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“Can you put this where it belongs?” Her voice was shrill, impatient.
They were on the floor in Little Pete’s room, sitting in a corner on the carpet. Little Pete was gone in his head, not there, indifferent.
Sometimes she hated him.
“Try again, Petey,” Astrid said. She stopped herself from twisting her fingers together. She was sending signals of being tense. Not helpful.
She should be running exercises like this every day. Several times a day. But she didn’t. She was only doing it now because she couldn’t stand waiting. She needed something to take her mind off Sam.
“Sorry,” she said to Little Pete, who was as indifferent to her apology as to everything else.
Someone knocked at the bedroom door, and she jumped.
The door swung in; it wasn’t closed.
“It’s me, John.”
Astrid climbed to her feet, relieved it was just John. Disappointed it was just John.
“John, what is it?” They wouldn’t send John with bad news. Would they?
“I can’t find Mary.”
A flood of relief, instantly replaced by more worry. “She’s not at the day care?”
He shook his head. His red curls went everywhere, a counterpoint to his serious expression. “She was supposed to come in hours ago. She’s almost never late. I couldn’t leave to look for her because we’re shorthanded and we have so many kids sick. I came as soon as I could. I looked in her room. I didn’t find her there.”
Astrid glanced at Little Pete. He had stalled with his hand on a yellow ball, and seemingly no interest in doing anything with it.
“Let me look,” Astrid said.
They entered Mary’s room. It was as neat and organized as ever. But the bed was unmade.
“She always makes her bed,” Astrid said.
“Yeah,” John agreed.
“What’s that sound?” There was a steady hum. Coming from the bathroom. The fan. Astrid tried to open the bathroom door, but it was blocked. She leaned into it and pushed it open enough to see inside.
Mary was on the floor, unconscious. She was wearing a robe that exposed her calves.
“Oh, my God,” Astrid cried. “Mary!”
“Help me push,” Astrid said. Together they forced the door open enough to let them slip inside. Astrid immediately noticed the smell of vomit.
“She must be sick,” John said.
The toilet water was slightly discolored. There was a thin trail of vomit running from Mary’s mouth.
“She’s breathing,” Astrid said quickly. “She’s alive.”
“I didn’t even know she was sick.”
Then Astrid saw the little zipper bag, a little Clinique cosmetics bag lying with its contents half spilled onto the bathroom tile.
She picked it up. She dumped the contents out on the floor. A mostly empty bottle of ipecac. And several different types of laxatives.
“John, close your eyes for a minute.”
