Lemon Reef by Robin Silverman Page A

momentarily, as if she’d forgotten we were there. I couldn’t tell if it was regret or maybe shame at having behaved this way in front of a guest or at all, or just exhaustion, but Pascale suddenly turned and said, “Fuck it. I don’t need any of you.” She stumbled about for her keys, her departure underscored by the sound of a slamming door. The cold December air rushed in and then evaporated.
    I was standing there, stunned as much by the rapidity of the scene as the violence. Del lay doubled over on the floor, back to the wall, hair in tangles, nose running, face soaked with tears and snot and spit—and blood. She was sobbing, holding her side and making these small noises that struck me as similar to the noises she made when I fondled her. As I told myself this was one of those times when you’re supposed to comfort someone, I was struck by the disgust I felt toward Del in that moment. Holding Sid tighter, I inched closer to where she lay. Del stood up, ignored us, threw her frazzled hair back, and disappeared into the hallway. Sid reached after her, still crying. The bathroom door closed emphatically behind her, the light emanating from the bathroom shrinking to black behind the sound as it shut.
    Some moments later, Del’s silhouette reemerged with her composure restored. She opened the door to the younger kids’ room and, without looking in, announced lightly, “She’s gone.”
    Del came out to the living room. I could tell by her uneasy expression and downcast eyes she was dreading having to face me. But when she saw me she recognized me , and I sensed she regained hope and felt relieved to have me there with her.
    Rather than comfort or reassure Del, I yelled. “Why did you provoke her like that?”
    Del’s face fell. She backed away into the hallway and said, “Just go home.” She disappeared into her room and closed the door.
    I tried to go in behind her, but the door was locked. I put Sid down and knocked. “Del,” I said, “open it. Open the door.” I knocked more.
    Sid had his hand on my leg and was peeking at Del’s door from behind me. Ida and Nicole came out of their room. Nicole disappeared toward the kitchen and reappeared with a paper clip she had untwisted into a piece of straight metal. She pushed me out of the way and slipped the metal into a little hole at the center of the doorknob. A quick click sounded and the door opened. Del lay on her back on her bed, a tissue inside her nose red from new blood. Sid ran to the bed to see her. Ida ran behind him, scooped him up and took him out.
    Del sat up, wincing at the pain in her side. “Get out.” I stared at her. “Get out of here.” She began pounding her feet on her bed and crying harder, the blood gushing more. She looked at me and screamed, “I don’t want you to see me like this.”
    The gouges in her face, the blood running onto her lips, the swelling already noticeable under her eye, all I could think to do was what she asked me to do. I backed up and closed her door.
    The plan had been for me to sleep over as I usually did on weekends. We spent our nights at Del’s house, because her father was gone more and more and Pascale was either working at a night job or so plastered by midnight that the house could’ve burned down and she wouldn’t know it. Del was reluctant to sleep out; she didn’t want to leave her sisters and brother alone. Having no intention of leaving Del alone, I joined Ida, Nicole, and Sid in the living room. The girls and I played cards for a long time. Sid played with his trucks, moving them around and making rrr, rrr sounds. At some point, the four of us fell asleep on the living room floor watching an Elvis movie that was mostly static and snow because the reception was poor. Sometime around one or two, I woke up and went to Del’s room. She was in bed reading. She didn’t say anything to me,