In my private moments, alone in my room, I prayed to God it would stop. God didn’t answer, but the Whisper did. Her voice came from my dark closet, telling me to stay in bed because, “You don’t want to know.” The day the car smashed into me, she whispered, “Your daddy’s sick, and he’s just getting poison.” In the car ride home, the whispers changed to screams, yelling at me to get buckled (but I never got buckled). The day Mom left me alone with the taco that I never ate, the Whisper warned me Dad was going to take my medicine.
Sitting in this smoky, stinking house, the voice murmured that I wasn’t supposed to be here, that I needed to get out. The eyes of these people were all over me as they scratched and twitched.
My mom was sitting on the ground, and I sat on her lap. She played with the back of my hair, her fingers moving like a comb down each strand. “What kind of donut do you want?” she asked in my ear so close I could feel her hot breath.
“Glazed. With sprinkles.”
“Good choice. You always make the best choices,” she said, and kissed the side of my neck. Her lips were warm, moist, nice.
“How old is she?” a woman asked. She had a tiny yellow tattoo on the side of her neck, and I tried to see what it was but couldn’t. I wanted a tattoo someday.
“Ten. Just had a birthday,” my mom answered.
“How did you get that scar, sweetie?" the woman asked me.
I put a finger on my scar, wishing nobody could see. When I first got the stitches, I tugged at them so much I was afraid my head would leak out. The doctor said it probably made the scar even worse.
“Monkey bars,” my mom answered.
“Well, she’s precious. Mine’s eight. I’m seeing him this weekend.”
The mom was the same as most of the men, her skin greasy, her movements shaky. I watched her suck on a cigarette and then blow smoke into the air that curled up into twirling circles, hypnotizing me for a minute before it disappeared.
“Time to cook. Ante in,” said the commander, stepping from the kitchen.
People jumped up. The Xbox kids left their controllers on the ground. Cigarettes were tapped out in beer cans. They all scurried to stand in line, holding cash in their hands, in front of the man called Bucky. He was like the ice cream man and they were kids waiting at his truck. I felt my stomach empty, like it was eating itself. I wished I’d taken a few bites of those Reese’s Puffs—instead, smoke and dirty laundry stink swirled inside my belly.
“Let’s bring this home. We can be back in twenty minutes,” my mom said to my dad.
“Oh, hell no, babe. I'm too sick to drive. We can fix up fast here, then home. It’s not like she’s never seen,” my dad said, talking about me as if I wasn’t sitting right there on Mom’s lap.
“Lizard. I don't want you to look, come on. Go sit at the table. Play with my cell."
Mom led me to the opposite edge of the kitchen table, turned the chair towards the wall, and asked me to sit down. She took out her phone, tapped on the Candy Crush app, and handed it to me. She left me there, staring at the wall near the basement stairs.
I pretended to play Candy Crush like she wanted me to, but all my attention was on listening to everything behind me. I heard skin being slapped; smack, smack. I heard the flick of lighters. I listened to their mumbles. I could feel their concentration. I imagined I could hear air let out each time the needles poked through their skin. Pfffff.
I had to see. I turned my head to look for just a bit, and in a flash saw Bucky aiming a needle into his arm, just below his muscle. Another person had their shoe off and poked between their toes. One was looking into the wall mirror and poking into their neck. If they saw me watching I’d be in trouble, so I turned back.
I held out my own arm before me. The blue veins ran like highways from my elbow to my wrist. I smacked my veins with my palm the way I’d seen my parents do and imagined the red bits of blood inside the blue vein scattering about.
When would Mom and Dad be finished? I wanted to leave. To have a donut and be home instead of alone and staring at the wall. Not far from where I sat, I could see the top of the stairs leading to the basement. Black and white checkered linoleum stairs went down to somewhere even darker than here. I put Mom’s cell phone on my lap, placed my hands together, locked my fingers, and held them to my chest to pray.
God, please get me home.
I could feel Bucky behind me at the kitchen table, his heart thumping in his chest. The beating made this house seem alive. My parents were farther away, and if Bucky wanted to hurt me, Mom and Dad couldn’t help. I imagined him dragging me down to the basement to a place I would never be found.
Please, God. Get me home. Make this stop. Let me know you’re there, God, give me a sign.
I squeezed my fingers together, feeling each knuckle, and then I heard the answer.
I’m here.
The whisper came from the basement, from down in the dark. I squinted, expecting to see a pair of glowing eyes looking up at me. I wanted to see the face of the girl who whispered to me, but there was only blackness.
You’re here? I asked softly.
I’m always here. I’ve been here from the start.
Where did you come from?
I was with you in your mother’s womb. The drugs went to my body instead of yours. I protected you, surrounded you, I kept you alive. I will always keep you alive. You need me.
I need you for what?
To protect you.
I don't understand.
You need me now, because now it’s the ending.
THUMP.
Something crashed to the floor. The noise made my skull vibrate.
I looked down at my feet and saw Bucky. He’d dropped off his chair to the ground and fallen even closer to me. His arms were sprawled out and his eyes were looking directly up, partly open. His pupils were rolling back into his head. His mouth was open and drool gathered at his lips. The needle still stuck inside his arm. He was like a wizard stabbed by his very own wand.
The commander had fallen.
This wasn’t right. Someone needed to help. But who? Not me, someone else.
I grabbed Mom’s cell. I reopened the app. Just play Candy Crush like she asked and everything will be okay.
The cussing got louder behind me. Every word spoken sounded like alarms ringing. Things were wrong and getting worse.
“Don’t shoot this shit.”
“Andy’s nodding.”
“Transou ain’t right.”
“Damn it.”
I needed to look. I finally turned.
Everything was different from before.
One of the young boys was on the ground, not far from where the black Xbox controller lay. His body was twitching on the dirty carpet. The woman with the yellow neck tattoo was still sitting on the couch, but her head kept drooping, chin falling towards her chest, then pulling up, then falling down, as if her head weighed too much and she couldn’t hold it up. It finally went down for the last time, and her whole body fell with it. She toppled onto the floor, and I could clearly see the yellow tattoo on her neck. It was Tweety Bird.
A man next to her turned to look, his mouth opened to speak, but before he could say a word, he dropped to the floor alongside her.
More kept dropping, too many to track, like a bunch of puppets whose strings had been cut, their bodies lay slack on the floor, everything tangled. Nobody spoke another word. The only noise was gurgling and raspy lungs trying to breathe. The heartbeat of the house was fading and the breathing getting slower. The man named Bucky was trapped like a bug on his backside and wasn’t even trying to get back upright.
Mom and Dad.
I got up from my chair to get to them. The room looked like a grenade had gone off. I had to step through the bodies on the floor. I walked over Bucky, pretzeled on the ground. I walked over the mother who was supposed to visit her son this weekend, and I imagined her missing the meeting and him wondering why.
I got dizzy, and I fought
with every muscle to stop my brain from bursting out my scar. A seizure was coming, but Tegretol wouldn't help, and I wanted to go home.
Mom and Dad were slouched against the wall, leaning into each other and resting like two weary travelers. Dad’s needle was on the ground, but Mom’s needle still poked out of her arm. The tiny slits of her eyelids were open, and the pupils inside rolled around but didn't look back.
“Mom!” I cried, giving her a shake. “Mom!” I said in a higher pitch, hoping it would wake her up.
Foam came out of her mouth. Tiny bubbles of spit gathered on her lips and then drooled down her chin.
“Mom!” I kept shrieking, and with a finger tried to open her eyelid, but it snapped back closed. Her skin felt cold and was changing colors with each second. A lighter shade of alien blue.
“Dad, you have to help!”
I shook his shoulders. His body was loose, his head flopping around like a bobblehead doll, like it might fall off his neck and roll on the ground. His eyelids cracked for a moment. I could see one sliver of his eyeball inside before it completely closed. His body fell over onto the floor.
My thoughts screamed with prayers and cries. Someone had to wake up and help me, but nobody did. If I could only have a seizure, just black out and be like them, then we’d all wake up at the new place together. Instead, I was forced to feel and see everything while my heart inside was bleeding tears. It wasn’t fair. I wanted to crawl onto Mom’s lap, dig my way into her, and feel her arm on my shoulder the way things were just moments ago.
I turned to look over the room of bodies, wishing someone would help, sitting with my parents behind me. This was the same way we sat in our last Christmas picture we took at Sears. I loved that picture. I used it as a bookmark. I felt so special wearing my fancy clothes with my parents behind me, smiling so big with love in their eyes. Now their eyes were closed, their mouths hung slack, their lips were blue, and drip-drops of a strange liquid bubbled down their chins.
I needed to get the phone and call for help.
ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THAT?
The whisper startled me because it was louder, more powerful. The words boomed inside my chest cavity.
Yes. I am sure. I need to call 911 for help. Something terrible happened.
I know what happened. They all injected a deadly dose of fentanyl. All of them. And if you call 911, people will come and save them with Naloxone, and we don't want that.
Why not?
The voice didn’t answer. I was crying and scared and I wanted to huddle in the corner. I hated being alone.
WHY NOT? I asked the voice again, so loud it had to answer.
You have suffered more than a child should. There is more to come if this doesn’t stop. I will help you. I'm going to give you what you want.
The voice seemed to be coming from every mouth in the room. Tiny bits of foam erupted on the lips of faces as it spoke. First one mouth moved, then another, like a concert of dying people.
Tell me what you want, the voice repeated. This time coming from the lips of the gamer-boy. He was going to look so sad at his funeral.
Show me who you are. What do you look like?
Tell me what you want.
I want Mom and Dad never to do this. Ever again.
Okay. I will make that happen. Tonight is the last night.
My head scanned the room, daring the voice to show her face, but instead I just heard more words.
I can make it stop. Forever. Never sick.
No, you can’t. It’s up to me to save them.
I looked at my parents on the ground. Their bodies seemed empty, and I could feel their souls seeping out of them, ready to go to Heaven or Hell. I squeezed the cell phone. I knew what to do. So many times I had thought about calling 911 from my house when I saw my parents’ eyes close, their bodies in such unnatural shapes while I tucked them in. I never called, but I worried until my stomach felt sick. Every time, their eyes eventually opened, but not this time. This time I needed to call for help. All these people needed me to save them.
I dialed 911 on Mom’s cell phone. The operator picked up on the first ring.
“What’s your emergency?”
“I’m in a house where people are using drugs. I know it’s drugs. They’re all dying and I need help.
Yes, I’m safe.
No, I don’t know where I am.
No, nobody else here can talk to you.
I don't know how many people, a lot of them and nobody is awake.
I’m Lizabeth Baker. I’m ten years old. I’m on a street. I don’t know where.”
NOW YOU’VE DONE IT.
The 911 woman kept talking, telling me to stay on the phone and stay safe, and I begged her to be faster. Mom and Dad’s skin was changing colors. I reached down and grabbed Mom’s hand in mine and tried to warm it, but instead it just made mine colder.
YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE DOING. THEY HAD THEIR CHANCE. THEY CAN'T LOVE US. THEY WON'T LOVE YOU. I KNOW THIS WILL NOT MAKE SENSE TO YOU NOW, BUT SOMEDAY IT WILL.
The voice screamed at me from every single body on the ground, shaking the roof like a jet flew overhead.
YOU WILL SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE. PREPARE YOURSELF.
I tried to tell the 911 operator my parent’s names, Trey and Katlyn Baker, but I couldn’t speak.
My stomach spasmed. Bile filled my mouth. It tasted like acid and was burning my tongue, my gums, my lips—even my teeth seemed to sizzle. My body froze. Arms and leg muscles stiffened. This was the big seizure that all those little seizures were leading up to, but this time my brain was fully awake and I could feel everything.
The bubbling liquid filled my mouth, gathered on my lips and dripped as if from a leaky faucet. The bile tasted revolting, foul, same as the whole room smelled, like dying bodies, smoke, and vomit.
I dropped the phone and fell to the floor, gagging, gurgling. I couldn’t get any air, and if I didn’t breathe soon, I was going to die.
My brain couldn’t pray, my hands couldn’t move. My head was spinning like water draining down a sink, swirling and swirling, taking me down with it. The acid finally boiled hot enough to come spraying out from my lips and shoot onto the ground.
I could breathe again, but I couldn’t stop vomiting. My own breath made me nauseous.
A puddle gathered below me, looking like a melted snowman, getting bigger the more I threw up. I heaved, took a breath, heaved some more. My whole gut was emptying, coming from some deep cavern, until finally my insides were piled onto the floor.
Then the puddle before me started to rise up.
A tiny whirlpool, whipping in circles, turning from liquid to solid—and a person was emerging inside it all. First little legs, then a body, then arms. It stood up from the ground and straightened until I was eye to eye with a girl in front of me, just as tall.
She had one ear pierced, just like me—Mom had pierced my ears at home, but my left ear had closed, and I left it that way. She was skinny, just like me—I was so skinny I couldn't find real Levi jeans that fit me and could only wear Wrangler. Her eyes were the same hazel, with a green middle and brown outsides.
But it wasn't exactly me, because her entire head was bald. She had no hair, no eyebrows, just one big scar over her whole face. Every bit of her skin was scarred as if burnt, and her flesh was stuck in the shape of the flames, twisted and discolored.
It had to hurt to have skin like that.
I wanted to scream. I wanted to hug her and not let go. I wanted this mirror of myself standing there to shatter and disappear. Then I’d wake up back in bed and start over with a bowl of Reese’s Puffs.
The voice spoke to me, face to face, eye to eye, for the first time after all these years.
They had their chance.
She grabbed the cell phone off the floor. The blue light illuminated her damaged face. She poked the red button and hung up on 911.
We need to do this fast before they get here.
The scar girl started with
my dad. She positioned herself behind his shoulders and grabbed him from behind. She was too small to move his weight, way too small. I knew because I’d tried to drag him before—but I was wrong. She moved him on the first try.
She was stronger than I was.
She dragged him across the floor. His face flopped around, but his eyes stayed closed, his body slack. She grunted from the effort—she was getting tired. Her scar tissue face was turning red. She moved like she knew exactly what she was doing, like this had been planned for a long time. Dad’s body was at the top of the basement stairs, and with one final grunt, she pushed him down.
The crashing noises descended. Like a rock bouncing down a pit, I heard his bones smashing down the stairs, then finally stop at the bottom.
We need to do this fast, she said again, and moved like an insect across the floor over to my mom. She grabbed Mom by the shoulders and started to tug.
“No!” I screamed, and I reached for Mom’s foot, took hold of it.
We need to do this now. They had their chance.
The girl was too strong. She yanked Mom’s body free from my grip, and in an instant, the angry girl had scooted her body across the floor to the basement steps. The needle was still stuck in Mom’s arm and went sledding down the stairs with her. It felt like my own bones were breaking when I heard her body crash down the stairs, and reminded me of the day my head smashed against the car window.
I dashed to the steps to look. The stairwell was steep. The kitchen light shined on the top few stairs but not the bottom. The black-and-white checkered stairwell went to Hell, I was sure of it, and I decided to walk down.
The basement was dark. The air felt dusky, mucky, like a swamp. My parents were just dark shadows on the ground, but I could tell their arms and shoulder blades were out of place, certainly busted and broken, and their heads smashed apart more than mine ever was.
Lullabies for Suffering Page 11
