by Liz Crowe
He grinned at her and crooked his elbow. “Shall we? I need to evaluate their breach of kid etiquette and you need some support. I can tell.”
“You can’t either.” She sniffed and hesitated, her palms sweaty at the thought of touching him—not to mention the fact that she was flirting with him like some flighty girl.
“Oh, yes I can. You forget, fair lady, I see my own face when I’m in need of an extra meeting. I know it well.”
She sighed and slid her hand inside his proffered arm, swallowing against the dryness in her throat when he patted her hand then pressed it to his side. He was warm. She could feel it emanating from his torso. It scared her for a split second. She hadn’t touched anyone, much less a man, in almost five years.
He waited along with her, as if sensing her discomfort. All the while keeping her hand prisoner, pinned to his oh-so-warm side. She swallowed again. “Okay. Let’s go.” Her voice sounded croaky and old.
He nodded and they headed across the packed parking lot toward the doors which were propped open, welcoming the huddled, smoking stragglers. When they stepped into the hallway, with its cluttered billboards and stacks of free newspapers, she expected him to release her hand. But he didn’t. He kept walking until they were in the main, chair-lined, coffee-scented room.
“Caffeine?” he asked, letting her hand go.
She nodded, incapable of speech, her vocal cords frozen from the tiny intimacy. She wrung her hands, watching him fetch them a couple of Styrofoam cups of black liquid. He smiled at her again, setting her nerves twitching. She took the cup and sat in the nearest chair before she fell over and embarrassed herself even further.
He sat next to her, sipping while the rest of the group filed into their seats. She gripped the hot cup of coffee, letting the smell of it fill her nasal passages. It was an odor she’d always associate with these big rooms, crowded with people so desperate they’d show up in the middle of a workday afternoon just to be around each other, to gather strength from their collective desperation.
She sighed and closed her eyes, putting herself in a different place in her head. A place she’d been unable to locate since she’d skipped her usual three meetings a week. Then she heard it. The distinct bleat of an unhappy toddler.
The murmurings around her quieted. She tried the Serenity Prayer but the wailing kept creeping in around the edges. She heaved a sigh and opened her eyes, catching sight of the harried-looking woman with the hunched shoulders trying to shush the kid.
“I see what you mean,” Brock whispered to her as he watched the woman set the unhappy child in the chair next to her.
“I have permission,” she hissed at the people glaring at her. “It’s this, or I’m gonna go back to using.”
Kayla stared at her and decided that she’d used that morning. Her pupils were too small and her nose was running. She had a horrific rash on her neck and up one cheek.
“Shush, please honey,” she begged the kid, who was trying to climb down.
“Jesus,” Brock muttered.
Kayla glanced at him. He was staring at the child who was of indeterminate gender and coated in a layer of dirt. Brock got up and threw away his empty cup then stood near the percolator, his eyes never straying from the hapless woman.
The moderator called the room to order, made some announcements, and reminded everyone to remain open-minded to the situations of their fellow persons in the room. A not-too-indirect rebuke of the glaring going on, all pointed in one direction. Kayla averted her gaze from the woman, who was swiping at her nose and trying to entice the kid back to the chair with a candy bar.
They stood and recited the Prayer. The call went out for speakers. Kayla waited, letting the simple regularity soothe her. She was in a room full of people who understood her pain, for the most part. At least they got the addiction part. Her face flushed hot as her mind turned to what therapists had always called her ‘inciting incident’. The abuse by her stepfather, which had morphed from ‘just’ fondling to a whole lot worse over the years
She sighed and banished him from her thoughts. She was here to heal, not to dwell.
Let go, let God and all that shit.
Brock remained standing, as if unable to stop watching the child as he or she climbed up and down out of the chair, his or her mouth smeared with chocolate and other unnamable goo. Kayle took a breath and got a whiff of piss, which made her want to gag.
The speakers commenced, each giving their version of the same old story. For the millionth time, Kayla wondered how or why this even helped. It was depressing as shit, listening to all these losers.
It was the scheduled regularity of them. The sameness. The knowing what to expect and that there were others out there worse off than you.
She’d heard all the reasons. And yet, every time she came to one of these, she’d find her mind wandering, her ire rising and her frustration growing.
And now there was that damn kid…
As if on cue, he or she let out a loud howl of protest when the mother tried to pin the kid into the chair with one thin arm. The current sad sack at the podium hesitated, with a glance over to the moderator who nodded and indicated he should keep going. As if anyone could be heard over the racket. Several people got up and walked out. The mother was crying now, tears mixing with the snot that had been running from her nose since she’d walked in—high as a fucking kite.
With a final loud cry, the kid slid from underneath his mother’s arm and started hightailing it to the back door. Kayla watched as if from a long way away while the woman leaned over her knees and puked.
“She’s been using,” a large woman in front of her said. “That’s even more against the dang rules.”
The moderator stood and made her slow, calm way back to the now shivering, blubbering mother. She sat and put her arm around the woman’s shaking shoulders and spoke in a low voice. Kayla was frozen in place, knowing she should help, do something productive. That was the point of these stupid gatherings. To show support for each other. But many times, they were as judgmental as she imagined a group of soccer moms would be.
Mad at herself for joining in with the judgey-ness, she got up and turned toward the somewhat less fraught-sounding kid noises at the back of the room. The dirty child was in a corner, trapped by Brock, who sat on the floor cross-legged in front of him, dangling a set of keys just out of the child’s reach. Kayla crouched down next to him, amazed at his patience, much less his interest.
“He looks awful,” she said, listening while the moderator calmed the near-hysterical junkie mother behind her.
“Yeah,” Brock said. “I think it’s a she.”
Up close, the kid was even worse and stank to high heaven. She drew back when she realized that the dark stain was pee, or worse. “God, that is gross.”
Brock glanced at her, his eyes flat, his lips turned downward. “Like she can help it? Look at her mother.” He jerked his chin toward the crowd that had gathered around the pitiful woman. “Have some sympathy.”
She sighed, sticking out her arm when the little stinker tried to scuttle away, getting her shirtsleeve coated in chocolate that he—or she—still had all over his, or her, hands.
“What kind of life must she have,” Brock said, running his fingers across the matted, tangled mop of dark-brown hair. “Huh, little one? You seem pretty hungry to me.” Like some kind of a magician, he pulled a package of peanut butter crackers out of his pocket.
Kayla watched as the kid eyed him, wariness in her blue eyes, already trained not to trust men.
That realization forced her down from where she’d been crouching all high and mighty, to her butt on the floor next to Brock. She smiled at the child, who smiled back at her around a mouthful of her thumb, while ignoring Brock. He handed her the crackers and Kayla opened them, holding one out. The kid snagged it and jammed it into her mouth like a feral animal, while taking furtive glances at the man next to her. She took a second one but almost choked on it she ate it so fas
t.
Brock picked her up and slapped her between her shoulder blades before she asphyxiated. Once she realized who had hold of her, she let out a heart-rending shriek of terror and flailed her arms and legs until Brock had to set her down. Kayla observed from her vantage point on the floor and was as shocked as anyone when the child flung herself into her lap, sobbing, but tearless, another clue as to how serious her dehydration must be.
She patted the kid’s back, unsure what else to do, while the mother kept puking and sobbing and the moderator called for an ambulance. When the professionals showed up, they loaded the woman into their rig then returned for her kid.
“I’ll take him,” the ambulance guy said, holding out his arms.
“She’s a she. And I don’t think she’ll go with you.” By this time, the kid had herself wrapped around Kayla’s neck and torso. An unpleasant warm wetness was spreading across her shirt. She tried peeling the child off but she held tight with a surprising strength.
“Are you a relative?” the man asked.
“No.” Brock helped her to her feet. The kid hardly weighed anything but Kayla was starting to feel claustrophobic.
The man sighed. “Do you mind riding with us? We can turn him…her, whatever…over to the proper authorities if her…his mother ends up…you know.”
Kayla glared at the guy, putting a protective arm around the kid who was sliming her neck with snot and crumbs. Her pulse was racing and somehow the thought of letting the kid go made her nauseated. She glanced at Brock. He smiled and put a hand on the kid’s sweaty head.
“We’ll come with you,” he said, alleviating her of the responsibility. Which was a good thing as her throat had closed up and sweat dripped down her back under her shirt as if she were absorbing every ounce of the child’s abject terror.
Chapter Ten
“Sir?”
Brock opened his eyes and grunted as his brain caught up with what his eyes saw. The hospital waiting room was the most obnoxious shade of aqua he’d ever seen. But hospitals were not strange places to him. He’d been in and out of plenty of emergency rooms like this one, since turning fourteen and fracturing his ankle, breaking two ribs, and flirting with a concussion after jumping from the top of a quarry wall on a dare.
He’d been as high as a kite of course. Couldn’t even recall doing it after he’d regained consciousness. But he sure as hell recalled the aftermath.
He rubbed his eyes and focused on the scrub-clad person hovering over him. “Yep. What… I mean…” For a split second, he couldn’t remember why he was here, since waking up in hospitals had become so much a part of his normal life. He wrinkled his nose at the smell—rubbery and medicinal.
He saw Kayla then, standing just behind the nurse, still hanging on to that damn kid from the ill-fated meeting. “I just wanted to let you know that Child Protective Services are here. They’ll take the little one off your hands. You and your…friend are free to go.”
He blinked fast, trying to parse this. Kayla sat down next to him. The child, now somewhat cleaner and wearing dry clothes that were too large for her, sat with one arm around Kayla’s neck, thumb jammed into her mouth. She eyeballed Brock from that position, her blue eyes still wary.
“Are you sure? I mean, we can… My friend and I… We can stay…” Kayla’s voice sounded pinched and stressed. Her eyes were red as if she’d been crying. He put a hand on her arm. She flinched so hard the little girl flinched and started fussing. “Sorry,” she whispered into the girl’s matted hair. “Seriously. You don’t have to—”
The nurse looked sympathetic but firm. “I’m sorry. Neither of you are relatives. You told me yourself you just happened to be at that AA meeting today.”
“Yes, but…but…Brock?” Kayla turned to him, her eyes wide, wild with dismay. She was clinging to the little girl almost as hard as the girl was to her.
He sucked in a breath. He wanted to make this right. His need to make this right was so urgent it was like a giant hand was squeezing his chest, making him breathless. He got slowly to his feet, attempting to appear authoritarian.
“Listen, what’s the harm in us hanging around, keeping the kid calm? We were at a meeting with her mother—actually NA, Narcotics Anonymous—so we know what she’s going through. And the kid is…” He turned and gestured to them. “She’s so torn up and seems calm now, with Kayla and me.”
“Sir, I understand and I’m sorry but—” A clanging alarm made her back away. “I have to go. But the CPS will be here in fifteen minutes.”
“Okay,” he said, his hands shoved into his pockets, watching as staff scrambled around, heading for a room with a flashing blue light over the door. “Um…isn’t that…?”
The door of the room flew open, revealing a scrum of people around what he assumed was a bed, working, yelling, while various alarms and other noises blared. The door swung shut again. He swallowed and sat back down.
“Oh my God,” Kayla whispered. “That’s her room, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
They waited and watched. At one point, Kayla held out her hand and Brock took it, holding it tight while medical personnel poured in and out of the room. They’d followed the ambulance in his car, Kayla holding the child in her lap against the law, and had ended up at County General, what was more often known as the Medicaid Hotel. It was where you went when you didn’t have a sweet safety net of insurance like he’d always had, no matter how dumb his shenanigans might have been.
The place was about as dire as you’d expect. Grimy and hot, as if they couldn’t even afford to run the air conditioning full blast. The random human detritus surrounding them were dark-skinned, many bleeding, some crying, most glaring down at the cracked linoleum floor under their feet.
“Oh shit, Brock.” She let go of his hand and pointed. The movement woke the girl on her lap. She let out a howl as if having a nightmare even as she woke. A couple of men and one woman had emerged, looking grim, leaving the door half open.
“Time of death, five-o-eight,” someone said from inside the room.
Kayla started moaning and rocking the girl back and forth. Brock got up. His reaction to the stress was to lurch into management mode. He needed to find the proper authorities and get this kid turned over to them. The noise, heat and overwhelming stench of unwashed bodies and blood and general hospital-ness was making his gut churn. To his shock, Kayla stood up next to him and whispered in his ear. “Let’s go.”
“What?”
“Let’s go. I’m not leaving her to…foster care or worse. She’s already traumatized by God knows what. I can’t let her be—”
“That’s not our decision to—”
“Fuck you and your decisions. I’m leaving.” She whirled away from him, clinging to the girl who had her hands locked together behind Kayla’s neck.
“But…wait…”
She got as far as the elevator before a couple of nurses intercepted her and marched her straight back to where they’d been sitting. For some reason, at that moment, the beautiful determination on Kayla’s face slammed into him. He was almost always the first in any room to notice the hot women and leap right in, always flirting these days. In his bad old days, he’d have his hand up one skirt and would be eyeballing the next target within hours of spying someone as drop-dead appealing as Kayla Hettinger.
But for some reason, his reaction to her had been muted. Most likely thanks to this latest cocktail of dope they had him on. That was the point of it after all—dulling his sharpest, least appealing edges. Now, however, now… He studied her face as she held on to the little girl. Her features were not perfect, taken separately, but together, she resembled an exotic model—a woman just this side of gorgeous, falling somewhere between interesting-looking and beautiful.
Five-o-eight, his mind chimed, recalling that for the time of death, as well as the fact that as of four-thirty he had missed a dose of meds—his crucial daily hit of lithium—a relatively new addition to the mix and the on
e thing that dulled him the most.
“I’m sorry,” one of the nurses was saying as the other one began talking to the little girl, trying to coax her to let go of Kayla’s neck. “But this child has to be evaluated and then turned over to Protective Services.”
“Protective Services,” Kayla spat out as she backed away. “Protective, my ass. It’s nothing but a holding pen. And a dangerous one at that. I won’t let you take her.”
“Ma’am,” the nurse said, exasperated, and over this whole scene.
“Don’t touch me,” Kayla yelped when an orderly appeared, the muscle, ready to wrestle the baby out of Kayla’s arms. “Brock, don’t let them.”
“I’m… I…” He ran fingers through his hair. The ants were on the move, and had been for a while now. They were making their collective presence well known right now, with their typical crap timing.
She glared at him, keeping one hand on the back of the girl’s head. Her face was red. Strands of dark hair that had come loose from her ponytail framed her forehead and cheeks. Her lips were full and ever so slightly ragged. He felt his body flush with blood, including the last place he needed it to, as he watched her. He turned away.
“Restroom,” he choked out.
A nurse pointed down the hall. He ran, leaving her yelling for him, which made the kid start screaming again.
Even as he shoved the door open, hellbent on getting some water on his face, he realized his error. He looked at her, saw her surrounded, cornered by the medical staff, clutching that child to her like a talisman, or a shield. He sucked in a breath and headed back down the hall, determined to do something right for a change, and not just something that was all about him and his weaknesses.
“Excuse me,” he said, shouldering his way none too gently through the crowd and standing next to Kayla. Tears streamed down her face, mingling with the little girl’s own. “Listen. Can you give us a minute? And back off a little. We haven’t done anything wrong. We’re the ones who sat here with this little girl while her mother died of an overdose, all right?” He glared at each of them until they gave him some space.