Part 11 (1/2)
Devon slowly brings her head back to a general position where she could look at Dom if she wanted to. But she doesn't; she looks at the white cinder block wall behind Dom. ”I'm not playing games, Dom. I just can't remember. I mean, I can remember some things, but then it . . . just . . . kind of, like, stops.”
”Stops.” Dom's tone is dubious.
”Yeah. It just kind of . . . shuts off.” Devon meets Dom's eyes directly now. ”I'm totally serious. It's like there's . . . nothing there.”
Dom crosses her arms and s.h.i.+fts on her stool, squinting at Devon. She doesn't say anything for a moment. Devon can hear the pulsing music from the common room behind them. The thick walls m.u.f.fle most of it.
”Did you mention this to Dr. Bacon? This 'not remembering' problem?”
”Um, who?”
”Dr. Bacon. The doctor who you spoke with at Intake? The one who asked you if you'd hurt yourself?”
”Oh.” The lady with the long gray braid. But it wasn't at Intake; it was in her cell later that night. Devon frowns, shakes her head. ”She didn't ask.”
Dom presses her lips together, nods. Makes a note on her legal pad. Then, ”Okay, then tell me what you do remember.”
”About what? About that . . . That Night? Or . . . something else?” Devon brings a hand to her mouth, starts gnawing on her thumbnail. ”Something before? Or after?”
”Just start talking, Devon. Start at the beginning, and I'll listen.”
Devon takes in a big breath. She lets it out slowly. She hadn't come up with a list of names for Dom last night, but those hours of staring at the ceiling had provided a blank screen for her mind to fill, too tired to fight it.
She'd stared up at that ceiling. And she remembered.
”Okay,” Devon says finally, her voice a whisper. ”This is something I can remember.”
The feeling is what wakes her.
It isn't like most other mornings, waking to the alarm screaming at her from the dresser. It's that feeling, that wave of nausea-that awful rising up from the bottom of her stomach to the back of her throat-that forces her out of her bed and propels her down the dim hall toward the bathroom. Had she remained curled under her sheets a second longer, she'd be sponging puke from her mattress and hauling her bedding to the laundry room for most of the morning.
Devon drops to the linoleum just in time, flings up the toilet lid, and grips the sides of the cold bowl. She doesn't think to pull her hair away from her mouth before she retches and retches, spewing orange vomit into the water, the splashlets spattering her black hair, her chin, even her cheeks and forehead, and the front of her oversized GIRLS HAVE MORE KICKS T-s.h.i.+rt she'd slept in. And the retching continues, the heaving continues, the gagging, even after she has nothing left inside herself, only the gut-rotting nausea, and a long strand of thick s...o...b..r swinging like a pendulum from her foul-tasting mouth.
Finally, Devon struggles to her feet. She stumbles to the sink, wipes her lips and chin with the back of one trembling hand while leaning on the counter for support with the other. She feels empty and weak. The sour stench of puke is everywhere, clinging to her skin, to her hair, to her T-s.h.i.+rt. As she reaches for the faucet, her reflection in the mirror stops her momentarily. Her face is so pale it seems to glow, the dark eyes staring back at her, large in their sockets, and she wonders for that second if the girl in that mirror could really be her. Because right now she feels like she should be dead.
She rinses out her mouth with water, swis.h.i.+ng it around before spitting into the sink. Then she slowly brushes her teeth, the minty-flavored Crest with its pasty consistency causing another wave to rise in her throat. She closes her eyes with the effort to keep it down.
”Dev!”
Devon jumps, drops the toothbrush into the sink.
Her mom. Standing in the doorway, watching Devon, brows furrowed and worried. ”You look horrible, hon.”
Her mom is still dressed for work, that navy blue Safeway ap.r.o.n over her white blouse and blue bow tie. She glances at the toilet, then crinkles her nose as she moves around behind Devon to flush down what Devon hadn't.
Why is her mom home so early?
”Sheez, I thought I heard you in here. Gr-oss!” She quickly retreats back to the doorway, covering her nose with the palm of her hand. ”Sorry, hon; you know the hard time I have with puke. . . .” She starts dry heaving then, takes another step backward, embarra.s.sed. ”I could never be a nurse. It's bad enough bartending. Are you sure you want to keep your appointment today?”
That's why she's home early. The appointment. Devon feels her pulse spike suddenly. She leans against the counter with both hands.
”I know I got off early to take you and all. But still, if you're sick, we could cancel it, no big deal-”
”No, Mom,” Devon says quickly. ”I'm fine.” Devon tries to smile then, an attempt to give her statement credibility, because ”fine” is not at all how she is feeling. In fact, besides feeling sick and weak, she's scared. Terrified, actually. Terrified of going to the doctor this morning, terrified of what he might find. But she must go to the doctor, she must get that physical, because she wants to play soccer. ”Really. I had some tuna fish last night; I think it was bad or something. Or maybe the lettuce. Both had been in the fridge for a while.” Devon feels dizzy suddenly. She takes a quick steadying breath before speaking again. ”Plus, I've got to get that sports physical done. Our first game's tomorrow. Coach Mark said if I fail to bring the form back this afternoon, signed by a doctor, there's no way I can play-”
”What? You're his starting keeper. He wouldn't bench you for that. No way. He loves you! He wouldn't-”
Devon shakes her head no. She's bending over the sink, now, taking deep breaths. The effort it took for her to knock out that speech had nearly made her pa.s.s out. She hooks her hair behind her ears and picks up the red plastic container that holds her Neutrogena soap, lathers her hands. ”Stop, Mom. Yeah, he would, even if it costs us a game. A rule is a rule. I'm lucky that he let me practice so long without it.”
From her spot in the doorway, Devon's mom watches Devon wash her face. ”Well, listen, Dev. I really hope you told him that it wasn't my fault your form's late. You told him that at least, didn't you? Because I know for a fact that I said I'd make you an appointment at least a zillion times. But you just kept putting it off and putting it off. And even on registration day, the school nurse had those slots to sign up to get the physical done with her, and you refused. That's how we did it last year, remember? And it would've only been twenty bucks. More convenient, too. I wouldn't have had to miss work-”
”Yeah, I told him, Mom.”
”Oh.” Devon's mom looks a little confused for a second, like she can't believe she'd just won an argument with Devon without actually arguing. ”Okay. Well, don't go around eating rotten tuna anymore, okay? 'Cause I think I've got enough stuff going on right now without worrying about what you're eating. I mean, I don't want to have to quit my bartending job. Working Friday and Sat.u.r.day nights at Katie Downs really brings in the bucks. And no way do I want to switch s.h.i.+fts at Safeway; the money's better on graveyard, and the work's way easier, and there are tons of people gunning for my slot. Plus, pretty soon I'll be taking those cosmetology cla.s.ses in the afternoons. I'm going to register next week. I mean, I've got to think about my future, too, Devon. You know that. I can't be worrying about you all the time, hoping you're taking care of yourself, eating right. . . .”
Devon tunes her mom out. It's always the same blah blah blah-her various sacrifices, all her best years gone, all the things she could've done, not that she regrets any of it, but still. Devon finishes rinsing her face, buries it in a towel to dry her skin. The old rage starts bubbling to the surface, and for a second she forgets about how awful she feels. She thinks about what she wishes she could do right now. How she would look right at her mom, right into her eyes, and say, Um, who worries about whom around here? Who takes care of whom? But absorbing the blame is so much easier. And anyway, Devon's too wiped out to exert the kind of energy the subsequent conversation would take, so she just says, ”Well, it's not just the tuna, Mom. I mean-” She takes a deep breath and busies herself with hanging up her towel then, because she knows what she's about to say isn't true. Yet. It isn't true yet. ”I kind of started my period today, and my stomach's a little crampy from that.”
”Oh.” Devon's mom moves to stand beside Devon to peer in the mirror, checking out her own hair to ensure that the wiry strand sticking up isn't actually a rogue gray but a blonde highlight. ”Well, in that case you better wear a pad today, even with a tampon. That'll kind of give the doc that subtle hint that he probably doesn't need to be poking and prodding around down there.” She shrugs, rearranges a few strands of hair. ”Saves a lot on embarra.s.sment. For everybody.” She smiles at Devon then, pats her shoulder. ”Works every time. Oh, and take some Midol. It'll zap those cramps”-she snaps her fingers-”like that.”
When her mom's gone, Devon looks back into the mirror.
Wear a pad today.
Thanks, Mom. Relief washes over her. Devon closes her eyes.
She's never felt so free from something in her life.
chapter eleven.
Dom is quiet, just watching Devon. Pulling at her ponytail. Finally Dom clears her throat and speaks. ”This was when again?”
”September,” Devon says.
Dom slides her yellow legal pad toward herself. She picks up a pen, starts writing. ”So, did you go?”
”To the appointment?”
Dom looks up from her legal pad. ”That's what we're discussing here, Devon.”
”Yeah. My mom took a quick shower and changed her clothes. And then we went.”
”And this was your regular doctor?”
Devon doesn't say anything.
Dom taps her pen on her legal pad-tap, tap, tap. ”Devon?”