Her Pretty Face

by Robyn Harding

  In the parking lot, she heard the big car. It could have been another big car, or a loud motorcycle, but she set the magazine on the shelf and hurried toward the sound. If it wasn’t him, she would go home. The cashier looked up from counting lottery tickets as the door ding-donged, letting her out into the rainy night. The car was there, idling in a parking spot, waiting for her. She scurried through the drizzle and climbed into the passenger seat.

  They drove in silence, again, and Daisy experienced a déjà vu moment. “Where are we going?” Hadn’t she asked that exact question less than a week ago? But this time the man wouldn’t be taking her home. That was the difference.

  “To my place. Near the university.”

  “Are you a student?”

  He snorted, like it was a ridiculous notion.

  As they traveled, her stomach began to settle, her need for the toilet dissipating. Now that she was with him, she felt more at ease, though perhaps, she should have felt less. An older man, a stranger, was taking her to his apartment. But there was something familiar about the man now, something comforting and safe. She glanced over at him.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “What?”

  “When you texted me, you said Daisy. But I never told you.”

  He smirked and indicated her backpack. “I was referring to that.” She looked at her bag, at the daisy key chain dangling from one of its plastic loops. “I thought I was giving you a nickname.”

  Daisy smiled back. “What’s your name?” she asked.

  “David.”

  David was a man’s name; not a boy’s name, like Liam.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, David parked the car in a concrete garage underneath a bland, blocky, four-story building. Daisy trotted along beside him as he led her through the dimly lit basement to a small, musty elevator. She was nervous again, but in a good way—jittery with excitement and anticipation, of what exactly she wasn’t sure. Her stomach fluttered pleasantly as the door closed on them. David stabbed the third-floor button.

  “Lived here long?” Her voice came out high-pitched and girlish.

  “Not really.”

  “Where did you live before?” She felt compelled to fill the silence with flip words. If she didn’t, the intensity of the moment might undo her.

  The doors slid open, saving him from answering. David led the way down a carpeted hallway to a pressboard door marked 308. He turned his key in the lock and ushered Daisy inside.

  It was a furnished apartment—Daisy had lived in enough temporary housing to recognize the standard-issue beige sofa, the matching laminate coffee and end tables, the mass-produced art on the walls. The Randolphs had spent months in such accommodations as they waited for their furniture to be shipped to them. She hadn’t expected a guy David’s age to be so transient, but it was evident that this was not a real home.

  Daisy dropped her bag in the entryway and moved to the sofa. David went into the galley kitchen and she heard him opening the fridge. He joined her, holding out a pink beverage.

  “I got your favorite.”

  She accepted the vodka cooler, the same kind he had bought for her that night. It was so thoughtful that he had remembered. David sat beside her and cracked his beer. He took a drink, his eyes on her.

  “Where do your parents think you are right now?”

  “My dad’s out of town. And my mom doesn’t care where I am.” He gave her a quizzical look, so she expanded. “We don’t really get along.”

  “I guess you’ll be moving out soon,” David said. “Once you’ve finished high school.”

  Right . . . “Yeah. Probably. I’m not sure what I’ll do.”

  “There are lots of ways a girl like you can make money.”

  “I guess. . . .” She took a drink of her sweet, fizzy beverage. “What do you do? For work?”

  “Sales,” he said. “Importing.”

  “Cool.” She wasn’t sure if it really was cool, but she had to say something. She could feel his eyes on her. Taking another gulp, she bravely met his gaze.

  She had expected to see something there, perhaps longing or lust. The eye contact would be the prelude to a kiss, maybe even something more. But though his stare was weighty, there was nothing romantic or sexual in it. David was observing her, examining her, like she was a specimen in a petri dish.

  “You’re pretty,” he finally said. It was a statement of fact, not a flirtation.

  “Thanks.”

  He said nothing, just stared. David seemed entirely comfortable with the long silences between them. They made Daisy feel panicky and sweaty, compelled to fill them with inane banter. “So . . . do you like animals?”

  He responded with a question. “Do you get high, Daisy?”

  “Yes.” It was a bit too enthusiastic, but she wanted to sound mature, worldly.

  Without a word, David stood, disappearing down the hallway. He returned moments later with a small plastic bag full of weed. He tossed it on the coffee table, then looked at the empty bottle in Daisy’s hand. “Ready for another one?”

  She hadn’t realized she’d drunk the whole thing. “Sure.”

  Alone in the living room, Daisy inspected the transparent bag of marijuana. Nestled in the weed was a small, intricately folded paper envelope. What did it contain? Coke? Ecstasy? Heroin? As David returned with her drink, she realized she was in over her head.

  “I should go.”

  He sat beside her. “You’re fine, Daisy. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  It was as if he had read her thoughts—no, more than her thoughts, her entire psyche. He knew exactly what she needed to hear, even before she did. David had articulated her deepest, most base desire. Daisy wanted someone to care for her. She was fourteen years old, with a cold and indifferent mother and a distracted, distant father. Her parents had secrets, dark tales kept only between them, and no one, not even their children, could penetrate their bond. It was emotional neglect—though Daisy didn’t have a precise term for it. Living with two people who shared such a pact was incredibly lonely.

  David took her hand, gave it a squeeze. It was loving, almost paternal. Through a lump in her throat, she said, “Okay. I’ll stay.”

  He deftly rolled a joint and they passed it back and forth, toking in silence for a while. As the pot and alcohol took effect, Daisy began to relax. Eventually, David stubbed the blunt out in an ashtray, and leaned back on the sofa.

  “What do you want to be when you grow up, Daisy?”

  Daisy didn’t answer—she couldn’t answer. It wasn’t just that she was high and pretty drunk; she had been so before, more than once. But she knew the expected answer: CEO, nurse, playwright, mom. . . . When Daisy considered her future, she never thought in terms of specifics. She daydreamed, frequently, about her next chapter, but her visualizations didn’t include careers, partners, parenthood. She dreamed of one thing only.

  “Free,” she said.

  David smiled, impressed with her clever answer. “I’ll get you another drink.”

  She accepted the bottle, nursing from it as she melted into the sofa. Her lids were getting heavy, and her grip loose. She downed the sweet alcohol and set the empty vessel on the coffee table. Her eyes would not stay open, so she leaned against the arm of the sofa and closed them, just for a moment. Then she felt a blanket being placed over her, David’s big hands tucking her in. She felt cared for. She slept.

  dj

  THEN

  His mother had written him a letter. DJ found it on his dresser, the morning after she left, the rectangular envelope propped against a stack of video game cartridges. Its presence meant that his mom had been in his room while he was sleeping. If only he had woken up, he could have stopped her from going, or begged her to take him with her. But despite the horrors of the day, he had slept deeply and soundly.

  He read the missive alone in his room, tears sliding down his cheeks.

  DJ,

  I’m sorry to leave y
ou like this, but I am so broken. Your sister’s death has killed me, too. I need to go home for a while, to be with my family. I need to surround myself with nature, with trees and rivers and mountains. When I stop seeing your sister’s torture in my head, when I stop hearing her screaming and crying and begging for her life, I can be your mother again. When I find a way to heal, I’ll send for you. I promise.

  I know you’ll be angry, but please try to understand. Stay strong. Stand up to your father.

  I love you.

  Mom

  DJ dried his eyes with the backs of his hands; then he crumpled the letter into a ball and tossed it into his wastebasket. When he walked out to the kitchen, his father was at the table. He had a mug in front of him—alcohol, not coffee, DJ could smell it—and a bowl of cereal.

  “Your mom’s gone,” his father said, crunching the flakes.

  “I know.”

  “She’s weak. Always has been.”

  “I guess.” DJ went to the freezer, grabbed a box of frozen waffles.

  “She thinks she can go back home to Alaska and pretend she never had a daughter or a son or a husband. She thinks she can forget about us and all the shit that’s gone on here.”

  DJ dropped the frozen disks into the toaster.

  “So I’m the one who has to stay here and deal with the fucking trial, and the fucking lawyers, and those fucking monsters that took your sister.” He glowered at his son. “I’m the one who has to stay here and look after you.”

  “Mom said she’ll send for me when she’s better.”

  His dad laughed, a humorless snort. “She’s not going to send for you, dumbass.” His chair scraped across the tiles as he stood. “You’re never going to see her again.”

  DJ wanted to cave the man’s skull in with the cast-iron frying pan that sat on a back burner of the stove, or grab a kitchen knife and plunge it into his dad’s chest. But he couldn’t. He was too soft, too weak, too afraid. And now his dad was all he had left.

  His father set his mug and bowl in the sink. When he leaned in close and spoke, DJ could smell the whiskey that made the man so cruel.

  “It’s just you and me now, tubby.”

  He slapped his son’s belly and it jiggled on impact. As his dad left the room, the toaster popped. The sweet, yeasty scent of the waffles churned DJ’s stomach and he leaned over the sink. For a moment, he thought he might be sick, but he forced the feeling down, swallowed the bile, the rage, the sadness.

  On autopilot, he put the waffles on a plate, smothered them in margarine and artificial maple syrup. He sat and shoveled the food into his mouth, trying to mask the taste of hatred and anger, but it lingered. Each bite was bitter, chemically, but he kept eating, waiting for the numbing effect, the almost trancelike state he could achieve when his body was full of sugar. It wasn’t working. He put more waffles in the toaster and waited. He couldn’t stop eating until the pain was gone, because he knew his dad was right.

  He was never going to see his mother again.

  daisy

  NOW

  When she woke up on the tweedy, musty sofa, the apartment was dark, silent. At first, she wasn’t sure if it was morning or night, but the hum of activity outside the heavy curtains—commuters, buses, delivery trucks—informed her it was early a.m. The November sun liked to sleep late. She couldn’t blame it.

  She lifted her head, painfully, from the cushioned arm of the sofa. Her neck was stiff and there was a dull ache between her eyebrows. A hangover. How many drinks had she had? She remembered having a couple, but there must have been more, if the pounding in her head was any indication. The events of the previous night were foggy and unfocused. She recalled arriving, sitting next to David on the couch. He had bought her the coolers she liked—make that used to like. The very thought of them made her stomach roil.

  Throwing the blanket off her, she sat up, her brain sloshing painfully in her skull. When she tried to stand, the room spun around her. She sat back down, dropping her head into her hands. Oh, god. Everything was moving and swirling and tilting. She was going to be sick. She couldn’t throw up on David’s carpet. She had to get to the bathroom.

  With her mouth watering menacingly, she staggered to the hallway. There were two closed doors: one would be the bedroom, the other the bathroom. If she made the wrong choice, she would burst into David’s room and puke on the floor, right in front of him. And then she would die of embarrassment. She chose the door on her right. Luck was on her side.

  She fell to her knees in front of the toilet just as a stream of hot, pink liquid shot out of her. She coughed and retched, her stomach forcing out more of the bitter fluid. Tears poured from her eyes as she heaved again and again. She felt poisoned, her body trying to detox itself from last night’s indulgences. Her nerves had precluded her eating dinner yesterday . . . possibly even lunch, come to think of it. There was nothing left in her stomach, but still it convulsed, over and over. Daisy worried she was doing some serious damage to her esophagus.

  David would hear her and he would be disgusted, but she was too sick to be ashamed. She needed to go to the hospital. She needed an ambulance. Something was very wrong with her.

  “David,” she called, lifting her head out of the bowl. “Help me.”

  That slight movement of her head made the room sway again and she puked some more. Soon David would come, bring her a cool facecloth, and maybe a pillow so she could lie down on the floor between bouts of vomiting. Through the fog in her brain, she remembered his strong hands placing the blanket on her, how safe she had felt.

  But he didn’t come. Even when she called him again, louder this time . . . nothing. His room was directly across the hall. There was no way he couldn’t hear her. On hands and knees, Daisy crept out of the bathroom and across the carpeted hallway. With her head down, eyes on the floor, the nausea was less overwhelming. She pushed open the bedroom door and crawled across the threshold. If David was there, sitting in bed, she would look like a lunatic . . . a repulsive, puking lunatic. But even before she lifted her head, she knew. The double bed was unmade but empty.

  She lay down on the floor for a moment, regaining her equilibrium. Where was he? When had he left? Was he coming back? She suddenly realized how vulnerable she was—sick, lost, and alone. She could die here, in a stranger’s apartment. David might not return for hours, and by then it would be too late. What would he do when he found her lifeless body? Who would he call? Her heart raced and her chest tightened. She struggled to breathe. She didn’t want it all to end this way.

  With serious effort, she half crawled, half dragged herself into the living room. Her phone was on a side table, resting next to a generically ugly lamp. She climbed onto the sofa, and reached for the device. Resting her head against the cushioned arm (last night’s pillow), she scrolled through her contacts with trembling hands.

  Her peers were of no use to her. Even if they cared about her—which they didn’t—they were too young to drive. Her dad was away. And her mom . . . Daisy couldn’t call her mom. No. No way. And then she saw the name, so recently added to her contacts. Frances Metcalfe. The woman had promised to be there for her. Rescuing Daisy from alcohol poisoning in some random guy’s apartment was likely not what Frances had in mind, but Daisy was already dialing the number.

  “Hello?” Frances’s voice was cool and leery. She clearly didn’t recognize Daisy’s number.

  “It’s Daisy,” she said, her voice hoarse from all the barfing. “I need help.”

  “What’s wrong, Daisy?” The woman’s voice was shrill and panicked. “Where are you?”

  “I don’t know.” Daisy was crying now. “I’m in an apartment near the university. I’m really sick and I’m alone and I need help.”

  “Are you on something? Should I call 9-1-1? Should I call your mom?”

  “No!” Daisy cried. “I had some drinks. And some pot . . . Please. Don’t. Just . . . come.”

  “I will.” Frances’s voice was calmer. “Is there anything
around you with an address on it? A bill, maybe, or a magazine subscription.”

  Daisy’s eyes surveyed the sterile space. “I don’t see anything.”

  “Do you have an iPhone?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll use the Find My Friends app. You’ll need to go into the app and allow me to track you.”

  “Okay.” Daisy sniveled.

  “It will get me close to you, but you need to find the address and text it to me.”

  “I’ll try.” She sniveled again.

  “Go outside and check the street name and number if you have to. I’m on my way.”

  “Thank you.”

  Daisy hung up and crawled back to the bathroom.

  frances

  NOW

  The bland apartment building squatted on the edge of a busy street. As instructed, Daisy had found the address and texted it to Frances. She parked her car, grabbed her purse and a canvas shopping bag filled with supplies, and hurried toward the four-story structure. The main door of the dated building was propped open; someone was moving in or out, or having furniture delivered. A midsize white moving truck took up two spaces out front. Frances walked past the two men lugging the pieces of a couch or a bed in a massive cardboard box, and hurried inside.

  She took the stairs. She didn’t have patience to wait for the small, rickety elevator. Her heart pounded as she climbed—exertion and nerves. What would she find when she reached apartment 308? Was Daisy okay? Was she alone? Was Frances putting herself in danger, too? She should have called Kate. Or Jason, for backup. But she had promised to help the troubled girl and she would. Emerging into the musty hallway, she hustled to the door.

  Frances knocked loudly. “Daisy, it’s me,” she called through the flimsy wood. “Let me in.”

  It took a few seconds, but the door opened, revealing the teen. The girl was pale—almost green—and smelled of alcohol and sick. Her posture was hunched and pained. She stepped back, allowing Frances into the apartment.