Lisa Gardner - Touch & Go

I never minded, though. Even then, I knew these moments wouldn’t last forever. That the first five years of my daughter’s life, for all of the exhausting sleeplessness, were one of the only times she would truly belong to me. First, she’d learn to crawl, then walk, then run away on her own.

So I liked to hold her close, smell the baby shampoo scent of her hair. Feel her like a hot little furnace, nuzzled up next to me.

My girl wasn’t little anymore. At fifteen, she stood at nearly my height. And yet her rib cage still felt so slight. She was growing like a colt, all skinny arms and legs. Given Justin’s size, she would probably top my head next year. It was one of those things, I guessed. She’d always be my little girl and yet, she never would be again.

My body started to shake, my stomach cramping. I willed the tremors away, but they didn’t listen.

“Mom?” my daughter asked. Her voice was soft, subdued.

I brushed back her long wheat-brown hair, and for the first time in a long time, my own weakness shamed me. I never should’ve taken that first pill. I never should’ve let something as stupid and pathetic as my husband’s affair become an excuse to fall apart. Maybe my marriage was done. But I still had motherhood. How had I forgotten about that?

“My concussion,” I mumbled, a vague enough excuse.

My daughter wasn’t fooled. She rolled over, staring at me. She had my eyes, everyone always said that. Not gold, not green. Somewhere in between. She was beautiful and smart, and growing up too fast. I touched her cheek, and for once, she didn’t flinch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. My brow was starting to sweat. I could feel the beads of moisture, except in my hazy state, they felt less like water, more like blood.

“You need your pills,” she said.

“How did…” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“I’ve been going through your purse,” my daughter stated matter-of-factly. “And your cell phone. Dad’s, too. Both of you, you didn’t just stop speaking to each other. You stopped speaking to me.”

I didn’t say anything, just searched her gaze, tried to find myself in my teenager’s unflinching stare. “We love you. That will never change.”

“I know.”

“Sometimes, parents have to be people, too.”

“I don’t want people,” she said. “I want my mom and dad.”

She rolled back over. Then my time was up. One side effect of taking an opiate: severe constipation. Meaning once you go off that drug, your body has some catching up to do.

I made it to the toilet just in time.

The diarrhea was violent and smelly and awful. I would’ve cried, except between the chronic vomiting, sweating and now this, my body didn’t have any moisture left.

Ashlyn remained on the top bunk, did her best to give me privacy. Not that it really mattered anymore.

I was being broken down, I thought, clutching my cramping stomach. Devolving from human to animal. From a respectable wife and mother who once knew her place in the world, to a woman who might as well collapse in a gutter.

Then, the worst of the diarrhea was over. All that remained was shaking and sweating and aching and the deepest, darkest despair.

I made it off the toilet. Curled up on the floor.

And waited for the world to end.

LATER, Ashlyn told me that Radar came. He had a jug of water, a pile of towels and a bunch of pills. An antidiarrheal, some acetaminophen, an antihistamine. It took both Radar and Ashlyn to get the pills down my throat.

Then Radar was gone, and Ashlyn was left with the task of dampening towels and wiping my face. She couldn’t figure out how to move me to the bunk, so she sat with me on the floor.

At one point, I remember opening my eyes, watching her watch me.

“You’re going to be okay,” she murmured. Then, “I don’t feel sorry for you, Mom. It’s the least you deserve.”

Except later, I heard her crying, hushed, wracking sobs and I tried to touch her face, tried to tell her she was right and I was wrong, but I couldn’t move my arms. I was underwater again, sinking down, down, down, watching my daughter drift away from me.

“I hate you,” my daughter was saying. “I fucking hate both of you. You cannot leave me like this. You can’t leave me .”

And I didn’t blame her. In fact, I wanted to tell her I understood. I hated my father, too, because he hadn’t wanted to wear a helmet. And I hated my mother, who even when we couldn’t afford dinner, always had a fresh pack of cigarettes. Why were parents so weak, so fallible? Why couldn’t my own parents have seen how much I loved them, needed them beside me?

They died, leaving behind the kind of void that is never filled, a relentless ache that follows an abandoned child throughout her entire life. And I stood alone, a pillar of brittle strength until the day I met Justin. Wonderful, gorgeous, larger-than-life Justin. Who swept me off my feet and made me feel beautiful and loved and desired beyond all reason. And now we were living happily ever after, the king and queen of Camelot.

I think I might have started giggling. Maybe I laughed until I cried, because the next thing I knew, my daughter was once again in focus and this time Ashlyn’s face was frightened, and she kept saying, “Please Mom, please Mom, please Mom,” and that shamed me all over again.

I was supposed to take care of my daughter, not the other way around. I was supposed to keep her safe.

Radar reappeared. He did not look at me. He did not speak to my daughter.

He had another handful of pills.

These ones got the job done. My aches and pains disappeared. The dark void whittled down, down, down. My panting, shivering and sweating stopped.

My body stilled.

I slept.

After a bit, my daughter curled up on the floor beside me. This time with her arm around my waist, her face pressed against my hair.

She slept, too.

For a moment.

THE CELL DOOR EXPLODED OPEN. The first armored beetle rushed in, screaming and yelling and wielding his mattress, jerking us once again from slumber to full alertness.

The beetle whacked us with his mattress. Yelled at us to get up, up, up.

On the floor, my daughter’s arm tightened around my waist. I wrapped my fingers around her hand and held on tight.

Don’t let her go don’t let her go don’t let her go. She is mine they cannot have her.

More screaming, more yelling, more whacking.

Mick, finally releasing his shield, grabbing Ashlyn’s shoulders, trying to physically yank her up off the floor. Me, gripping tighter. Him, pulling, pulling, pulling, so relentlessly, freakishly strong.

Our hands parted, Ashlyn’s fingers slipping through mine.

Mick lifted her away from me.

I staggered to my feet and kicked him in the balls.

More protective padding, but maybe not foolproof. Mick fell back, released Ashlyn, considered me instead. This time, I kicked his knee, then rained feeble, kitten-like blows at his kidney. I had virtually no strength, could barely stand, but I didn’t pause. I just kicked and hit and hit and kicked, until he finally fumbled for his mattress shield and Ashlyn bolted away, up onto the top bunk, where she formed a crouch, as if preparing to launch at him.

Suddenly, a fresh set of hands, huge, ungodly strong, lifted me off the floor and held me in midair. Ashlyn’s eyes went wide in her face.

Z stating quietly, his voice an inch from my ear: “Mick, you are a fucking waste of human DNA. Stop dicking around and get the job done.”

Mick didn’t reach for Ashlyn, but huffed out of the cell.

Z set me back down, his hands still holding me firmly in place. His next command was directed at my daughter: “You. Sit.”

She sat.

Then Mick returned, except this time he wasn’t alone. He shoved Justin before him, my husband stumbling toward the nearest bunk, grabbing for the metal frame to support himself.