Face Of The Monster

23 - Accident

When Phoebe Kim turns up on my doorstep, I hardly have the patience to deal with her.

She's obviously upset and I feel awful, but it's been a terrible day. Everything hurts, inside and out. My ankles have started swelling and my stomach churns with nausea. My head is pounding and my throat is scratchy from yelling. My feet ache from standing to cut hair all day.

Since I last saw Phoebe only three days ago, she has changed drastically. Her hair is oily and limp, the blue tips hacked off. Her clothes are wrinkled and she isn't wearing any makeup. Her face looks thinner, gaunter, cheeks sunken in. A sour scent is wafting from her body like she hasn't bathed.

"Phoebe, what are you doing here?" I ask. Usually, it's me who goes to her.

Inside, my own little hell is being constructed. My poor little Duckie is sick, splattering his vomit all over. Sofia fed him something, but she won't say what. Tiago is in his room crying and won't even look up from his pillow. Isabel is on the phone with Ricky, or however much one can really be on the phone "with" Ricky. She is talking to him and crying and begging him to talk back. Cande is texting her friends and listening to loud music while she supposedly works on her graduation essay. My mother-in-law has retired to the guest bedroom. For once, she isn't cooking. It's not a good night for her to be tuckered out, though. I don't have time to make a meal right now.

Phoebe looks at me, her eyes as sad and round as a kicked puppy's. "I'm sorry," she says. Her voice skips, a scratched record. "I was just . . . I was thinking of that night when you came to my house and you said . . . you said you didn't want to be alone. I think I just feel like that."

I wipe the sweat off my forehead, giving her a bewildered look. "Phoebe, really, you can't just show up like this. I don't have time right now."

"You don't have to have time," she says quietly. "I'll just sit. I just want to be around people."

I don't have the time or the energy to argue with her. From the living room, I hear the perverse laughter of Isabel's sons as the dog spews again. I have to get him to the vet, but until then, I'll have to leave him outside. "My dog is puking," I warn her. I take a sharp sniff, crinkling my nose. "Here, come in. You have to take a shower. You smell awful."

Phoebe's mouth turns down at the corners. She looks old, feeble. "That's not very nice," she mutters.

"It's true. Bathroom's just to the right, you'll see it. I'll bring you some clothes. Wash your hair, too. You're getting greasy. Honestly, you look homeless."

I take far too much satisfaction from the hurt on Phoebe's face. She frowns at me and says. "I can't."

"Yes, you can." I take her by the wrist and yank her inside. She's light as paper, falling over the threshold of my house. "Either take a shower or get out of my house, okay? I have to make dinner for eight. I don't have time for this."

I stalk away, not waiting to see what she does. There's dog vomit to clean up and children to yell at and food to cook. I can still hear Isabel wailing from my room as I soak a towel in the sink to scrub away Duck's mess. She's lying on Ricky's side of the bed, so caught up in her own grief that she didn't even respond when I asked her to leave.

Duck is quiet and abashed when I enter the room, ears down in shame. Cristiano pokes him, giggling maliciously when he twitches. "Stop that," I snap. "Go sit down and read a book."

"You're not my mom," the little boy sneers. "You can't tell me what to do."

I hear the bathroom door ease shut. Good. I wait for the loud honk of the showerhead turning on, but it doesn't come. "Don't talk back to me," I tell Cristiano, "And don't touch my dog."

"It's not your dog."

"Yes, he is."

I kneel beside Duck, soaking up the thin puddle of his vomit. Poor thing, so helpless, so defenseless against the world. His eyes are milky with pain and so trusting; he believes I will take care of him. I will, of course. I kiss his silky head and go back to cleaning. Cristiano tries to engage me in further argument, but I build a firm wall of ostracism and eventually, he goes to find someone else to bother.

Duckie follows me outside. It's chilly out, but I leave him in the yard with his leash tied to the stair rail. He looks at me, still so unquestioning, so sweet. He doesn't expect me to lock him out of the house. Guilt pulses through me as I ascend the stairs and he follows me. I close the back door and he waits outside, waits for me to come back for him.

Next order of business: Phoebe. I wash my hands and go to check on my son, who is no longer sobbing but now gently whimpering with his face doused in a pillow case. He accepts my embrace and also accepts when I walk away, shutting the door behind him. Sofia is in his room as well, quietly playing marbles in the corner. She seems fascinated, momentarily distracted from her delinquency.

The bathroom door is closed but not locked. I push it open without knocking.

There, as I expected, is Phoebe Kim. She is fully clothed, sitting in my bathtub with her arms pulled tightly around herself. I sigh, tugging at her sleeve which is crusty with dried tears. "Get out of your clothes," I tell her. "You know how to take a shower. What's wrong with you?"

"You don't even care," Phoebe whimpers.

I do care, but I don't have time to at the moment. I yank her shirt over her head, ignoring her little squeal of protest. Lifting her to her feet, I pull down her sweatpants and start to peel off her underwear.

Phoebe locks her arms around herself, jerking away from me. "You don't understand," she says.

My patience is done. I turn on the showerhead, letting the lukewarm spray drizzle over her hair, her face, her bra. She lifts her face to it like it is the sun on a warm day of winter.

As I lather soap onto the washcloth, I can't help but stare at her body. Her legs are pale and lengthy, a few blue veins snaking down them. Her stomach is flat, the gilded mold of her ribs showing through, but just barely. Her arms are firm and long, her shoulders smooth and white as little moons.

I put the washcloth in her hand. "Clean yourself, please," I say. "I'll be back in a second with some clothes."

She grabs hold of my arm with her wet hand. "Emma, please. I'm always there for you. Can't you be here for me just this once?"