drinks into something right sluttier. I smel ed nothing but that suntan-oil smel , and anyway, Liza didn’t drink; in January she’d pressed her twelve-year pin from NA into the trunk of her wil ow. As I came up beside her, she pushed her thick coils of hair back over her shoulder. I saw how hard her hand was shaking, and I thought, It’s worse than that. It’s drugs again. Dear God, she’s jacked up.
Liza vibrated from head to foot, and the years melted away, and it was as though no time at al had passed since she’d shown up on my doorstep with meth sores around her mouth, poor Mosey riding her bony hip. I started shaking, too, with rage, though, a red wave of pure angry that Liza could decide to shit-can her life like this, now, here, at Mosey’s school. How could she? How could she?
I grabbed her arm and turned her toward me. She was cackling again, this high, weird pitch of sound, and she kept making it as I spun her. I pul ed her away from Steve, everyone staring at us, and I knew what I would see if I got her face pointed up into the light: her dark irises whittled down to rims around huge pupils.
I tilted her face up toward the ceiling, and as the light hit her eyes, I saw one pupil blow open like one of those roses they film blooming fast in stop-motion. Her other pupil spiraled closed, becoming no more than a speck, and she frowned at me, one side of her mouth pul ing down as if someone had run a needle and thread through a corner of her bottom lip and yanked.
I took hold of both her shoulders, my anger flat gone and fright rising up behind. This wasn’t drugs. Behind her eyes something else, something very bad, was happening. “Liza? Liza?”
She stared at me and said, “The drums gave me a headache,” and then I saw it happen. I saw Liza go away. Everything Liza drained out of her twisting face. Half her mouth yawped downward, and she jerked like a puppet with its strings cut and tumbled straight to the floor so fast, no sway, no warning, nothing theatrical about it. I fel to my knees by her and grabbed her, hol ering, “Help us! Help!” Conversation died around me, leaving the awful tinny sound of the surfer music coming out of a boom box that was too smal for this cavern of a room. I flipped Liza over, and her head lol ed back, and both her pupils were blown now. She started jerking in my arms, and her tip-getter jeans darkened as her bladder let go.
I heard a man say, “We need to get a spoon in her mouth,” and I yel ed up at Claire Richardson, “Cal 911, cal 911!” Her lips fel open out of their little pursed-up wad, and she stood there, teetering on her high, expensive shoes like a stupid giraffe with her lipstick al in stripes. “Help us, oh, God, help her!” I yel ed, but it was like I wasn’t speaking English. She stared at me and Liza on the ground, her nose wrinkling as the sharp tang of Liza’s urine rose to meet it. Steve Mason stepped around her, and he already had his cel phone out, dialing, so I turned back to Liza.
I heard Mosey wailing “Big? Big?” in a scared, shril voice, but I was grabbing Liza’s head and making her face point at my face and cal ing her.
Her body stil ed into deadweight, and she wasn’t in her eyes anymore. I started screaming, and strong male hands lifted me and shoved me to Mosey.
The school nurse was by Liza now, saying, “Get that spoon away! Step back, give her air.”
I pul ed Mosey to me, and we held on to each other in the endless minutes before we heard the sirens in the distance. Liza kept breathing with her head lol ed back and her eyelids at half-mast, but she wasn’t Liza anymore. She was just a body, taking in oxygen, sending out carbon dioxide for the plastic palm trees.
She never came back. Not until today anyway. I had not seen my daughter for a red second, not until Tyler Baines dug that box up and she’d fought me so fierce in the yard. That had been Liza.
I hoped so anyway, as afternoon faded into evening and I
Liza vibrated from head to foot, and the years melted away, and it was as though no time at al had passed since she’d shown up on my doorstep with meth sores around her mouth, poor Mosey riding her bony hip. I started shaking, too, with rage, though, a red wave of pure angry that Liza could decide to shit-can her life like this, now, here, at Mosey’s school. How could she? How could she?
I grabbed her arm and turned her toward me. She was cackling again, this high, weird pitch of sound, and she kept making it as I spun her. I pul ed her away from Steve, everyone staring at us, and I knew what I would see if I got her face pointed up into the light: her dark irises whittled down to rims around huge pupils.
I tilted her face up toward the ceiling, and as the light hit her eyes, I saw one pupil blow open like one of those roses they film blooming fast in stop-motion. Her other pupil spiraled closed, becoming no more than a speck, and she frowned at me, one side of her mouth pul ing down as if someone had run a needle and thread through a corner of her bottom lip and yanked.
I took hold of both her shoulders, my anger flat gone and fright rising up behind. This wasn’t drugs. Behind her eyes something else, something very bad, was happening. “Liza? Liza?”
She stared at me and said, “The drums gave me a headache,” and then I saw it happen. I saw Liza go away. Everything Liza drained out of her twisting face. Half her mouth yawped downward, and she jerked like a puppet with its strings cut and tumbled straight to the floor so fast, no sway, no warning, nothing theatrical about it. I fel to my knees by her and grabbed her, hol ering, “Help us! Help!” Conversation died around me, leaving the awful tinny sound of the surfer music coming out of a boom box that was too smal for this cavern of a room. I flipped Liza over, and her head lol ed back, and both her pupils were blown now. She started jerking in my arms, and her tip-getter jeans darkened as her bladder let go.
I heard a man say, “We need to get a spoon in her mouth,” and I yel ed up at Claire Richardson, “Cal 911, cal 911!” Her lips fel open out of their little pursed-up wad, and she stood there, teetering on her high, expensive shoes like a stupid giraffe with her lipstick al in stripes. “Help us, oh, God, help her!” I yel ed, but it was like I wasn’t speaking English. She stared at me and Liza on the ground, her nose wrinkling as the sharp tang of Liza’s urine rose to meet it. Steve Mason stepped around her, and he already had his cel phone out, dialing, so I turned back to Liza.
I heard Mosey wailing “Big? Big?” in a scared, shril voice, but I was grabbing Liza’s head and making her face point at my face and cal ing her.
Her body stil ed into deadweight, and she wasn’t in her eyes anymore. I started screaming, and strong male hands lifted me and shoved me to Mosey.
The school nurse was by Liza now, saying, “Get that spoon away! Step back, give her air.”
I pul ed Mosey to me, and we held on to each other in the endless minutes before we heard the sirens in the distance. Liza kept breathing with her head lol ed back and her eyelids at half-mast, but she wasn’t Liza anymore. She was just a body, taking in oxygen, sending out carbon dioxide for the plastic palm trees.
She never came back. Not until today anyway. I had not seen my daughter for a red second, not until Tyler Baines dug that box up and she’d fought me so fierce in the yard. That had been Liza.
I hoped so anyway, as afternoon faded into evening and I
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