Facelift (36 page)

“I don’t know. I’ve been to the hospital. Terry’s. What do you think?”

I don’t know either. Panic wedges somewhere between my ribcage and diaphragm like a block of wood. “I’ve driven around our neighborhood and haven’t seen her anywhere.”

I refrain from telling him my latest desperate move was to put Cousin It on a leash and let her sniff Izzie’s clothes. “Find her,” I told the dog, and now we’re taking a circuitous route through the neighborhood.

“She didn’t take a car.” If she had, I would be even more nervous since she doesn’t have a license. “She couldn’t have gone too far.” But I know she was devastated by the news and I’m not sure how responsibly she’ll act. Barbara’s words haunt me:
What will she do now?
I wish I knew the answer to that. Which gives me an idea.

“Why don’t you try the natatorium? Maybe she went there.”

As soon as I disconnect, a pair of headlights flash in front of me. I recognize Jack’s truck as it pulls to the sidewalk. I slow down, tugging on the leash. The dog barks and lunges.

The side window rolls downward. Jack leans his elbow on the truck’s door. “Any luck?”

I shake my head, feel that block of fear swell like wood in the rain. “What should I do?”

“Keep looking.”

My mind races, going in circles like Cousin It zipping around the pool and barking at evil birds flying overhead and at dangerously invading lawn mowers. “Should I call the police?”

“Not yet. Let’s give her another hour. If she doesn’t show up then, we’ll call in the National Guard if we have to.”

His in-charge demeanor has a calming effect on me. “Any ideas?”

“Does Cousin It have any leads?”

“I’m not sure if she’s chasing Izzie’s scent or a squirrel’s.”

His mouth starts to pull into a smile but stops short. “Have you checked the park?”

“The one two streets over.”

“What about the one over by Lily’s house?”

“No, that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll swing back by the house again then sweep through the neighborhood.”

It takes me five interminable minutes to drive to the playground, the dog in the navigational seat, her nose pressed to the glass. This is where Isabel sometimes took Lily when she babysat. A blanket of darkness has settled over the swings and teeter-totters. This is not a safe place for a teenage girl to hang out alone at night. My gaze scans the shadowy edges along the trees that border the park. Then I notice one of the swings twirling around in a slow rotation.

Izzie.

Cousin It barks and lunges forward, scratching the dash and glass inside the car. Of course, Izzie can’t hear her. I’m not sure if she heard the car engine, doesn’t care or is oblivious to everything around her. I pull my cell phone out of my back pocket and call Jack. “She’s here.”

“Want me to come?”

“Not yet.”

“I’ll stick close if you need help.”

“Thanks. Will you call Gabe?”

“Absolutely.”

I pocket my cell phone in my hip pocket and turn off the ignition. Slowly, carefully, I emerge from my car, keeping an eye on Izzie. She’s at least a hundred yards away. I don’t want to startle her or cause her to take off again. At an even pace, I approach. She just keeps twirling the swing around until the metal chains twist too tight, then she reverses herself. My tennis shoes crunch the gravel while the dog scrambles trying to gain footing in a mad effort to reach Izzie first. But she doesn’t look up.

I should have left the dog at home, but I didn’t want to take the time to put her in the crate. Leaving her in the car makes me worry about what part she might eat. I stop at one edge of the swings and hook Cousin Its leash around a pole. When I reach Izzie, I sit on the swing next to hers. The plastic seat hugs my thighs in a tight, unflattering vice, knocking my knees together.

We sit quietly beneath the sliver of a moon and the twinkling stars. I think of the childhood ditty,
“Star light, star bright, wish I may, wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.”
But my thoughts turn into a fervent prayer for the right words to say to my heartbroken daughter. Explaining why something like this happens seems impossible, especially when I don’t understand it myself.

I reach toward her and brush a finger along her arm. “Are you okay?”

“I guess you heard.” Her voice sounds jagged.

“Terry’s sister called.”

“Me too.” She leans her head against the metal chain and her swing stills, the toes of her flip-flops sink into the soft dirt. “It’s so unfair.”

“It is.”

For a long moment, silence pulses between us. From far away a fire truck’s siren wails the way I wish I could.

“Why Lily?”

I don’t know. I’m wondering the same thing. This difficulty is so much worse than when Izzie came to me for help with algebraic problems in seventh grade or when the boy she liked in eighth grade rejected her or even when her father left. Kids shouldn’t have to deal with death at any age. “Why
any
body? Why Gabe’s dad?”

Her eyes flash defiance. “That’s not an answer.”

“I wish I had one, Iz. But I don’t.”

She kicks at the dirt and bits fly outward, the gravel pit beneath her swing dug long ago by thousands of tiny tennis shoes. “Why did God take her? Or did He? Does He care? Does He exist?”

Oh, man. The tough questions demand more than pat, easy answers. “Should He have left her here in pain? Maybe
that
would have been cruel.”

“If He’s God, then He could have healed her, right? Why didn’t He do that?”

I sigh, allowing my heart the space to calm. “I don’t have the answers to all your good questions, Iz. No one does. Life is dirty and messy and painful. We live in a fallen world. It’s not a popular thing to say today, but it’s true.”

She chews the inside of her mouth. “Tell me about it.”

“You’ve had a rough year.”

“Not as rough as some.”

Her answer surprises me and I’m encouraged at the growth in her maturity. “That’s true.” I lean left taking tiny tippy-toe steps in the dirt, turning my swing around and around. “Maybe it’s to make us think what comes after this life
is
better.”

She snorts.

“Maybe it’s all just a product of sin?”

“Oh, so you’re saying Lily did something to make her deserve this?” The anger in her voice is palpable and it resonates in my chest.

“No. But whether her cancer was caused environmentally or through some genetic flaw, maybe it goes back to somebody’s sin. Maybe. I simply don’t know. But sin has consequences, not always for the one committing the sin. Just like you getting hurt is a consequence of your dad’s and my divorce. I hate that. For me, that’s been the worst part of your dad leaving.” My hand fists around the swing’s metal chain. “But I couldn’t prevent it. You’re the reason I wanted him to come back.”

Izzie is silent for a moment while she pushes that thought around. “It stinks.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not doing the swim-a-thon.”

I remain silent.
Breathe. Count to ten. Say a little prayer—Not my words but Yours.

“What’s the point anyway?” Her tone is demanding, petulant.

“Her parents still have medical expenses.”

“Lily won’t—” Her voice splinters, crushed under the reality.

“No, she won’t benefit. But she wouldn’t want her parents to suffer any more either.”

“Her dad left.”

“Yes.”

Isabel sighs heavily, her shoulders rounding. “And her mom really needs the money.”

“I’m sure she does.”

“What if there’s money left over?”

“I don’t know. What would happen to it?”

She scuffs the bottom of her flip-flop through the trenches in the dirt. “Give it to a charity?”

“That sounds plausible. Maybe a charity that does research to prevent and stop that kind of cancer, which would help others.”

“Good one, Mom.” She glances over toward me and a hint of a smile plays about her mouth. “How do you do that?”

“What?”

“Change my mind.”

“You did. All by yourself. Because you’re a compassionate young woman.” I stand, feel the back of my thighs branded by the pressure of the swing, and walk toward her. I finger her tiny pierced earring. “You have a good heart.”

Then she’s suddenly leaning into me, her arms around my waist, her hot tears burning my stomach. It’s at that moment I know she’s going to be all right. It’s not going to be easy. But she won’t be dragged down by this. She’ll find purpose and a way to do something constructive with her grief.

Holding my daughter, I realize I’ve never been more proud of the person she’s becoming.

The next day cars line up outside the natatorium as swimmers, parents, and teens crowd the sidewalk. Isabel walks beside me, fuzzy, bare head tipped downward, sunglasses securely in place. She is quiet and reserved, not even acknowledging friends’ greetings. I give a few nods and tight smiles in an effort to keep everything normal. Most here don’t know about Lily yet.

The smell of chlorine hits me strong, as the chemical pungency stings my nasal passages. My thoughts and feelings for Terry fire through me this morning. What must she be going through in the wake of her baby’s passing? My thoughts are a big jumble clunking around in my exhausted brain. But the water is clear and blue, the green tile sparkling, and the ropes in place as they should be. The familiarity in an uncommon moment is calming to my frazzled nerves.

“Mrs. Redmond.” A tall man in warm-ups greets me with an extended hand. “Coach Derrick.”

“Yes. Thank you for letting us use the natatorium.”

Izzie moves off leaving us alone.

“No problem. Glad to help. I’ve been really impressed with Isabel and Gabe’s determination for this.”

I nod feeling suddenly weepy. “Well, I better help with . . . uh . . .”

“Sure.” He steps out of my way. “I’ll be around all day, so if you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks. We appreciate all you’re doing.” I offer him a smile that doesn’t quite hold. My usual smile-no-matter-what mentality was washed away in last night’s events.

When I turn away, I see Jack sitting in the booth with the sound equipment. He cranks the sound system. He made a CD of some of Lily’s favorite songs, and Miley Cyrus’s “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” gets the natatorium humming. His gaze settles on me, and he gives a nod in my direction.

He and Gabe stayed away last night, giving Izzie and me time alone. Thankfully once Cliff knew Izzie was safe, he and Barbara left before we returned from the park. He seemed content that we’d found her and didn’t want any more drama. But I wasn’t alone. Jack was available if I needed him, hovering nearby but not intruding.

A splash makes me turn. Gabe emerges from the depths of the pool and waves. He’s one of the first scheduled swimmers. He pulls out of the pool and stretches his shoulders, pulling his long arms backward in a slow backstroke and giving his long, lean muscles a shake.

“Five minutes ’til start time.” Jack’s deep voice blasts through the speakers. He adjusts a knob. “The schedule is posted on the front wall. Swimmers check your times and report to the blocks five minutes before your allotted time.”

I walk toward him and lean on the railing between us. “Should we announce about Lily?”

“It’s up to you and Isabel.” He searches the crowd until he spots her. “How is Izzy today?”

“Hanging in there. We spoke to Terry on the phone last night. I think that helped her. Terry too. She needed to know others cared so much and were feeling such sorrow.” I show him my video camera. “Brought this to take some pictures. I thought I could give Terry a copy later so she could see how many people were here for her, for Lily.”

“Good idea. Pam said she wants to go by and see Terry today. Said she wanted to go with you if that’s all right.”

Pam. It’s a casual statement that somehow unsettles me. Because it means Jack spoke with Pam sometime between last night and this morning. It shouldn’t matter to me. But it does. “Sure.”

He looks out at the scattered crowd climbing into the stands and swimmers rallying together, many of them bald. “It’s pretty amazing, isn’t it? Our kids did this.”

My throat tightens.
Our
kids. My heart stutters. “I just wish Lily could have seen all of this.”

He cups a hand over my arm. “Maybe she is.”

Then he silences the pounding musical beat and lifts the microphone to his lips. The resounding silence ricochets inside my chest. “Morning all. We have an announcement to make.” He shakes his head as if finding the words difficult to say. “It’s not easy.” His voice reverberates off the rafters. “Lily passed away last night.”

An audible gasp echoes through the building.

“We feel Lily would want us to continue on with the swim-a-thon. She wasn’t a quitter. She fought hard as I know each of you will swim hard today. The money we raise today will go toward paying off her parents’ enormous medical bills and the rest will go to charity to help find a cure so other kids like Lily won’t have to die.”

Jack’s throat works up and down, the muscles contracting, and I cover his hand with my own. He meets my gaze and for a long moment I feel connected to him.

Then he clicks the microphone again. “Let’s have a moment of silence in memory of Lily.”