Reclaiming Lily (25 page)

Joy’s smile lit up the photos in the dumpy old joint, which had never looked better. While having such a blast, Gloria could almost forget about the faint scar on her daughter’s wrist. Almost.

17

Same table. Same Nicole. Same Warhol poster. Different Joy.

Nicole picked up a treat bowl, nabbed two Kisses, and passed it to Gloria.

Typically, Gloria would have been tempted by the dark, creamy goodness, but now she had to squelch the urge to retch. For heaven’s sake! Even her love of chocolate had succumbed to this prenatal sickness?

“Your daughter came to session yesterday with a list of goals.” Nicole munched on candy, tucked her hair behind her ears, flipped file pages, and grinned at Joy. “This is huge!”

A paper slid its way to Gloria and brought back memories of last week’s meeting, in this very room. That had been huge too. A new start.

Goals for the Week of 4/9 to 4/13

Clean up room

Write rough draft

Meet with counselor about nursing program

Research PKD

Call Harris H. about volunteering

Talk to Mother

Though the last item was written in the same concise print as Joy’s other goals, the letters looped about Gloria’s neck. Conversation with Joy had been reduced to an item on a to-do list?
I have no one to blame but myself.

“Joy and I’ve been meeting during her free period. Her teachers sign off daily on a form. Part of the station adjustment.” Nicole handed Gloria a paper. “Here’s the ones from yesterday.”

A different girl . . . revised her Thoreau paper . . . participated in class discussion . . . on time . . . work completed . . .

Gloria ran her finger along each teacher comment, letting the words infuse her with hope. “This is amazing.”

“Cool, huh?” Nicole unwrapped another chocolate and popped it in her mouth.

“Flat-out amazing.”

Joy ducked her head but couldn’t hide a grin.

Gloria let out her breath. One response at a time, she’d learn Joy 101. Their family depended on it.

“So that’s Joy’s school progress.” Nicole grabbed her clipboard and flipped back the page. “Yesterday, Dr. Peters and I spoke about Joy’s emotional well-being.”

Gloria tensed. Had Dr. Peters noted their failures as parents on a to-do list?

“Joy agreed to have her file released to me.”

Heat crept from Gloria’s neck to her face.

“It is Dr. Peters’ opinion that Joy’s cutting incident does not manifest ingrained self-hate or long-term self-destructive tendencies but rather evidences a one-time attempt to respond to disconnect at school. Unfortunate but sadly typical teenaged teasing.”

Gloria remembered the taunting voices of her own teen years. She, who knew how it felt to be ridiculed, could have helped . . . but hadn’t known! “Oh, Joy!” She twisted to face her daughter. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Joy stared straight ahead. Did not blink. Did not seem to breathe. Yet her brow remained smooth, her gaze alert.

Her daughter had donned the mask of Kai. As a defense mechanism? To hide anger? Gloria battled a wooziness that seemed to be swallowing her. . . .

“Mrs. Powell, we are not here to discuss the past but to move forward.”

“I understand” rushed out of Gloria’s mouth. A lie, but something she had to say. She looked up, her senses whirling. The forest in the Colorado nature poster closed in. Warhol’s poster seemed to be exploding, seemed to be splattering her with tomato soup. . . .

“What we want to discuss today involves Joy’s education.” Nicole crossed her arms and leaned back in her chair.

“Like, I wondered, Mom . . . Mom?”

Gloria raised her head and tried to focus on Joy’s face.

“If I finish strong, like Dad says, would you maybe homeschool me again? You know, like when I first came over from China?” The words ricocheted off the wall and pinged into Gloria. Suddenly her wooziness morphed into a painful pressure . . . in her groin.

“Like, the kids don’t get me. They’re either rah-rah about who’s balling the jocks—sorry—or trying to smuggle weed into the bathroom.” Frenzied hand waves—and more information than Gloria ever wanted to hear about Joy’s school—stirred air molecules into a frenzy. Gloria gripped the table, wanting, needing the pain to stop.

“The Paschal environment really isn’t Joy’s thing.” Nicole’s voice became tinny. “We thought if Joy could homeschool . . .”

“Yeah, Mom! If I can do my own thing, maybe—”

A weight lodged on Gloria’s bladder with such intensity, she crossed her legs. “I have to— Please excuse me.” She wobbled to her feet. “I’ll be right back.”

“See?” Joy’s words slammed into Gloria, but she couldn’t stop.
Joy will die if I wet myself in public.
She’d expected bladder problems. Not this. Not at ten weeks.

“I told you and Kai there’s no way she’d get it. She never gets—”

Get through the door.
It’s hard to hold my bladder while striding out. How stupid I must look! But if I wet my pants . . . Yuck!

Gloria passed the drinking fountain, grateful for signs that pointed the way. Never had the word
Restroom
looked so good.

Swish. Swish
. Closer. She panted in sync with her steps. The bathroom door loomed like a mirage, something she neared but couldn’t quite reach.
One more step
.
Yes, Lord, yes!
She lowered her shoulder, shoved against wood.

The door opened. Despite her squeezing, so did her bladder.

Liquid trickled into her panties. She struggled for control.

A weight plunged into her groin area, deeper, deeper, and scraped hard.

Gloria clutched her pants.
Lord, it’s pulling my insides with it!
Still, she lumbered on. A silly tune swelled in her mind. Was she singing, or did lyrics pour from bathroom speakers? Not elevator, but bathroom music? Gloria slogged toward the first stall.
I’ve lost control of my mind . . . and bladder
.

Pee dribbled down her thighs. Desperate to make it, Gloria stretched for the door. Yet the weight lit fire to her groin, her hips. She sank to the floor.

Pain belted her abdomen. Gloria gasped, laid her head against cool tile, and yielded to the pressure. Urine streamed, warm and sticky. Yet there was a strange relief . . .

The door banged open.

“Mommy! Mommy!”

Footsteps pattered.

Gloria shook her head and tried to cover herself with trembling hands. Joy could
not
see her like this.

Not one muscle roused to action.

“I’m sorry, Joy,” she whimpered. “I’m so, so sorry.” Her voice sounded as woozy as her mind, but try as she might, it wouldn’t sharpen.

Joy knelt by her side, buried her face in her hands. “Mommy . . .”

The whispery softness of Joy’s words wove a cottony blanket that spread over Gloria’s pain. Though her eyes refused to focus, she smiled at the blur of flesh, black, white, and purple. Don’t forget purple. Despite achiness that radiated from her core, she patted that funky, silky hair. She hadn’t embarrassed Joy! Her Joy, here for her!

Joy raised her head. Her eyes were luminous moons, misted with tears. “Mommy! What happened?” Joy found her hand.

Her wet hand. Her red hand.

Gloria’s breath caught in her throat, which had become a desert. “Joy? Joy!” She gripped Joy’s wrist, then thought of that scar and let go.

Red stained Joy’s creamy wrist. Gloria’s mouth widened. Blood. She stared, uncomprehending, at her hand. Blood. Her eyes bulged . . . and riveted to the floor, where blood pooled.
My blood.

Joy rustled closer. Took Gloria’s hand. “Mommy, I’m . . . I’m so, so sorry.”

Not just my blood . . .

A scream reverberated through Gloria, though clenched teeth trapped it inside.
It’s my blood. Our baby’s blood. God, no! It’s our baby’s blood and my blood!

“Mom, you stay put.” Joy steadied her with a bloody grip. “I’ll get help. Then I’ll be back, I promise.” Joy’s brow furrowed. “Do . . . not . . . move.”

The door wheezed. Gloria freed the held-in scream. Rasped a cough. She clutched her throat, not caring that blood would stain her neck, face . . . whatever she touched.

She blinked. The bathroom walls had been painted red. Red dust motes floated in a random, erratic way. A hideous painter had broad-brushed her world. With death? “N-n-nooo!” Red motes spun, faster, faster—

“Mommy! I’m back!” Joy swooped to block out the hideous color, then clutched Gloria’s shoulders and held her still.

Gloria sagged. Her baby had returned for her. Caring, not hating. Loving, not resentful. But that other baby . . . Great heaves shook her body. Tears poured from her eyes, her nose, her mouth, streaming, streaming, and washing away the hideous red.

“Mommy. Look at me.”

Gloria smiled, cried, seeing nothing but that lovely purple hair.

“Mommy!” Urgency laced Joy’s voice. Her grip tightened. “Listen to me. Now!”

Gloria swallowed. Joy sounded . . . like Kai had . . . when? Last week? Yesterday? Gloria cocked her head, as if she were looking at a stranger. “Joy?” She wanted, she needed this new Joy. She clenched her head, which was being sliced in two with pain.

“They asked me to check down . . . there.” Joy gently laid Gloria back on the floor. “Be still. Breathe, Mommy. In, out, in, out.”

“But—”

“No buts, Mommy. Just lay there. Help’s on the way.”

Help’s on the way.
Gloria breathed a sigh.
Joy, using one of my sayings. Sounding now like . . . me.

Joy patted Gloria, as if anchoring her, then let go. As Gloria watched, Joy rustled to her feet, turned on the tap, and yanked towels from the dispenser. She laid them on the counter and began to wash her hands.

Gloria continued to watch as if she were seeing a film. Strange, the things that Joy was doing. But good. Definitely good. Even stranger, the cramping and achiness had eased. Also good. Good.

As she studied her daughter’s every bend and stretch, Gloria’s memory meandered. There was Joy, that first day in the van, trembling when their shoulders touched. Andrew, his smile big as Dallas when she announced they were having a baby. When was that? Heaves avalanched. Six days ago? For six days she had known the joy of being pregnant. Now . . . now it was over.

Sobs racked her body. She blinked, then studied Joy, there at the sink. “Joy? Joy!” She craved Joy’s touch. Like before.

Joy whirled, the towels in her hand. “I’ll love you forever,” Joy sang. The words were whisper-soft. “I’ll love you for always, as long as you’re living, my Joy you’ll be.”

It was their old nighttime song, inspired by a Joy bedtime book, stowed by Joy into a memory box, pulled out just for today. “Joy. My Joy,” Gloria cooed.

“Yes, Mommy. I’m your Joy.”

My Joy
.

She felt the downy softness of Joy’s touch. Felt the rough, papery towel. Felt Joy’s breath puff on her legs. Joy swabbed . . . and kept singing their song.

Gloria ran her tongue across parched lips, wanting a drink, wanting more this lovely, soothing music.

Rushing water joined the chorus, as did yanks at that dispenser, the sound blending with Joy’s voice.

Time flitted about the room. Gloria did nothing to pin it down.
How can I, with these blood-stained hands?

The door opened. Nicole entered, as did . . . paramedics?

Joy’s singing continued. Men lifted her onto a stretcher. Joy walked alongside them, holding Gloria’s hand.

It was blissful, having that warm, soft hand anchor her against the thud of the elevator, which muted Joy’s song. Other thoughts seized control as they loaded her into an ambulance. Technicians argued with a livid Joy.

Why would anyone argue with a girl who had purple hair? Gloria again stared at her bloody hands and wondered about her silly thoughts. Had she lost her mind . . . along with her baby?

Ambulance doors shut. Her vitals were checked, but her silly thoughts would not stay at the jail.

She’d been there three times in the last week. Once she’d left in an ambulance.

That had to be a record, even in Texas. Didn’t it?

Take it easy, the doctor said. See a counselor
. Gloria again picked up
How to Survive a Miscarriage
, dropped off by a church friend, and flipped through its pages.

“At first you will be numb”
caught her eye.

Gloria gave a silent nod.

“Then you will be angry
.”

Gloria stormed from bed. Stopped at the window.

Birds chirped hello to peeping babies. An occasional bee somersaulted midair, perhaps drunk on nectar. How dared they? Even the sunshine she craved like God’s mercy mocked her. Their baby had died, yet nature celebrated! She rattled shut the louvered blinds, crawled back under her covers, found the book.

Let memories flow. Don’t suppress them.