Chương 8
She had put on mismatched socks and an old denim jacket over what appeared to be pajama pants.
Her gray hair was pulled into a ponytail that leaned sideways.
She stood beside Lily’s bed with one hand pressed against her own mouth.
Lily was telling her about the stitches.
“They numbed it first.”
“Of course they did.”
“I didn’t cry that much.”
My mother looked at me over Lily’s head.
Her eyes asked everything.
I shook my head once.
Not here.
She understood.
That surprised me.
My mother had never been talented at restraint.
She moved toward me and hugged me without speaking.
I stiffened automatically.
Then I let her.
“You smell like mothballs,” I whispered.
She pulled back.
“That’s my jacket.”
“It smells like a haunted closet.”
Lily laughed.
My mother wiped at her face as if she had something in her eye.
For ten seconds we were three people making fun of a jacket.
I needed those ten seconds.
Then Lily asked, “Can Grandma come with us to Beth’s?”
My mother looked confused.
“Beth’s?”
I explained.
Her expression hardened.
“I have locks.”
“Mom.”
“And a baseball bat.”
“Mom.”
“What?”
“No baseball bats.”
She looked offended.
“I’m not saying I’d use it.”
Marisol entered in time to hear that.
She looked at my mother.
“Mrs. Caldwell?”
My mother straightened.
“Yes.”
“I’m Marisol Vega.”
“I know who you are.”
I closed my eyes.
“Mom.”
“What?”
“Please don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.”
She turned back to Marisol.
“I’m sorry.”
The apology sounded painful.
Marisol accepted it without comment.
She explained the temporary safety plan.
Lily and I would go to Beth’s.
My mother could follow separately but should not post anything, call Rachel, confront Rachel, or tell extended family details.
My mother’s eyebrows climbed higher with each instruction.
“Do people really need to be told not to post this online?”
“Yes.”
My mother looked at me.
“Well, your aunt Linda absolutely does.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
Then my mother asked the question I had been avoiding.
“Can I go get Lily’s things from the house?”
“No,” Marisol and I said together.
My mother blinked.
I explained that Rachel was probably there.
“Then you need clothes.”
“We’ll buy clothes.”
“At midnight?”
“We’ll figure it out.”
Lily said, “I want Bunny.”
Everything stopped.
Bunny was a stuffed rabbit that had once been cream-colored and was now the uncertain gray of every childhood object loved beyond hygiene.
Lily had slept with him since she was three.
He was at home.
“In my bed,” she said.
I looked at Marisol.
She shook her head.
“No one should go there tonight unless law enforcement clears it.”
Lily’s face fell.
My mother reached for her hand.
“You can borrow me.”
Lily gave her a tired look.
“You snore.”
“I do not.”
“You do.”
“That is slander.”
Lily smiled, but her eyes stayed on me.
“I really want Bunny.”
“I know.”
“Can the police get him?”
I almost said yes.
The word reached my tongue.
Then I stopped.
“I don’t know.”
She looked disappointed.
I hated disappointing her.
But I had spent too much of the night learning what careless reassurance cost.
“I can ask.”
Ruiz was still in the hallway.
When I explained, his expression softened.
“I’ll see what we can do.”
“That means no?”
“It means I’ll see.”
“You sound like every parent alive.”
“Occupational hazard.”
About twenty minutes later, he came back.
Rachel was no longer at the house.
Another officer had confirmed the residence was empty from the exterior and was waiting on further instructions.
Ruiz told me they could not simply enter to retrieve personal property without consent or another lawful basis.
The answer made sense.
Lily hated it.
She crossed her arms.
“I hate laws.”
My mother said, “That feeling is bipartisan.”
I stared at her.
“What?”
“Too soon?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Marisol coughed into her hand, suspiciously like she was hiding a laugh.
Then my phone buzzed.
Not Rachel.
Beth.
I put clean sheets on the guest bed.
Also I have cereal but no milk.
I showed Lily.
“She has cereal.”
“What kind?”
I texted back.
Beth replied with a photograph of three boxes.
Lily studied them seriously.
“She has Cinnamon Toast Crunch.”
“Then civilization survives.”
She nodded.
The hospital discharged us shortly after one in the morning.
Lily changed into dry scrub pants and an oversized hospital T-shirt because her clothes were still wet and bagged as potential evidence.
Seeing her dressed in borrowed clothes made the situation feel more real than the stitches had.
Her own shirt and shorts had been sealed in plastic.
A nurse gave me discharge instructions.
I read them twice.
Watch for vomiting, confusion, worsening headache, vision changes.
Wake her periodically.
Keep the wound dry.
Return for concerning symptoms.
There were too many ways for a night to go wrong.
My mother carried Lily’s discharge bag.
I carried nothing.
I had arrived at the hospital with my daughter and my phone.
Everything else I owned seemed to be in a house I no longer wanted to enter.
We crossed the parking lot under bright white lights.
Lily held my hand.
My mother walked on her other side.
The air smelled like asphalt and cut grass.
At my car, Lily stopped.
Her wet clothes had soaked the passenger seat earlier.
A dark stain remained in the fabric.
She stared at it.
“I don’t want to sit there.”
“You don’t have to.”
I moved her to the back seat.
My mother found an old blanket in her trunk and spread it beneath her.
Lily climbed in and buckled herself.
“Mommy?”
“Yeah?”
“Did they see the video?”
I froze with one hand on the door.
I had not told her.
She had heard enough adult fragments to figure it out.
“The police did.”
She watched my face.
“Did they see me fall?”
“Yes.”
Her lower lip moved.
“Did they see Rachel?”
“Yes.”
She looked down at the buckle.
May you like
For a moment I thought she would cry.
Instead she whispered, “Good.”
