Kim asked, her voice tight.
Candace’s unadorned eyes were liquid. “Maybe you should sit down, Kim.”
Blood pounded in Kim’s ears. “Just tell me.”
“Ronni Monroe attempted suicide yesterday.”
Kim sagged against the counter. “Jesus Christ . . .”
“She . . . drank drain cleaner,” Candace said, her voice hoarse.
“No.”
“Her mother found her in the bathroom. They rushed her to the hospital. She’s alive but it’s touch and go. Her esophagus is badly burned.”
Spots were swimming in front of Kim’s eyes. Her forehead was sweaty and her knees wobbled. She was going to faint. Candace, competent as always, was right: Kim should have sat down. The lawyer sensed Kim’s imminent collapse and moved toward her. “Come sit . . .” Candace helped Kim to the barstool she’d just vacated.
But even seated, Kim couldn’t think, couldn’t form words, couldn’t accept this. It was like some sick, dark horror movie, a nightmare. . . . Kim didn’t live in a world where a teenager lost her eye and then was bullied so mercilessly that she drank poison. This was not the life she had meticulously built for herself and her family. This was some kind of cruel, fucked-up alternate universe. She became aware of Candace’s hand patting hers, trying, in her mechanical way, to provide comfort to her client. Kim appreciated it, no matter how ineffective.
Finally, Kim found her voice. “What does this mean?” The words came out without any forethought, spilling from her mouth like a reflex, a phonic tic. She wasn’t even sure what she was asking, but this vague, ambiguous question seemed the only logical utterance.
Not surprisingly, Candace responded in legal terms. “It changes things, Kim, I’m not going to lie to you. It will demonstrate the defense’s case of extreme emotional distress. A jury’s going to want you to compensate for Ronni’s pain and suffering.”
Kim nodded. For the first time, she realized she was crying, tears pouring silently down her cheeks.
“On the other hand,” Candace continued, “Lisa may be more likely to settle now. I can’t imagine she’ll want to subject Ronni to any more trauma . . . Or herself, if Ronni doesn’t . . . pull through.”
The voice, little more than a tremulous whisper, came from the hallway. “What?”
“Hannah . . .” Kim managed to stand, though her legs were still weak. “Come here, sweetheart.”
Kim held her arms out to her daughter, but the girl didn’t budge. “What’s going on?” Hannah was directing the question to Candace, but the attorney looked, with panicked eyes, to Kim. Candace didn’t have children and they seemed to frighten her.
“Ronni’s . . . in the hospital,” Kim said. “Come sit, Hannah.”
“What happened to Ronni?”
Kim’s every instinct was to protect her daughter, to shield her from this ugliness, but she knew she couldn’t. “Ronni attempted suicide.”
The sound that burst from her daughter’s chest was primal, almost animal. Hannah dropped into a crouch and sobbed, her forehead resting on her knees. Kim rushed to her, bent down, and wrapped her in a hug, but the girl shrugged her off. Kim didn’t force it. She accepted that her daughter needed space. Hannah cried for a few more moments before raising her head. “How?”
“It doesn’t matter how.”
“It does to me.”
Kim swallowed, but her voice still sounded clogged when she whispered, “She drank drain cleaner.”
“Oh my god!” Hannah wept into her hands.
“She’s getting the best care possible,” Kim said, tentatively reaching out to stroke Hannah’s soft hair. The girl let her, which Kim took as a positive sign. “Ronni is young and strong. She has a good chance of pulling through.”