Dustin’s small, yippy dog, whose name I can’t recall, runs around the kitchen sniffing everything in sight.
Custody. The very word makes my stomach curdle. I don’t know if he can even do that. And I don’t know whom to ask. Whatever happens, I cannot lose Cole.
Daisy puts a steaming mug in front of me. “You poor thing,” she says. She could be referring to any number of things—my public fight with Mark just now or my passing out at International Night. I cringe at the thought.
Leah puts the condom wrapper on the counter. She must have picked it up from the street after I tossed it.
“Do you want to talk about this?”
“Not really.”
“What happened last night?” Leah’s eyes scan my face for an answer. “Had you taken a Xanax or an Ativan?”
I shake my head.
“We were so worried about you.” Daisy purses her cupid-bow lips together.
“I think someone drugged me.”
They shoot each other a look. It’s quick, so quick I could easily have missed it. They don’t believe me.
“You think someone drugged you?” Leah asks, her voice as soft and gentle as a cotton ball.
“I don’t know. It could have been anyone. I ate a ton of different food.”
No one speaks. The only sound is the click-click-click of the little dog’s nails on my wooden floor.
“So you think someone made food for International Night,” Leah says slowly, “and put aside a little bit with drugs in it for you?” She keeps glancing over at Daisy when she says this.
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I jut my chin out, challenging them to question me.
“Allie, we’re trying to help.”
“Well, it’s not helping. I don’t need friends who don’t believe me.”
“We believe you,” Leah says. Daisy nods in agreement and puts her hand on my back. My defenses melt, as does any effort at staying composed. Tears pour forth, and I can’t stop them. I put my face in my hands as my whole body convulses with deep sobs. Leah presses a paper towel into my hand, and Daisy rubs my back, which just makes me cry harder. The past ten days have been like hurtling up and down a monster roller coaster. Just when I think things are winding down, I find myself perched on the brink of disaster once again. “Mark took Cole for the weekend. He’s given me an ultimatum,” I say through tears. “If I don’t go to rehab, he’s going to file for emergency custody of Cole.” I look up at their faces. “Can he do that?”
I scan their faces for answers, but they offer none. “Well, I’m not going. That’s for sure,” I say.
Leah chews her lip. Daisy shrugs.
“What?” I ask. “You think I should go?”
“I don’t know.” Leah sighs. “I’m not saying he’s handling this the best way possible—”
“Definitely not,” Daisy says, making circles on my back with her palm.
“But maybe some time away wouldn’t be the worst idea. You need a break, Allie.”
Her touch, which had soothed me moments before, now feels oppressive to me, and I shake her hand off. I stand up straight. “You guys think I need to go to rehab?”
“That’s not what we’re saying,” Daisy says. “It’s just…”
“It’s just what?”
“Would it hurt to go talk to someone? Take a little vacation from all this craziness?”
“Maybe it’ll be good to get away for a few days,” Daisy says. “Talk to a professional, someone who can be objective about everything that’s been going on?”
Before I can answer, the tinny sound of a cell phone rings from the mudroom. “That’s my phone,” I say. “I should get it.”
Leah steps toward me. “Sweetie, we only want what’s best for you.”
I grab my phone and groan. It’s Morningside House. The last thing I need is more drama with my mother. “Hold on, please,” I say as soon as I answer. Then I hold the phone to my chest. “I need to take this.”
Daisy’s mouth drops open, but she doesn’t speak. I wait until they are gone before I put the phone to my ear.
“This is Lydia from Morningside House. Your mother has been taken to the emergency room.”
48
Once upon a time, a call that my mother was in the emergency room would have sent me into a tailspin. But over the past few years, I have gotten used to getting one every few months. Stumbles and falls, mostly. The problem with a dementia patient is that when she falls, she often has no memory of it, and she can even have difficulty expressing that she is in pain.
That’s where the emergency room visits come in. If the patient can’t communicate, most facilities send their residents to the hospital to run every test known to man, just in case.
A total CYA move.
I’d been through this with Sharon a dozen times, and as I drive to the hospital, I say a little prayer that this is one of those times. A routine fall. Nothing more. I am grateful that her assisted living center sent her to Suburban, like I specified on her forms. It’s only a ten-minute drive from my house.
I don’t think I can handle anything more right now.
As I drive, I dial Krystle’s number, but the call goes straight to voice mail. I dial again and again, without success. I know my sister. She is never more than ten feet away from her phone. If she could have it surgically attached to her body, she would.
A fat raindrop plops on the windshield. I look up at the milky white sky, which perfectly reflects the gloom suffocating me. It’s only a matter of minutes until it pours. Bits of last night’s conversation with Krystle float back to me as I wait at a red light. Something about an account opened up in her name.
It feels like the three of us—Krystle, Sharon, and me—are all cursed.
I turn into Suburban Hospital’s large
