Page 10 of Dark Ugly Places

She nods slowly. “It’s bad today.”

“Okay, baby.” With careful, even motion, I reach out and touch the ends of her dark, curly hair, and she flinches. From my red pouch, I dig out a single tramadol and hand it to her. “Lots of water, okay?”

She nods and downs the single pill, then settles into her seat.

“We’d better get some food into you now,” I add.

“Sure, whatever,” she says sleepily. The last time Emmy took the pill on an empty stomach, she vomited for hours.

“How about In-N-Out?”

“Okay,” she answers.

“Eat the granola bar in the meantime, okay?”

“Mom, chill. It’s like five minutes away.”

It’s more like fifteen, but I don’t argue.

I put the car in gear and release the brake. I turn to glance at her as we make a left and turn toward Wilshire.

“Em, talk to me,” I try. “Tell me what you did today.”

Emmy shrugs. Her little body hunkers down into the seat so she’s hardly visible from the exterior. “Normal stuff. Went to class. At lunch, some girls were talking about me, but whatever.”

Her hand instinctively reaches up and lightly touches the scar on the left side of her head, the pink-brown skin, new, still settling. It will be months before the scar fades and the skin smoothens out completely.

“What were they saying?”

“Stupid stuff. Like we’re poor, and I need new shoes.”

“What the hell?” My voice is high-pitched, scratchy. I clear my throat, trying to remain calm. “Why would they say that?”

My daughter releases a little grunt. “Maybe because I do, Mom. Okay? I mean, when is the last time we went shopping?”

A note of guilt sings up from the center of my chest. She’s right, of course. I try to picture the last time Emmy and I were shopping together, and I can’t. I don’t even remember.

“We can go tonight if you want …”

Emmy perks up a little. “Yeah? ”

“Yeah. Why don’t we grab some food and go get you some shoes?”

“From where?”

I sigh audibly, knowing the next argument we’ll have, but I say it anyway. “Why don’t we try one of those trendy thrift stores?”

“Oh, God. Mom, are you serious?” Emmy faces away from me, staring out the window as we pull onto South Beverly, with its high corner buildings catching the afternoon sun. Tourists in sandals and colorful tank tops photograph each other in front of the iconic Beverly Hills street signs. Others in designer outfits entering and leaving the expensive stores and shops carry armfuls of bags from Louis Vuitton, Chanel, Dior in cruel irony.

“Mom!” Emmy shouts. My foot slams on the brakes, and the car screeches to a sudden stop behind a Tesla.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I check the rearview mirror. The woman behind me is applying makeup but stops just in time.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I wasn’t—”

Emmy releases a deep sigh, her eyes red with tears. “It’s okay. Let’s just get there in one piece.”