Mother's Milk (27 page)

‘Your date?'

‘Yeah.' She looked around the dimly lit restaurant, and wished she hadn't taken the window seat. She swatted down at a mosquito or spider that had chosen that moment to bite her leg. Her hand came away with something sticky, like she'd spilled something.

‘Barrett, you were right; Janice Fleet is somehow tied up in this mess with Jerod and the dead kids. I don't know how yet. Barrett,' Hobbs said, ‘I'm coming to get you. I've got a bad feeling about your date.'

‘You're not alone,' she whispered, wondering why Chase was just sitting there and smiling. ‘Please hurry.' The line went dead. She needed to get out of there, but something felt wrong when she tried to stand, her legs felt disconnected; it was hard to think. She was in a restaurant and there was a handsome man sitting across from her. He reached for her cell phone.

‘Are you feeling OK?' he asked, dropping her cell onto the floor, and then kicking it under a radiator. ‘You don't look so good, we should get you out of here.' He called for the check, and told the waiter, ‘I think Dr. Conyors is coming down with something.' He threw a pile of twenties on the table, came around to her side, and put a strong arm around her back. ‘Up we go,' he said, and practically carrying her, he got her out of the restaurant and onto 6th Street.

She needed to say something, but all she could think about was the wonderful wave of peacefulness that pumped through her. The cool evening air scented like a delicious tea, the sounds of the street, the touch of the handsome man's silky hair against her cheek. Everything felt beautiful and good. All of her fears, her insecurities – they were gone. She was OK, everything was OK. Her world had never seemed so amazingly rich, so amazingly beautiful … so wonderfully safe.

M
arky's nerves wouldn't let up and his knee was bleeding and hurt like a mother. He'd fucked up left and right and as he handed out plastic bags of dope to the eight trendily dressed members of the family his thoughts flitted from hooking up with Chase at midnight to the cop shouting his name and chasing after him to the gold coins in his knapsack hidden behind a stack of pillows. It was nearly ten and the family, which usually had around a dozen kids to cover the biggest dormitories in the city, needed new recruits. It was part of his job, and Chase was clear about which ones to pick, no families, homeless. Sometimes, like with Carly, Chase would give him a lead on a kid about to get kicked out of foster care or a group home. And they had to look right, they needed to blend. But as Marky got older – now twenty-two – it was getting harder for him to fit, and somebody needed to make sure the kids weren't screwing around with the dope or the money.

‘You got clean needles?' the newest kid – Brad – asked.

‘Bathroom,' Marky said, looking at the good-looking boy with killer blue eyes, who could have worked at a retail store if he didn't have a criminal record and no high-school diploma. Recruiting him had been simple, Chase had directed him down to the drop-in center, given Marky his description. It wasn't hard, ‘
You need money? A place to stay? You want to try some good dope? Come with me, you'll have fun. We're like a family and not the shitty kind, either.
'

He looked around the dimly lit room that he'd decorated with tiny Christmas lights. He looked at the family members – Jen, Dan, Kat, Oscar, Yvette, Blake, and Jason – as they paired off and settled on the purple-draped mattresses arranged around the periphery like a three-sided bed. He thought of Bobby – nice kid – and how his girlfriend used to bring down curtains and shit like that to the places on 4th Street – it had looked nice. He remembered other kids who'd come and gone, some ran away, some got in trouble like Bobby, some Chase took away in the middle of the night … like Carly. He'd never asked Chase where they went; not his business and it scared the shit out of him.

He flopped back on the mattress, the one he always took, right in the center. He felt behind for the knapsack. He needed to chill and one little bag wouldn't hurt anything, might take the edge off the pain. He'd be in good shape for Chase. He'd said he wasn't mad, and maybe the big bag of gold – he'd said they'd split it – would make everything good again. He carefully dumped the brownish heroin onto a silver tablespoon, and lit a candle. He watched as it bubbled up and then melted down into a clear liquid. He pictured Chase, and couldn't wait to be with him … just a couple more hours. He pulled up his baggy pant leg and tied a rubber tourniquet around his calf. In the dim light he spotted the tiny vein he liked best, nestled in the crook made by his big toe and the one next to it. He drew the dope up into a plastic syringe, felt with his finger for the vein, and pierced the flesh with a tiny pinch. He pressed down, and like taking an elevator to the moon, felt the first giant rush of bliss.
Chase was wrong,
he thought,
this is fucking fantastic dope!
He fumbled for the tourniquet, just barely able to get it off before it rolled over him. He looked around, his vision bleary as the family shot up, and a real bad thought pressed through. This wasn't crap dope at all … it was killer.

B
arrett smiled, she wondered if she'd ever been happier, so completely at peace.
It must be a dream
, as the beautiful man holding her up signaled for a cab. ‘Chase,' she whispered.

‘Yes, Barrett.'

‘I love you,' she said, ‘I want to always feel like this.'

‘I love you too,' he said, as the sparkling headlights of a cab stopped before them.

They glittered and cast rainbows and Barrett knew that this was love, true, beautiful, and perfect. She barely felt his arm on her back; they were like dancers, he would lead and she would follow. She looked down at her clothes, and wished she'd worn something frilly. She giggled.

‘What are you laughing at?' he asked, moving her toward the cab, opening the door.

‘I want a tutu,' she said.

‘I'll get you one,' and he gallantly helped her inside.

‘Dr. Conyors.' An Indian man's voice entered her dream. ‘Dr. Conyors. Dr. Conyors!'

Sitting in the back of the cab with her legs still on the sidewalk she looked past Chase and saw Sanjee – what was he doing in her dream? – running up from the restaurant wearing his traditional white outfit. She supposed he'd always worn it, but how did it stay so white; it glowed.
Is he an angel?
As she stared at Sanjee, feeling Chase try to scoop up her legs and get her into the cab, she saw a circle of light around the restaurant owner's head; he had a halo. She stared.

‘Dr. Conyors,' he ran up to them, ‘you dropped your phone. It's ringing.'

‘Thank you,' she said, wishing that Chase weren't pushing so hard, and not liking the harsh metal sound her phone made.

‘We need to go now,' Chase hissed.

‘But Sanjee is an angel,' she said, willing her legs to stay on the ground. She didn't want to get into the cab yet. She wanted to see Sanjee. How could she have missed how beautiful and glowing he was?

‘Barrett, now!'

Sanjee Singh was now just a foot away, holding out her cell. She stared into his face, he was looking at her and then at Chase, who kept trying to get her into the cab. Why was he in such a hurry and why did Sanjee look so concerned? ‘Are you OK, Dr. Conyors? You do not look well.' He looked at Chase, and the expression on his face shifted, as though he could see inside the younger man. ‘Are you taking her to a hospital?'

‘Yes,' Chase answered, ‘I think she's having some kind of allergic reaction, can you help me get her into the cab?'

‘That's not true,' Barrett said, not liking these dark, scary undertones the dream was taking on. ‘We were going for my tutu, but that was a lie.' She looked up at Sanjee. ‘Be careful,' she said, ‘he lies, I don't want to go with him.' She tried to stand, but now Chase was pushing her back, handling her too rough. He didn't love her. ‘Let go!' She kicked out, her legs strong from years of martial-arts training.

Chase stumbled back and Barrett pulled herself out of the cab. Her ankles caught on the curb and she fell forward. She knew there was something very wrong, this wasn't a dream at all. Sanjee tried to catch her, and he too fell backwards, landing on the dirty sidewalk. The cell kept ringing. Chase was pulling at her back, but Sanjee held tight around her middle. She hung fast to the Indian, not daring to let go.

‘Bitch!' Chase swore. ‘Cunt! Let go!'

‘Get off me!' she screamed, her voice weak in her head. She tried to look up, but even that was too much of an effort, her arms were weakening.

‘Leave her alone!' Sanjee shouted, holding tight to Barrett. ‘Leave! Help! Help! Help!'

Suddenly Chase let go, and she collapsed against Sanjee, who held her fast.

The cab pulled away, and Chase was gone. It was almost funny, chasing Chase, him chasing her, but the beautiful floaty feeling had left. There was something heavy in her chest, and darkness pressing on her vision. ‘I can't breathe,' she gasped, as Sanjee released his grip. ‘I've been drugged.'

‘You will be OK, Dr. Conyors.' He sounded frightened. ‘The ambulance will be here. I will not leave you.'

She wanted to answer him, to keep his light-filled face in her vision, but she couldn't keep her eyes open, and each breath took such effort. She drifted off to the sound of the cell, and fell into a dream. She was running down a back stage dressed in a pink tutu. She was supposed to give a performance, but she had to tell someone she couldn't dance, she played piano. There had been a horrible mistake, somewhere in the distance an orchestra was tuning, all the instruments playing out of pitch, somewhere a violin gave an ‘A', it droned on. They couldn't be serious about having her dance. A loudspeaker boomed, ‘The show must go on.' Right, if she had to fake it she'd do her best. Sifu Henry appeared from a dressing room, he was in a tux. ‘Just remember your form,' he instructed, as he gave her his hand and led her onto the stage. There was applause; a curtain went up, the lights in her eyes were too bright, she couldn't see who was in the audience, but in the center of the stage was a curtained bassinet, and next to it Jerod in a tuxedo singing in a beautiful tenor –
I didn't know he could do that.
‘Max!' She ran forward, but the more she tried to reach her baby and Jerod the further away they became. ‘Max! Jerod! Wait for me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' She tried to run faster, her body wouldn't respond; she looked down and saw her feet getting swallowed in a rising tide of blood. It was hard to breathe, and with each step she sank deeper, the blood was up to her thighs, her chest, her chin. In desperation she looked over the sea of blood to see Max's blue bassinet, like a boat bobbing on the rolling waves – Jerod beside him, singing, but the sound not carrying. He's going to be OK, she thought, and she wasn't; she was going to drown. ‘I'm sorry, Max. I love you. Your mother loves you.'

Then, like water leaving a tub, the blood receded. It was still hard to breathe, and her arms and legs felt stiff and unresponsive. There was a sharp pain in her left arm, and noises, people talking but too low to understand what they were saying. Max was gone and she was lying on a dinner table. I'm not a turkey, she thought, as she looked around at her mother, Justine, Hobbs, Houssman, and Sanjee. ‘Why am I on the table?' she asked.

‘Because we're out of oatmeal,' her mother replied.

She heard a whoosh, and felt something deep in her throat. ‘Is that why it's hard to breathe?'

Sanjee's heavily accented voice broke through. ‘Is she going to be OK?'

‘Why does she do this?' her sister asked, pushing away the last wisps of the dream.

There was another whoosh and tightness in her chest as it expanded. Her throat ached and she tried to swallow only something hard had been rammed down her windpipe. She gagged, and her eyes cracked open. It was hard to focus, the lights were so bright. She tried to speak, but couldn't get out the words, her brain scrambled to figure out what had happened. She was in a hospital, and that whooshing was a ventilator. She managed to turn her head a few centimeters and saw Hobbs in his leather jacket and Justine in scrubs and a white coat with the University Hospital logo and her name embroidered below that – Justine Conyors, MD, Department of Surgery. With effort she rolled her head slightly to the other side –
Why is it so hard to move?
– and saw her mother with Max strapped across her chest in his blue sling. Jerod was next to her, and he looked like hell, sweat beading his forehead and dribbling down his cheeks, his dreads tied back with a red handkerchief making his face incredibly gaunt. And finally there was Sanjee Singh, his lips mouthing a string of words she couldn't hear. She spotted an IV in her arm and panic flooded her; she couldn't move her arms, and not just because they'd been taped down to boards at her side.

‘Barrett, no,' Justine said, putting a hand on her forehead. ‘Don't fight the ventilator, relax or you'll hurt yourself. You're in the hospital, you nearly died, but you're going to be fine.'

The whoosh came again, expanding her lungs like a pair of balloons. She needed to get out of there, to have them take her off that horrible machine. She looked at Hobbs, and hated the way they were all standing around … like in that weird dream.
I'm not a turkey.

‘Barrett,' Justine said, her voice pitched low, ‘I'm going to try and get you off the machine; get you extubated, please be patient.'

She felt her sister's fingers find hers.

‘Squeeze my fingers.'

Barrett focused on the task, freaked by how hard it was for her muscles to obey her brain. She thought of the horrible things that could land a person in an intensive-care unit on a ventilator.
Did I have a stroke, a brain hemorrhage, a tumor? Maybe a horrible spine-crushing fall.
She tried to remember.