The Lost Girls

by Laurie Fox

  Looking up now into Peter’s rain-streaked face, Berry found herself warming to the idea of the boy. “My mom said you were a fox. You know, irresistible. But I thought that was, like, a joke.”

  “Your mum’s right on the beam,” he said. “I can’t resist myself.”

  “And not the least bit shallow or stuck-up, either.”

  “Yeah, it’s a puzzlement.”

  Berry’s mouth flew open; she had not been prepared for his brand of sincerity.

  “So,” he asked her, “are we going to bugger off or are we going to prattle on about how ace I am?”

  “Oh, fuck it,” she said. “Let’s give it one last try.” Berry gripped the strap of her duffel bag, looking straight ahead. “And now,” she announced as if in a drama competition, “I shall perform the coolest scene from Alien. Specifically, the moment when the acid-spewing creature explodes from John Hurt’s chest and reveals itself. Frees itself. Of course, John Hurt dies. Who could survive a chest wound like that?”

  “Not exactly your average cheery thought,” Peter said, scratching his scalp. “You’re not your mum’s daughter, are you?” His smile was like a high beam in the light-starved night.

  Without warning Berry let go of the duffel bag; her torso jerked as if electrocuted, banking sideways, then convexing. Now her sternum heaved up and down as she wrestled with some invisible monster. It was only then Berry hovered a symbolic inch in the air. “Thatta girl!” Peter cheered. But instead of rising higher, she toppled over onto the deck.

  In lieu of the usual cries of ecstasy that greet Pan as he guides rookies skyward, Berry was spitting up, her tongue flying back in her throat. Peter paced beside her body, frantic and powerless. As she sputtered and moaned, her forearms coated themselves in mud. Moments later, her limbs went limp; her voice wasted away. Finally her head rested on its side, a look of generic terror forcing open her jaw. She was inert, though her eyes twitched periodically; Peter could almost make out pictures in their glassy surface.

  Eventually he had to leave. It was the only thing to do under the circumstances, the only choice left for a boy who had a rough time with obligation. He took off into the storm, determined not to look back. Looking back was for sissies. But very soon he wondered if that was a myth. When he’d risen several meters above our roof, he gathered the courage—or was it merely curiosity—to hazard a downward glance. He wholly expected to see a pathetic white dot bobbing in a viscous black smear, but there was no trace of the girl. There was nothing in the violent dark but himself. And even that felt shaky.

  All this I would piece together later from Berry’s recollections and from what I’ve just now learned. At the time I was stricken with sleeplessness; the Ambiens I’d ingested couldn’t compete with the severity of the storm. There was nothing to do but wait it out, wait for the world to return to its senses. For in spite of the deluge and the pills, nothing could drown out the bitter truth of the evening: Peter was afoot, I could feel it in my marrow.

  The vigilance of a mother is unequaled: we know things. We have a capacity akin to remote viewing, a sixth sense that clues us in on the fates of our children. But it doesn’t tell us how to cope with what we know or learn. It leaves our psyches undefended, overexposed. The night of Berry’s fourteenth birthday, I was certain of one thing only: I couldn’t protect my daughter any more than my own mother had protected me.

  “F-Freeman,” I stuttered, trying to rouse the body in bed next to me.

  “What?” he said sleepily.

  “Something’s very wrong.”

  “Hook?” he asked bluntly.

  “No, Pan.” I sat up in bed.

  Freeman rubbed his chin and flung the crush of heavy quilts off his chest. He thrust himself upright. “Wends, forget it.” He stared out the window at the knot of trees whipping in the wind. Then he sealed his eyes again, as if praying. “Even your dad wouldn’t fly in such lousy weather.”

  “True,” I said. “But Daddy’s not Pan.”

  “Are you sure?” Freeman baited me, then pulled the covers over his head and turned his back to me.

  “Something’s very wrong,” I repeated.

  “She’s fine, Wends. Berry loves a good storm, the more apocalyptic the better.”

  “No, not like this.”

  “Then get up and check on her,” he said, voice muffled by the bedding.

  “God, that would be so maternal. I can’t. I just can’t.” I slid back under the quilts, trying to emulate my husband. When I’d half convinced myself that things were normal, I heard an unearthly wail followed by animal-like whimpering from the direction of the yard. I jostled Freeman awake, then raced in my nightgown to Berry’s room, fear setting my lungs on fire.

  There was no sign of my daughter in her bed. Moreover, her duvet was turned down, the air suffused with the scent of mint. I ran outside to the deck. The sky was slowly clearing and I could detect a few stars, little balls of gas that would guide my sweetheart and Peter to their destination. She would arrive safely, I assured myself. Perhaps she would even discover the sort of happiness she never could find here in Berkeley. She would be worshiped, if only for a while—well, as long as she could stand it. Then she would learn why her mother was such a useless creature, never as much fun as her father.

  I spotted a cadaverlike lump on the deck—Berry’s duffel bag—and then a second lump. My daughter rested in the mud just beyond the deck. “Ber!” I called. But there she lay, like a victim of drowning, chestnut hair dissolving in black water. I pried open her mouth to see if there was some sort of obstruction, fumbled for her plum-colored tongue. It was pale pink, drained of blood. I could make out saliva at the corners of her mouth, tiny bubbles the rain hadn’t erased.

  “Ber,” I repeated. “Wake up.” My legs collapsed under me.

  Freeman, who’d arrived close behind me, checked her pulse, then ran back in the house to dial 911. He returned with a wool blanket to cover our daughter.

  “Can’t we move her?” I asked when my voice returned. I clung to his flannel robe like a child.

  “See, she’s breathing.” Freeman held my hand under Berry’s nose so I could feel the tickle of air. “An ambulance is on its way,” he said.

  I stroked my daughter’s arm, more to calm myself than anything. Suspended in time, her coarse features and thicket of curls took on a spooky beauty. I petted her head, kissed her chilled nose, vowing to never leave her side. Of course such a promise was impractical, one more way in which I would fail her.

  “It’s Pan,” I said finally.

  “What’s Pan?” Freeman asked.

  “This. This accident.”

  “We don’t know what this is,” he said, his tolerance for the Story at its limit. “This looks like a seizure. Or an overdose.” He began to hum—first a Bach hymn, then something unrecognizable.

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t just be quiet?” I asked.

  “Berry loves sound,” he said. “I’ve got to let her know that we’re here with her.”

  “Oh,” was all I could say before my voice failed me completely. I didn’t have any sound to offer my daughter.

  When the paramedics arrived, Berry’s eyes clicked open. I blew her a kiss, but she was too far away in her thoughts to recognize me. I held her hand, knowing she would have preferred that I didn’t. The ambulance took off like Pegasus, flying through intersections with the entitlement of a god. Inside the van Berry was breathing rapidly, and shuddering. And then a staccato chanting from deep inside her throat: “Can’t see anything. Don’t have my passport. Don’t wanna come back. Don’t want nothing. Don’t like you. No. Don’t go. Don’t go!”

  As we pulled in to Alta Bates Medical Center, the sky flushed with lavender light. Berry had to be held down by two attendants as they strapped her onto a gurney. The more they suppressed her the harder she fought. At last she was hustled into the emergency room and, after a brief, bone-chilling scream, she turned down the volume. I think she simply got tired. A crew of doct
ors, two with five o’clock shadows, swarmed over her, putting her through an impressive drill of tests. A soft-spoken doctor, a woman who looked young enough to be Berry’s schoolmate, explained to Berry that she needed to ask some delicate questions. Berry blinked as if consenting and then stuck out her tongue.

  “Now don’t you look pretty,” the doctor said. “I’m signing you up for the Ms. Alta Bates Beauty Pageant.” She handed Berry a paper cup of water, which Berry drained in one sip, then spat onto the physician’s coat. “I believe we have a winner!” the girlish doctor said, raising Berry’s right arm. Then she took the arm and stabbed it with a needle.

  “Bitch!” Berry growled.

  The doctor asked her if she was “loaded”; but Berry refused to speak and soon fell into a forced sleep. Within minutes, she looked so content that a stranger might have mistaken her for a happy child.

  After an hour, she was moved a few streets over to the hospital’s Herrick campus, which housed its psychiatric unit. Up on the second floor, a cobalt-haired nurse with four earrings riding up each lobe escorted us to Berry’s room. The space had been painted a benign cream color and boasted a TV set mounted on the ceiling. There were no other distractions or flourishes. Freeman and I quickly settled in, pulling up two dented metal chairs to one side of Berry’s bed. Our daughter looked every bit as lovely as Sleeping Beauty: composed, self-possessed, absent. I drew the covers up to her chin, at a loss for something to do.

  As the hours passed with a brutal slowness, I wondered if Freeman would hang in there for the long haul or if things were getting “too serious.” Thankfully, Berry’s every spasm was of supreme importance to him, her sighs a secret code he longed to crack. We remained at our post into the morning, watching our daughter’s belly expand and contract, assuring ourselves that she was safe. Whether or not she was sound would have to wait for later.

  Around noon Berry’s slurry alto woke us up. “What is it, MuMu? A bird or a plane?” She stirred under the blankets and blinked at the cream-colored room she now found herself in. Her bedroom back home was that pukey dinosaur green she loved so much. “It’s Spider-Man!” she rasped.

  “What, honey?” I said, faking a calmness I didn’t possess. “Is my honey-berry awake?” I bent over and embraced her. But she pulled back; I could feel her resisting my devotion.

  “Daddy-o!” Berry whispered.

  Freeman hobbled over like Charlie Chaplin on speed. She greeted him with weak applause. As he attempted to lift her, he saw that her legs were strapped to the bed; tan leather cuffs surrounded her ankles. “Hey, kid, your umbilical cord is showing.”

  “Silly Daddy,” she said. “Everyone knows I was born in a test tube.” He glanced over at me and I shook my head.

  “From the looks of it”—his hands followed the bed restraints to their origins—“your biological mother is a bed!”

  This time Berry clapped like a windup monkey with crashing cymbals; her laughter was hoarse and phlegmy. Freeman and I hugged each other as if we were long-lost siblings. Our daughter was alive and kicking—with an emphasis on the kicking. Despite the restraints she twitched like a little RoboCop.

  I smiled colorlessly at my daughter. Her transit to The Neverland had failed spectacularly and, naturally, I blamed myself. That’s what mothers do. We mean to protect our children from hating themselves, but in spite of our best efforts, smart kids find plenty of opportunities for raking themselves through the coals.

  The following day bore improvements. Berry had a touch of breakfast—I smuggled in a sun-dried tomato bagel from Noah’s—and by afternoon she’d gathered the strength to complain about her surroundings. She found her room “way banal” and, given the number of gerbera daisies that had been dispatched by the globe-trotting Ullmans, altogether too cheery. I brought in vases of weeds from our garden to even things out, which helped her mood some, and Freeman tacked her KISS posters to the stark walls. Mummy Dearest showed up in an Issey Miyake sculptural event: a black knife-pleated skirt that morphed into a single wave which swept over one shoulder to become a blouse; the other shoulder was left bare so we could consider her new tattoo, MEN ARE MUTANTS. From her ears hung two chandelier earrings, and her dainty feet were shod in clear-plastic platform shoes. In a matter of months Mummy had graduated from the “rich hippie” look to that of “fashion victim,” a crusade to make up for lost time. It was the early nineties, after all, and only a few daring college girls wore Indian bedspread skirts and spritzed themselves with patchouli oil.

  “My precious blackberry!” Mother shrieked, impelling Freeman to close the door. “Thank Buddha, you’re alive.”

  “Of course she’s alive, Mummy. Don’t you think I would have told you if my own daughter had died?” I pulled my hair into a tense, temporary ponytail.

  “No, not really, darling. You keep so much to yourself.”

  “I don’t think that’s true. I know it’s not true.” My hair fell back in my face. “How can you say such a thing?”

  “Easily. With ease. Because I speak the gospel. I hope you’re not asking me to censor myself because I sure as shit—”

  “Grandmummy,” Berry croaked, reaching tentatively for her hand.

  “My sweet juicy Berry.” In a beat, Mother redirected her slippery attention to her granddaughter; she hugged her bundled form. “Holy merde,” Mother said. “You look horrible. Don’t say a word. Just rest and let Grandmummy try a few of her tricks.” She winked at me, suggesting that one of her “beautifying rituals” was about to commence. Mother placed her sequined bag—in the shape of a crocodile, I noted—on the hospital bed, and pulled up a chair. She fumbled in the tiny purse as if it held hundreds of items. “I only have a bit of lipstick, but we can do miracles with Chanel, no?” Berry nodded warily, too tired to object.

  In minutes, Mummy had taken a shimmery stick of Purple Rain and rubbed it on the apples of Berry’s green cheeks, on her sallow eyelids, her bloodless lips. She even massaged some bright color onto Berry’s dark brows. The result was something ghastly, akin to Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane? My child looked like a stranger.

  Incomprehensibly proud of her masterpiece, Mother held up a coin-sized mirror to Berry’s face. My daughter grimaced in new pain; she inflated her cheeks as if to retch and crossed her already bloodshot eyes. Then she broke out in melodic giggles. “I love it, Grandmummy. It rocks.”

  “See,” Mother insinuated in my direction. “She’s adorable.”

  “I never doubted it,” I said, and left the two of them to their whims.

  When I returned a half hour later, Berry was pawing at her cheeks, making a wreck of her clown makeup. Her eyes were twitching, her mouth ajar. “Jesus, Mummy. Call the nurse!” But Mother was on the floor in the corner, asleep or daydreaming, I couldn’t tell. The pleated wave of her skirt shielded her face.

  I hit the buzzer and a trio of white coats darted in, two nurses accompanied by a doctor. With astonishing precision the team administered a series of shots to the patient, and once more Berry coasted into an unnatural slumber. Her clown face collected itself; her feet stopped fidgeting. But her dark hands remained curled into fists.

  “Mummy?” I said, when we were alone again. I could tell from her rocking motion that she was crying. “Look, Berry’s sleeping peacefully.”

  Mother peeked up from the pleats and saw that Berry was subdued. “Of course pharmaceuticals are not the answer,” Mummy said, rising to her feet. “Darling women don’t need drugs to take them places.” She picked up her purse and signaled her intention to leave. This was for the best, I knew. I needed time to find out what Peter had done to my daughter and, failing that, what he hadn’t done.

  I regarded Berry, snared like a tiger in a net. I could see right through the meds into her restless heart. In spite of the potions that coursed through her blood, she was putting up a brave battle. Silly doctors. It was not possible to mute my daughter’s ardor. I stared at the humiliating bed restraints, now only partially concealed
by the sheets. Had Berry flown and then fallen? Had she never gotten off the ground? I was determined to discover what business had transpired between Berry and Peter. I so much wanted to be of help, to mend any fissure. The only complication: I was still in love with Pan. I was still trying to determine what had transpired between us.

  PART

  THREE

  Just before our love got lost, you said,

  “I am as constant as the northern star”

  And I said, “Constantly in the darkness

  Where’s that at? . . .”

  —Joni Mitchell, “A Case of You”

  XI

  THE doctors told me my daughter was “lost,” but how could that be when I was right there beside her, her father two steps behind me? Each morning Freeman and I made our way through a labyrinth of hallways and stairwells to find Berry all over again, in the same bed rocking. She was always in the same position: knees drawn to chest, hands shielding her eyes. I suppose this was to block out the reality that is Berkeley—parents, school, and those tired laws of gravity. The incessant rocking? Repetition is a comfort, her doctor explained; it’s something she can count on.

  For eight days Berry had refused to speak out, to reveal one thing about that night. All the same her body revealed that she’d taken a bad spill: bruised from thigh to ankle on one side. She might be remote, I told myself; she might be sequestered in her thoughts. But in no way is she lost. No way.

  I know lost. Lost is when you don’t have parents, those people who adore you so much it diminishes them to see you walk out the door. Lost means that no one waits up for you to come home at night; no one brings you supper or tucks you into bed. No one would care if you forget your address and wander off; if you end up in the next town without money or clean clothes. Lost is when you can’t draw a straight line from someone you love to your hungering heart. The world has abandoned you for no good reason: it has the insane notion that it is better off without you.