Doctor Kendall stands by the cardiac monitor, clipboard in hand. “She’s out of immediate danger,” she tells us. “She’s resting now, but her heart rate was extremely high when she got here, and she was disoriented.” She pauses, and in that pause I dread whatever news is coming next. “Preliminary tests indicate a drug that goes by the street name of liquid gold was in her system.”
“The date-rape drug?” I burst out, remembering the newspaper article. Clem and I exchange glances. Then, with sickening horror, I flash on the image of Pretty Boy kneeling over Mari in the rain.
Dr. Kendall looks from me to Alma and back to me. “In some instances, yes, liquid gold has been used as a predatory drug to assist in sexual assault, but it’s not always used that way. It’s also a recreational drug.” I back up against the wall and keep my eyes glued to a cart of medical equipment, unable to meet Alma’s gaze. “Mari spoke to the sexual assault nurse once she’d gotten her bearings. She said she doesn’t think she was assaulted, but she can’t remember what happened.” Doctor Kendall inhales slowly. “I think it’s best if we perform a rape test, but we need her consent. As soon as she wakes up we’ll ask.”
I peek now at Alma who’s taking the blows with unflinching warrior strength. I also notice the strain in her jaw, her knuckles white on the rails of Mari’s bed when she asks if Mari can come home tonight.
Dr. Kendall shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but her blood oxygen was dangerously low, and she was short of breath when she arrived. She’ll have to stay here for observation and treatment.”
Alma nods, her face a mask as she strokes Mari’s hair, speaking softly to her in Spanish. A splintering of love rips through me. More than anything I want to join Alma at Mari’s side. I want to bury my face in her curls and tell her I’m sorry. I don’t. I stand by the counter with the bandages and rubber gloves without moving because who do I think I am? I don’t belong here. This is between Alma and her real granddaughters. I’m the uninvited guest, the proverbial fifth wheel. If it weren’t for Clem, I’d be so out of here.
“Since we found an illegal substance in Mari’s system, we had to call the police,” I hear Dr. Kendall say, and I realize she’s speaking to me. “You were at the party and the one who called the paramedics, so the officer would like to talk to you first, and then to Amelia, and then to the other boy.”
Cops. Of course. I close my eyes and recall all the useless interactions I had with the cops back in Philly. How they never got it right, not even the circumstances of Mom’s death.
“Are you okay to see him now, or do you need a few minutes?” Dr. Kendall asks.
“I’m okay,” I say, opening my eyes and reaching into my pocket for the lighter.
Doctor Kendall slides open the curtain and escorts me to a small, windowless room. A middle-aged guy with closely clipped gray hair, a tired smile, and a weathered face greets me. “I’m Officer Virgil,” he says. “Please, have a seat.” Instead of the usual cop thing—him on one side of a desk, me on the other—he pulls up a chair next to mine. “Can I get you anything? Water? Coffee?”
I shake my head and focus on my hands folded in my lap.
“I’m hoping you can help me understand what happened tonight,” he says.
Besides the fact that if I had been watching over Mari none of this would have happened, I think, but I don’t say that. I don’t say anything. I wait for an actual question before responding.
“Do you know if Mari’s had trouble with drugs in the past?” he asks.
“I have no clue, Virg,” I say, sinking down and pulling my hoodie over my head. “I just met her.”
“Did you see anything weird at the party?”
“You mean other than some really bad outfits?”
He narrows his eyes as if deciding how much of a smartass I’m going to be. “Yes, other than that. Any drugs?”
“Besides alcohol, no.”
He taps his fingers twice on the arm of his chair and doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Do you know if anyone offered her drugs?”
I think about the newspaper article again—Liquid gold can be slipped easily and without detection into drinks—and consider all the drinks Mari had, from Rudy, from Bulldog, and especially from the perv, Pretty Boy. He could have done anything to her. If he slipped her liquid gold and assaulted her, it was my fault. And my fault means it’s up to me to make this right. I’m not handing out details to some cop, so he can go mess things up like they did with Mom, writing off her death to an overdose when she’d been murdered.
“I didn’t see anyone offer her drugs,” I say, presenting just the right amount of information to satisfy the appearance of cooperation. “But a lot of guys were giving her beer.”
Virg considers this as he gets up and starts to pace the tiny, windowless room. “I don’t know how much you know about liquid gold. It comes from a Peruvian plant. Some South American cultures use it ritually, but when it gets turned into a street drug, we have a real problem. It’s lethal if you take too much, and it’s extremely difficult to regulate the dosage. We saw a lot of it around here about ten years ago, but it was expensive. Too expensive to take a real hold. It’s been coming in cheaper recently. The trouble is, we don’t know where it’s coming from, and from what happened to your sister, it seems much more pure. It’s a bad thing. This valley has already suffered hard from heroin. New Mexico has the second-highest drug overdose death rate in the country.” He reaches into his pocket and hands me a card. “If you hear or see anything get in touch with me. I can’t emphasize enough the seriousness of this drug.” He looks at me as if he’s about to say something more, but a knock interrupts whatever was coming next. He opens the door, and Dr. Kendall is back.
“Another case of liquid gold OD just came in. The girl is in critical condition. She was picked up at the same party.”
***
We leave the hospital sometime around midnight after Virg talks to Clem and Amelia. As we walk to the parking lot, I realize Alma hasn’t said anything in a long time. I glance at her and see that her face is tight and pinched with dark shadows beneath her eyes. She’s exhausted, obviously, but there’s something else, too, and then I get it. Anger. Back in the emergency room she hadn’t said a word about Mari ending up at a party, passed out in the rain with liquid gold in her blood. I avoid her eyes as we weave through the maze of cars, waiting for her to tell me how I failed Mari, how she had expected more of me. She’d be right in both cases.
Instead of turning to me, though, she turns to Amelia. “How could you have let this happen to your sister?”
“She was with Guera!” Amelia shoots back, stopping in her tracks and planting her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you blame her?”
Amelia’s right of course, and again, I wait for Alma to turn to me. She doesn’t. Every bit of her fire stays on Amelia. “Her name is Faith and she is not responsible for Mari,” she says in a low, angry voice. “You are. And Mari shouldn’t have been at a party.”
Amelia starts to protest, but Alma cuts her off. “You are grounded. Besides visiting your sister and going to work, you will not leave the house for a week.”
Even Amelia knows enough to keep her mouth shut. She storms off to her truck, fuming, and drives away.
“I’m sorry,” I say to Alma the second Amelia leaves. Those tears I’d been battling finally win the fight. “I should’ve…”
“Mija,” she says in a strong voice that leaves no room for debate, “this is not your fault. You did everything you could. Now let me take you back to the college.”
She drives Clem and me back to St. John’s, windows rolled down to the cool night silence. Except for the occasional lowrider bouncing with a bass-line, the streets are deserted. The rule against tall buildings and bright lights keeps the sky huge and dark and pure. Gazing out at the star-filled quiet, loneliness swims through me, an isolated feeling of seven billion pe
ople occupying the same planet, each one alone. And yet, with Mari I felt a tear in that isolation. I stare into the night, thinking how I failed her. I could’ve watched her more closely and kept her from drinking. With Mom I was a kid. Her drugs and drinking were her deal, not mine. I get that now. Tonight was different. Mari was the kid.
I clench my fist around the Zippo and vow to find out what happened to my sister.
Thirteen
Loud pounding wakes me the next day. Sunday, thank God. It could be six a.m., could be noon. I have no idea. I stumble out of bed in a T-shirt and boxers, eyes crusted with sleep, hair matted to my face, and open the door.
“I called you three times, Guera.” Amelia. Standing in the hall. Dressed head-to-toe in black, oversized silver rings adorning every finger of the hand raised to knock again. “Try leaving your phone on.”
A jolt of panic erases what’s left of sleep. “Is Mari okay? Did something happen?”
“Nothing else happened. I’m going to the hospital to see her.” She takes a sharp breath, as if pained at having caught herself being nice, and says, “Gran made me bring you, but since your phone was off, I couldn’t tell you.” She rolls her eyes, making sure I’m clear that coming to get me is obligation, not kindness. “So? Coming or not?” This she says as if we had a plan, and I should’ve been ready.
“Give me five,” I say, and slam the door. I throw on my favorite cuts-offs, black tee, and steel-toe, shit kickers—matching Amelia’s attitudinal attire with my own—then step into the hall. “Let’s go.”
It’s pouring again. By the time we race across the parking lot and fling ourselves into the truck, we’re wet and miserable. Amelia starts the engine and turns on the windshield wipers. The blades make an angry screeching noise. She cuts the wheel hard as she pulls out of the campus parking lot. She swerves onto the main road and has to correct, sending us into the wrong lane and avoiding a collision only by the grace of chance that there are no other cars in our path. Driving while emotional. It’s worse than texting. I raise my eyebrows and keep quiet. Without a bucket of water, the best way to fight fire is to let it smolder. Add nothing to spark its flames.
We make it to the hospital in one piece and find Mari in a private room on the third floor. Her eyes are closed, her black curls splayed-out on the pillow in a mat of uncombed tangles. Her lips are fissured and dry, the pale brown moons beneath her eyes swollen.
“Maybe we should come back,” I whisper, but Amelia’s already clomping across the floor.
“I’m not sleeping,” Mari mumbles as Amelia reaches her side. “Just resting.”
“Good, then sit up.”
Slowly, and with some difficulty, Mari pulls herself upright. Amelia digs into her purse. She grabs a brush and starts to gently run it through Mari’s hair. Mari’s eyes droop shut.
I stand frozen at the door, feeling like an interloper, a stalker, an intruder on some private ceremony. Amelia knows exactly how to comfort Mari, and isn’t it this knowledge, this shared experience, that makes people a family? You can’t go to the store and buy history any more than you can buy love.
Amelia works the brush in slow, tender movements, and I get a glimpse beneath Operation Shock-and-Awe—the eff-you way she treats the world. Not that I can’t relate to the whole pissed-off thing. I’ve spent most of my nearly seventeen years emitting an eff-off vibe, and for good reason. With a childhood cast of drug dealers, addicts, a sundry assortment of maternal boyfriends at various stages of drug-related decrepitude, and mostly apathetic school counselors, one can’t blame a girl for a little eff-you action. Alvaro had a problem with drugs, and Mari said he liked to drink. I wonder if what fuels Amelia’s desire to give the finger to the world stems from the same thing—being raised by an addict parent.
“You should just bring a clipper and chop it all off,” Mari moans when Amelia hits a particularly difficult snarl.
“You always say that and you never mean it. Remember the time you got a wad of gum stuck in your hair and you begged Mom to shave your head? Then when she brought out the clippers you began to cry and begged her not to.”
They both laugh. Even their small talk has history.
“So, what happened last night?” Amelia asks, changing the subject as she turns Mari’s head and starts working the other side.
It’s not relaxation this time that drives Mari’s eyes to close. It’s stress. I hear it in her voice. “I don’t know. I can’t remember anything.”
“Not a thing?” Amelia stops brushing.
Mari sits motionless, her skinny arms sticking out of her nightgown, the oxygen tube coiling from nose to lap like a serpent. “I don’t know. I was in the kitchen and the next thing I know I was outside.” She opens her eyes. “I didn’t take that drug! I swear to God!”
Amelia sets the brush on her lap and squeezes Mari’s arm. “Try harder. What were you doing in the kitchen? Who was there with you?”
“I don’t know.”
It’s Mari’s tear-filled eyes that finally peel me away from the door. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, stepping into the room and intervening in Amelia’s interrogation. “Your job is just to get better now. How are you feeling?”
“Okay, I guess, but they want to keep me here a few more days for observation.” She yawns and lies back down.
“That’s right. We can’t let our favorite patient out too soon,” I hear someone say. I hadn’t heard anyone come in, but when I turn around a nurse is at the door, clipboard in hand. “But now Mari has to rest. She’s had enough visitors already, and it isn’t even noon.”
“Enough?” I ask, surprised. “Who else was here?”
“Well, there was her grandmother. And the police with more questions. And then that young man. But she was sleeping when he came, and given her physical condition, the doctor told us not to let anyone wake her.”
“Did you get his name?” I ask.
The nurse shoots me a look. “Sorry.” She checks over Mari, asks a few questions, then leaves.
Amelia turns back to Mari once she’s gone. In a soft, teasing voice, she says, “Do you have a boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”
“I wish,” Mari says, as her eyes droop close. Within moments her body is soft with sleep.
The second we’re in the hall, Amelia turns to me. “What guy came to see my sister? The only guy friend she has is Abe Fong, and he lives in Dallas.”
I stab the elevator button and let this information percolate as a theory slowly develops. Maybe Rudy, Pretty Boy, or Bulldog—whoever slipped her the drug—came to the hospital to intimidate Mari and make sure she didn’t say anything that might implicate them. “I saw three guys giving her beer at the party,” I tell Amelia.
I’m about to tell her the rest of my theory, but she stops walking and stares at me. “That was your idea of chaperoning?”
“If you hadn’t brought her to the party there wouldn’t have been a problem in the first place,” I snap. “So get off your little righteous high horse. You’re as much to blame for what happened as I am. As you know I wasn’t there to chaperone!”
She attempts to kill me with her eyes. “Fine,” she huffs. “We’ll go talk to Rudy. He knows everyone. If someone gave my sister a drink and slipped her liquid gold, he’ll know about it. And when I find out who it was, I’m going to kill the bastard.”
I don’t tell her that maybe the bastard she’s going to want to kill is Rudy.
***
The rain has stopped when we leave the hospital. The air smells fresh enough to eat. We drive in silence, away from the city, until we reach the hills and bump along a teeth-rattling, pot-holed dirt road. Twenty minutes later, certain at least one of my internal organs has been knocked loose, Amelia stops in front of a doublewide trailer flanked by a graveyard of ancient cars.
The ground is muddy. I have to cross a set of tire tracks cut into
the earth like ravines to get to the front door. Amelia opens the door without knocking. I follow her into a shadowy room with sheets covering the windows. The place smells of cat pee and cigarettes.
“Hello?” she calls into the silence.
No answer.
I follow her down a narrow windowless hall. She stops at the end of the hall and knocks on a door next to a bathroom. Still no answer, so she pushes open the door and closes it behind us.
I’m guessing the room belongs to Rudy. It’s what I’d expect from an eighteen-year-old dude living without parental supervision, except for the desk—a clean, well-organized work surface that contrasts with the dirty clothes on the floor, the unmade bed, the collection of empty beer bottles. A lone envelope lies in the middle of the desk. I pick it and see the name Holly Redding printed in black marker.
I’m about to sit down and look through the envelope when the door bangs opens and a scrawny white guy with a military flattop, plaid pajama pants, and a wife-beater tee is standing there, looking like he wants to kill us.
“For fuck’s sake, what are you doing here, Mia?” the guy says, relaxing when he realizes he knows at least one of us.
“Hey, Charlie. Where’s your roommate?” she says, instead of answering.
“I could ask you the same question,” he retorts and slinks into the room. “That shithead woke me up in the middle of the night. He was out late. Then that chick showed up, then that truck.”
“What truck?” I say, thinking of the tracks outside.
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