“You weren’t outside? I told you not to go outside.” Ruby placed a cool hand on Nora’s forehead. There was a stage-two smog alert. “Look, I need you to feel better.”
Nora followed her mother’s quick movements into the kitchen. Ruby was making spaghetti sauce. Maxine was on her way over. “We’re coloring my hair.” Plus, she had a date later. She pulled an ice cube tray from the freezer, yanked up the metal bar, and released the ice onto the counter. The sound was deafening. “Go lie down.”
Her mother filled a towel with ice, a glass with water, and brought in two aspirin. She commanded Nora to keep her eyes closed and stay still. “This will pass quickly, you’ll see.”
Nora slept on and off, a dark and empty sleep without dreams. She might have heard Maxine arrive, the door slam. Perhaps she heard the whoosh of the blow dryer or the rise and fall of conversation. She tried her best to not throw up. Someone set a plate of buttered spaghetti and a glass of ginger ale on the coffee table. There was delighted laughter and Nora saw her mother through half-closed eyes. Ruby’s hair was fierce red. “What do you think, Beanie?”
“Did you call poison control?” Maxine was standing over Nora.
“What could they do?”
“They say milk helps.”
Nora wondered,
Were they talking about the dye or the smog alert?
“This damn city.” She felt her mother’s lips against her forehead, inhaled the thick chemical/floral scent of the dye. Her eyes and mouth watered. The muscles at the back of her throat contracted and Nora retched, nothing but foam and soggy noodles, like wet, stringy brains.
“Poor little thing.”
“Holy shit.” Ruby ran into the kitchen to get paper towels, then knelt at the foot of the couch, sopping things up.
“Who are you?” Nora whispered, which made both women laugh.
“See, she’s rebounding,” Ruby said.
And then Nora was. She sipped ginger ale, and, to make Maxine feel helpful, she drank some milk before Maxine left. Her mother turned on
Room 222,
the show Nora liked about a student teacher at a big Los Angeles high school, and tucked a blanket around her knees.
When Frank Lessing arrived to take Ruby out for just one drink, he patted Nora’s leg and asked again about the TV.
“We love it, okay?” Ruby said. Then she turned to Nora and her voice softened. “Don’t answer the door and only answer our special ring. You remember?”
“Ring twice, hang up, call back.”
“Stay inside.”
“Will you bring home ice cream?”
Her mother kissed her forehead. “You’d better be asleep when we get back.”
“What flavor?” Frank Lessing winked at her. His shirt was so white it hurt Nora’s eyes.
At first she mistook the knocking for a sound in her dream, her mother pacing the wooden floor of her classroom. By the time Nora crossed the carpet to the door, the whimpering voice sounded desperate. “Ms. Hargrove.” The doorknob felt comforting against Nora’s hot palm. She bent down and touched her forehead to it—so cool; she paused and closed her eyes. “Ms. Hargrove,” the voice said again and Nora was confused. Her mother told her not to open the door but this person knew them.
“Who is it?”
“Is your mother home?” Nora thought she recognized the silky, gritty voice. She opened the door and there was Elena, leaning against the doorjamb, her palm pressed to her forehead. She attempted to smile, but to Nora it looked like a grimace.
She opened the door wider and Elena stumbled in. She wore a simple black dress and flat shoes. Her hair was flat too, and her face was bare of makeup. Her green eyes were clouded, and her gaze darted around Nora’s living room.
“My mother isn’t home.” Nora hung back by the open door, gripping her elbows in front of her chest. Her arm burned where the boy would have Elena’s name inked onto his flesh, twice.
“You’re home alone?”
“I’m sick,” Nora answered, as if that had anything to do with it.
Elena slumped onto the sofa, her knees squeezed together. “What’s the matter with you?”
“Smog poisoning.”
She huffed like she didn’t believe Nora, only the huff turned into a groan and she tipped over onto her side.
Nora shut the door. “What happened to you?” She was part frozen, part ready to spring into action. “What do you need?” She tried to imagine what her mother would do if she were home. She would move around. She would get things.
Elena squeezed her eyes tight and Nora ran to the kitchen. A moment later she was back with aspirin, an ice pack, a bowl with two meatballs, and ginger ale. Strands of dark hair clung to Elena’s forehead where she was perspiring, other bits curled in tiny ringlets. Her face was very pale and she was sweating on her top lip as well, perfect little dots. Her hand shook as she brought the glass to her lips to swallow the aspirin. “Do you know.” Elena paused. “When will she be back?”
Nora shook her head but she said soon. “They went for one drink.” When she reached out to take the glass away, Elena grabbed on to her wrist and squeezed. Nora didn’t say that one drink could take a long time. Something was terribly wrong. Elena was supposed to be on a Greyhound. How long ago had she written that entry? Nora thought of Celia and the reds. She didn’t even know what reds were but maybe they could make you this sick. Elena reached down and touched between her own legs. When she brought her hand up, she cried out, and Nora stepped back, her hand covering her mouth. “Should I call for help?”
“No, no, no, no. Don’t. My parents can’t know.”
Nora ran from the room and returned with her knapsack. She dug out the maxi-pad and gave it to Elena, who gripped it in her hand, leaving a dark red smear.
“A towel,” she said, and Nora ran from the room again.
Elena lifted her hips and slid the towel beneath. She was lying flat now. Her eyes closed; she was terribly pale.
“Promise you won’t leave me alone. Even if I fall asleep,” she insisted. “Promise.”
Nora sat stiff straight on the floor, near to Elena’s head, far from the other part. She slipped a small pillow under Elena’s head then stared at the door, mouthing the words
Come home, come home, come home.
Just in case, she wanted the telephone beside her, yet she was afraid to get up. The long black cord snaked from the kitchen into Ruby’s dark bedroom. Once Elena slept, Nora would turn on all the lights in the apartment and retrieve it. From health class she knew where to feel for a pulse. Nora wrapped her fingers around Elena’s slim wrist and began to count while on the TV Johnny Carson told jokes. The audience laughter nearly drowned out Elena’s coarse and shallow breathing. Nora lost count twice before she gave up and took small comfort in the faint beat.
“Dr. Beautiful?” Elena whispered. “Do you have a boyfriend yet?” She offered her smile-grimace one more time.
“You should rest.”
It was the station sign-off on the TV screen, an American flag flapping in a stiff breeze, when the doorknob finally turned.
“. . . not what I meant. I do, I like it, very, very much,” Frank was saying, and Ruby responded, “Shh. Nora’s asleep.”
As soon as Nora saw them she ran at her mother. “Why did you leave me alone?” she wailed.
Ruby stepped back, away from Nora’s fists. “You’re up?” There was a laugh behind the question, which disappeared when she looked into Nora’s worried face.
“Who’s that?” Frank said.
“She’s bleeding.” Nora sank down onto the floor and began to shake.
“Elena?” Ruby knelt at the couch, ran her hands down Elena’s arms, checked the tender skin of her wrists. She looked at Nora over her shoulder. “What do you mean, bleeding? Did she tell you anything?”
Nora rocked on her knees, afraid to ask if Elena was dead.
In her spring-loaded voice Ruby told Nora to make coffee. “Black and strong.” She repeated Elena’s name, louder each time, while she hooked her hands beneath the girl’s armpits to pull her upright. When Elena inched upward Ruby caught sight of the sofa. “Holy shit. Get towels. Forget the coffee. Get water.”
Frank was already dialing.
“Can you make her better?”
“She’s hemorrhaging. Quick, elevate her legs.” Ruby pushed Elena’s upper body back down, then stepped to the other end of the sofa to heave her legs farther onto the cushions. Elena’s black dress fell to her hips. Her bare legs emerging from the pink of her underpants looked rubbery and gray, completely wrong. “Shove pillows under her hips. She needs blood to her brain and heart.”
Frank spoke numbers rapidly into the phone, their address, and then “Oh God,” when he looked at Elena. “She’s been butchered.”
Her mother stood, her hands clutching her new red hair. Her voice was steady, intent.
“They’re on the way.” Frank opened the front door and stuck his head into the hall, looking in each direction.
“Nora, get a blanket. Get two.”
When Nora hesitated, Ruby said more sharply, “Now. I need you. Elena needs you. We have to keep her warm.”
She ran to her mother’s room and pulled off the chenille bedspread and a blanket then brought them back. Ruby shoved one beneath Elena’s hips, and Nora covered the girl. Ruby slipped the pillow from beneath Elena’s head.
“What are you doing?” Frank asked.
“We need to keep blood flowing to her brain. Until they get here, this is all we can do.” She raised one of Elena’s eyelids with her thumb. The muscles along Ruby’s jaw tensed and relaxed as she watched Elena’s eye. “It will all be okay, honey. Hold on.”
“She knew exactly what to do,” Frank said later that night. He lugged the soaked cushions and blankets out to the Dumpster. Nora followed, opening doors, afraid to be alone.
“She’ll be fine?” she asked.
“If your mother has anything to say about it.” The Dumpster lid clanged down, and Frank turned to face her. Nora stared up at him, her lips parted, her eyebrows raised. She didn’t know what to do with her arms, so she switched them from hanging at her sides to crossing over her chest.
“Please don’t worry. Your mother is amazing. She was a lifeguard, huh? What hasn’t your mother done?” He patted his thigh as if Nora were a puppy, but she went to him anyway, let him put his arm around her shoulders. “The paramedics said so too. Remember? When they started the IVs?”
Nora barely remembered. The whole day and night was confusing. What she most remembered was her mom telling Elena to hold on; her mom’s new fierce red hair; her signature in Elena’s journal; her steady voice; her strong arms; Elena’s gray legs; and the smell of all that blood, like buried nails, sharp and old.
“That poor kid. What a choice,” Frank said. He shook his head and started to say something more, but stopped. Instead, he led Nora to her sofa. “There’s no rush to be involved with boys,” he said, draping his arm around her shoulder. They sat quietly together in the warm night air. His shirt was smooth against her cheek; his body felt solid, reliable. It felt like something she could get used to. When Nora breathed in, she smelled her mom’s Jean Naté.
Before Ruby followed the stretcher into the ambulance, she made Frank promise to stay with Nora until she returned. She gripped his elbow and made him promise, twice. “I know it’s a big deal,” she’d said. Frank nodded and told her to go, that he’d figure something out.
“You must be tired,” he said to Nora.
She shook her head, but she was lying.
“It’s okay. I won’t go anywhere. I promised, remember?”
From the distant freeway came the muted wail of another siren, not sharp-edged like Elena’s ambulance, which had howled before it even pulled away, before the door closed on her stooped-over mother, who held on to Elena with one hand and flashed their
I love you
sign to Nora with the other.
“Your mom would want you to get some sleep.”
Nora struggled to keep her eyes open. Dots of light—apartments lit up inside tall glass buildings, planes and helicopters crisscrossing overhead, tiny distant stars—pricked the rust-colored night sky. In Los Angeles it was never completely dark.
A Whole Weekend of My Life
The diamonds were huge. And they were mine.
“They’re the size of birth control pills,” my mother commented dryly.
In front of the mirror, I poked the thin gold wires through my earlobes, and bits of fractured light swirled around my face as if from a disco ball. My father had sent them special delivery. I had to sign for them.
Our living room windows were thrown open wide, and the Santa Ana winds felt like they were blowing in off the tip of a match. José Feliciano doing “Light My Fire” played low on the stereo. My mother was curled up on the couch in her baby-doll pajamas with her drink du jour, tequila and orange soda. She held the cold glass to her neck and picked up her book, a Sidney Sheldon novel I’d devoured the Saturday before, locked in my bedroom, the tops of my thighs tingling and sweaty.
On my way out, when I leaned over to kiss the top of her head, my mother licked her finger and placed it on the page. “Do you have a ride home?” Her eyebrows arched like Catwoman’s, perfect and predatory. This was not an offer but a veiled threat. I couldn’t go to the dance if I hadn’t made arrangements.
“Yolanda’s dad.” I hoped he wouldn’t pick us up in his squad car.
“That’s what you’re wearing?”
Her dress hung from my shoulders. It was a little long but I liked the V in front and the rise of skin it revealed. The palm-frond print made my eyes look almost green. Lately I’d taken to calling myself Jade in my diary and to wearing its slim silver key on a chain around my neck. I drew my shoulders back, and shut the door behind me.
At John Burroughs Junior High, the gym doors stood open to the wind. Fall-colored crepe-paper decorations rustled like real leaves. People gathered in drifts. Anxious boys feigned boredom beneath the hoops. Mr. Ridge surveyed the dance floor from behind the punch bowl, his arms hanging stiff as baseball bats at his side. Our art teacher, Ms. Pearl, fluttered around the door in her gauzy skirt, welcoming students to the Harvest Dance.
“Wow, that green is—positively electric,” she said. She pressed her lips into a tight smile.