She could have gone home and had a good night’s sleep, but something—mother’s intuition—had urged her toward Curtis’s. There was an emptiness in her chest (she eventually learned to associate this with the nightclub scene and casual hookups), and she needed to hold her daughter. She needed to take Ronni home, to hear her soft breath as she lay in the crib that was squeezed into the corner of Lisa’s single bedroom, to wake up to her baby’s cheerful gurgle. She smoked a cigarette as she drove, the window rolled down, cold night air blasting her face. It was the last cigarette she would have, until today.
Lisa looked around at her fellow smokers. Most of them were patients, identifiable by the hideous blue gowns. A few had IVs attached to their arms, one was in a wheelchair… . They were probably suffering from emphysema or lung cancer or some other cigarette-related malady, but still, they stood in the chill March air, their bare legs covered in goose bumps, and smoked. She stubbed the cigarette out in a tall, overflowing ashtray and headed inside.
As she traversed the shiny, squeaky hospital hallway, she remembered pulling into Curtis’s driveway that night. Her dashboard clock read 1:23 A.M., she remembered the figure so clearly—1, 2, 3. A lamp was burning in the bungalow’s living room, the faint glow visible through the bent and tattered blinds. Curtis was undoubtedly lounging on the sofa, playing some violent video game and sucking on a beer. He was harmless when he drank beer; only hard liquor brought out his ugly side. He was a child, really. Lisa had been an idiot to ever get involved with him.
The first sign of trouble was the pounding music she heard as she approached the door. How was Ronni supposed to sleep through that? She knocked, but there was no response. Of course, Curtis couldn’t hear her over the thudding bass. She turned the handle and found the door unlocked. She shoved it open and stepped inside.
Curtis was not on the sofa as expected. Instead, a girl, about Lisa’s age, with greasy blond hair and blank eyes leaned against the bony shoulder of a guy with a shaved head and a Motörhead T-shirt.
“Where’s Curtis?” Lisa screamed over the music. “Where’s my baby?”
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 cour
se 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.”
“It’s un-fucking-believable.”
“It was some hospital infection,” Hannah said, her throat clogging with emotion. “If they didn’t take her eye, she could have died.”
Lauren placed her polished fingers on Hannah’s arm. “Don’t feel bad. This isn’t your fault.”
Hannah nodded her thanks, but she did feel bad, very bad. Ronni had come to her birthday party and lost her freaking eyeball. How could she feel anything but terrible? But Hannah also knew it wasn’t her fault. She’d felt pressured by Lauren and Ronni to raise the bar on the party, to turn it from a simple sleepover into some debauched rave. But, obviously, Hannah could never say that.
“It’s so fucked-up,” Lauren said. “How do you live without your eye?”
“Lots of people do.”
“Not kids our age, though. Do you know a single kid with one eye?”
“No … but my mom says Ronni will be able to do everything she did before. And glass eyes look a lot more real now.”
A burst of laughter escaped from Lauren’s shiny mouth. “Oh my god! I can’t even think about a glass eye. It makes me want to hurl.”
Hannah giggled, too, but it was a nervous, almost hysterical sound. “It’s super gross. But we have to be there for her. We have to support her.”
“Totally.” Lauren ran her fingers through her long hair and Hannah caught a whiff of expensive shampoo. “Did the police talk to your parents?”
“Yeah. They got the all clear. Have they talked to you?”
“Not yet.” The girl fiddled with her gold, double-heart pendant: PLEASE RETURN TO TIFFANY & CO. It was a gift from Lauren’s dad … for her half birthday or getting a C+ or something. “They’ve called my dad’s place a few times, but he doesn’t want me to speak to them.”
“Why not?”
“He wants me to talk to his lawyer first.”
Hannah’s stomach plunged. “Why would you need to talk to a lawyer?”
Lauren shrugged. “I don’t know. He doesn’t want me to get into any trouble or whatever.”
“Why would you get in trouble?” Hannah’s voice was strained.
“I don’t know… .” Lauren shrugged again. “You know how dads are.”
“Yeah.”
“Except your dad—he seems pretty chill.”
Hannah thought about her dad and the champagne he had given them. I was trying to be nice, he’d said. Trying to be cool was more like it. She recalled the night of the party, her dad’s silly jokes and snide comments behind her mom’s back… . At the time, she’d felt an affinity with him. But now, after all that had happened, his behavior was just plain weird.
Lauren was peering past her. “Here come Noah and Adam.”
Hannah turned to watch the boys approaching. They were both tall, good-looking, and walked with the confident gait of the popular. Noah smiled directly at Hannah, and she felt her stomach flutter on command. When he reached her, he draped a proprietary arm over her shoulders. Hannah stiffened. Shit. She wanted this to feel natural and comfortable, but Noah’s proximity made her so tense. His arm was so heavy. And she could smell the Axe coming from his armpits.
“What’s up, ladies?” Adam said.
“We were just talking about Ronni’s eye,” Lauren said. “Or lack thereof …”
Adam laughed and gave Lauren a playful shove. “You’re bad.”
Noah chuckled, too, then became somber. “Sucks.”
“Totally sucks,” Adam added.
There was a pause where no one spoke; they just stared at the floor feeling the suckiness of it all. Noah coughed into his free hand. “So … no one knows what really happened that night, right?”
Hannah’s head jerked up. “Of course not. I mean, I definitely haven’t told anyone.”
“Me neither. And I won’t,” Lauren said.
“Good,” Adam said. “But what about those other girls?”
“Those fucking nerds won’t say anything,” Lauren answered quickly. “And Caitlin brought her mom’s Xanax, so she’s just as guilty.”
“They won’t tell,” Hannah said, but her voice was weak. Marta and Caitlin were good people. They didn’t lie. They didn’t keep secrets… .
“Trust me,” Lauren said, “If they rat us out, I’ll make them wish they were never born.”
A frisson of anxiety ran through Hannah at the threat, but she couldn’t blow it, not now. “Me, too,” she said.
“What about Ronni?” Noah asked.
“Apparently, she doesn’t remember anything,” Lauren said.
“Not surprised,” Adam snorted.
“Wait … How do you know she doesn’t remember?” Hannah asked Lauren. “Have you talked to her?”
“My stepmonster talked to her mom. She was trying to be supportive.” She did air quotes.
Hannah tried to sound casual when she asked, “How’s Ronni doing? What did Lisa say about her?”
“Not much,” Lauren said, playing with her pendant again. “Just that Ronni’s super depressed and shit … and she doesn’t remember what happened.”
“Thank fuck,” Adam said.
Noah gave Adam a teasing punch in the shoulder. “Are you going to visit her? You know she wants you to… .”
“Right,” Adam said, “I’ll be her naughty nurse.” He did a couple of pelvic thrusts and they all laughed.
“Ronni would be up for it,” Noah said. “I saw the Snapchat she sent you before the party.”
Adam crossed his arms across his chest, feigning trauma. “She cybermolested me. I feel violated.”
“There are some pamphlets about that in Mrs. Pittwell’s office,” Hannah quipped. Everyone laughed, and Hannah’s chest swelled with a feeling of inclusion.
The bell rang to signal their next class. Noah pulled Hannah closer with that heavy arm and planted a good-bye kiss on her cheek. It was a sweet gesture, but his presence made her feel panicky and claustrophobic … and she was pretty sure she was allergic to the chemical, woodsy scent of his deodorant.
That’s when she saw them: two ninth-grade girls, pretty and popular in their own cohort, but virtually invisible to their elders. Their eyes drifted over Noah covetously, then landed on Hannah. She could see their envy and admiration. They wanted what she had, they wanted to be her … and Hannah knew she could never go back to being bland, square, overparented Hannah. She would push away her awkwardness, her cedar-fragrance allergy, and her misplaced sense of responsibility for Ronni’s accident, and she would embrace who she had become.
“Later, babe,” she said as Noah strolled off down the hall.
Lauren and Hannah moved in the opposite
direction toward their classes. “Let’s hang later,” Lauren said.
“I wish,” Hannah said, “but I’m so grounded.”
“We can skip last class,” Lauren suggested. “What have you got?”
“English. With Morrel.”
“Tell him you’re too upset about Ronni. He’ll totally fall for it.”
Fall for it? But they were upset about Ronni, right? Though Lauren didn’t seem remotely troubled by her best friend’s accident or her abrupt absence from their lives. Hannah suddenly grasped the tremulous state of A-list friendships. Ronni was out: Hannah was in. It was what she had wanted all along… . She pushed the sick feeling from her stomach and smiled. “Good idea.”
kim
ELEVEN DAYS AFTER
There was nothing to be done now. Kim had made every overture to appease Lisa: phone calls, flowers, cookies, e-mails… . What was next? Skywriting? An apology blimp? Lisa wanted to be angry; she wanted someone to blame. Kim would give her that. She would tolerate Lisa’s cold silence, even her slanderous accusations. Kim’s friend Debs had relayed Lisa’s comments after their Wednesday-morning session at SoulCycle. Debs had a daughter, Morgan, who was Hannah and Ronni’s age, but Morgan had left Hillcrest to attend a gifted program at another school (Kim had her doubts about Morgan’s qualifications). Debs’s son was a year younger than Aidan but they played on the same elite soccer team. The third in their regular spin-class-followed-by-lattes date was Sheila, a children’s book illustrator who had a son the same age as the girls. He ran with the tech/nerd clique so he was persona non grata to Hannah and her friends.
The Party Page 8