Too Little, Too Late (14 page)

“Yeah,” offered Spic. “About ten hours of zzz’s.”

“Fuck you,” said Laurie mildly. She lit a new cigarette with the butt of her old one. “Try getting on a bus at five in the morning after you’ve been out all night.”

“Did you ditch first?” asked Karen, draining the rest of her friend’s coffee.

“That, plus third and fourth.”

“So, you should’ve been good to go by fifth. What happened?”

“I started tweaking,” admitted Laurie.

“On what?”

“Pink Champagne.”

“Holy shit!” Karen shook her head in disgust. “No wonder your face looks like crap.”

“I came into some stuff, okay?” Laurie became defensive. “You know how it is.”

“Where’d you get the speed?”

“From me,” admitted Spic.

Her real name was Frederica Dwyer and her father was Kieran Dwyer, one of Hollywood’s most prolific agents. Equally well-known throughout the industry were his legendary “pharm parties” where the contents of every guest’s medicine cabinet ended up in big glass bowls throughout his house. Guests could help themselves to a buffet of uppers, downers, speed and everything in between. Needless to say, Spic got her nickname after she’d started cleaning out all of the pill bowls, bringing the leftovers to school to share with her friends.

“Enough talk.” Laurie threw some bills on the table before getting up unsteadily. “Let’s go find us a wino!”

The three girls marched onto Hollywood Boulevard, Karen suddenly ducking behind an awning to light a joint. She took a deep drag, letting it fill her lungs before exhaling. The immediate rush felt good. Taking another deep pull on her joint, she handed the roach to Spic. Laurie was pressed against the wall, waiting eagerly. Karen’s pupils dilated as they fixed on Laurie’s parted lips. Their lips came together with only the slightest pressure. Karen released the sweet smoke in a gentle stream into Laurie’s mouth, feeling her friend shudder. Karen’s senses exploded again in a second rush. It definitely felt good, just like the taste of Laurie’s lips.

Liz’s small one-bedroom apartment in Hollywood was her pride and joy, not to mention most of her monthly income. Situated just north of Hollywood Boulevard, on La Brea, her building represented some of the glamour of old Hollywood, from the pink stucco on the exterior walls, to the tall stately palms gracing the canopied entranceway. Her apartment was the size of a shoebox but it had nice hardwood floors, newer appliances, two decent-sized closets, central air and a wonderful balcony. Best of all, it was just minutes from the Farmer’s Market, the freeway, Sunset Strip and Hollywood and Highland. It was also the first real home Liz had ever known.

She had spent months decorating her apartment, going to swap meets and yard sales to find just the right pieces to suit her taste. She always joked that her decorating style was “swap meet chic” since the most expensive furniture in her apartment was her dining room set which had set her back $150.00. The balcony was a myriad of colors and scents with a small, wrought-iron table and two chairs occupying one corner.

Her mother seemed impervious to her surroundings as Liz gently led her inside the front door. Once inside, Liz automatically went to turn on the music, but checked her impulse. She wasn’t sure how her mother would react to it and watched silently as Maria went around the apartment, fingering the various knickknacks displayed on the shelves.

“See you, see me,” Maria muttered as she stared at her reflection in the large mirror in the hallway. “No good!”

Earlier this morning, when Liz had found her outside of Grauman’s, she had been silent and uncommunicative. Later, when she’d managed to coax her mother into a walk-in clinic, Maria had become hysterical when the doctor had tried examining her feet and had to be lulled into submission with a chocolate bar. Glancing at her watch, Liz noted it was almost lunchtime. She wanted to give her mother some lunch followed by the antibiotics the doctor had prescribed. Luckily, the doctor had taken pity on Liz and had written the prescription in her name which meant that her drug plan covered it.

Liz had just taken a carton of eggs from the fridge to make scrambled eggs for their lunch when Maria began wailing at the top of her lungs. Glancing in the living room, she was startled to find her mother sitting on the floor, alternating between trying to rip the bandages from her feet and smashing her head against the wall when she couldn’t get them off.

Liz rushed over to her. “Mom, stop it!” Sitting down behind Maria, she cradled her mother’s head against her chest. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”

“Take socks off!” Maria was surprisingly strong as she tried to free herself from Liz’s grip.

“They’re not socks on your feet, they’re bandages.” With shaking fingers, she checked the ugly scratches above her mother’s ankles where Maria had been ripping at her skin.

“Off!” Without warning, she lunged backwards, hitting Liz directly in the face.

The impact sent excruciating pain shooting through her nasal cavity and caused her eyes to tear. “Stop it!”

“Off!” Maria’s fingers continued to rip at her bandages.

“No!”

Maria’s second body blow came immediately after that, forcing Liz to angle her body in such a way that her arm took the impact of the onslaught. It lasted for several minutes. When her mother finally went limp with exhaustion, Liz made up her mind and removed the bandages.

“You can’t keep hurting yourself every time you want something,” she told Maria angrily.

Her mother stood up carefully, tottering as if she were in high heels, before clutching the wall for support. Sitting down again, she immediately picked at the scab on the sole of her left foot.

Liz was quick to intervene. “Don’t do that, Mom, or I’ll have to put your socks back on.” She reached for the discarded bandage, only to have her mother rip it out of her hands.

“No sock, Lizzie!” Huge tears pooled in Maria’s eyes before sliding down her lined cheeks.

Liz immediately became ashamed of herself. “Okay, it’s a deal. No sock for now, okay?” She turned on the television to a cartoon, planted her mother in front of it and then went to the bathroom to assess the damage to her face. The cheek under her right eye looked a little tender, her nose was bleeding and there was drying blood along the front of her T-shirt. She looked like she’d just gone ten rounds with Tyson, but all in all, she would live. Glancing in the living room on her way back to the kitchen, Liz saw her mother staring mutely at the television screen, momentarily distracted from the task of picking at her scabs.

She took a deep breath, willing herself to calm down as she automatically broke eggs into a bowl for the scrambled eggs. Every now and then, she would glance into the living room but her mother remained exactly as she had left her. It was only after turning from the stove with two plates of steaming eggs and toast that Liz noted her mother was no longer watching TV. She rushed through the living room into the bathroom with mounting alarm, but Maria was nowhere to be found. Racing to the balcony, she involuntarily glanced over the side rail to the tropical garden, two floors below. There was no sign of her mother anywhere.

Back inside, Liz mentally reviewed a short list of all the possible places her mother might have gone off to when she noticed the closet door slightly ajar and heard the muffled snores. Liz peeked inside to find Maria curled up against a pair of rubber boots, sound asleep. With a sigh of relief, she realized she’d been given a temporary reprieve. Gently covering her with a crocheted blanket, Liz decided to have a quick shower while her mother slept.

Stepping under the cold spray, she gingerly washed around her sore face, feeling utterly spent. Just one lousy episode with her mother and she was already bruised and battered. Nothing had changed with Maria; nothing ever did. If something made her mother angry, she became violent, striking out at herself and anyone else in her path. Maria needed care but deep down, Liz wasn’t sure if she was capable of providing it.
You can always have her committed
, a little voice reminded her. Just as quickly, her conscience discounted the idea. Her mother had been locked up almost all her life and Liz wasn’t about to have her committed again. She had some vacation time coming and would use it to look after her. Her mother would just have to get used to living with her and that was all there was to it. Feeling better once her decision had been made, she got out of the shower and quickly dried off.

Just as she was about to blow dry her hair, Liz heard a noise from the other room. Rushing from the bathroom, she found the front door wide open and the closet empty. Maria’s shoes were exactly where she’d left them but Maria and Liz’s backpack were both gone. Running out into the hallway, she saw that it was deserted. With mounting dread, Liz scrambled back inside and threw on some clothes before taking the stairs, two at a time, down to the lobby. Out on La Brea, she scanned the empty street. Her mother was long gone.

By the time Liz Farrell turned ten, she had lived in eight different foster homes in and around the Los Angeles area. Quiet and unassuming, she was a good student but in her home life, Liz didn’t fare as well. Fiercely private and mostly uncommunicative, she preferred her own company to that of her foster siblings which made her a prime target for their taunts and the butt of their many jokes.
 

When she was seven and living in an apartment complex in Canoga Park, one of Liz’s foster siblings, a twelve-year-old bully named Shane, and three of his best friends, molested her underneath the seldom-used stairwell leading to the boiler room.
 

At thirteen, Liz had pushed one of her foster sisters from a tree after the other girl made fun of her unflattering haircut. Once back from Emergency, her foster sister sported a cast and a deep-seated hate for Liz. A few days later, Liz came home from school to find her foster mother and Liz’s social worker having a cup of coffee in the kitchen and Liz had hidden outside the door and shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation.
 

“I wish you’d reconsider and let Liz stay,” said the social worker. “I’ll have a word with her to see if we can’t straighten everything out.”
 

“No,” said her foster mother adamantly. “There’s a rift in the family and it’s that girl’s fault. She just flies off the handle and does these awful things like pushing my Tina out of a tree!”
 

The social worker consulted the open file in front of her. “Maybe Liz has inherited some of her mother’s genetic traits.”
 

“I don’t care what she’s inherited from that lunatic,” said her foster mother stubbornly. “I know this sounds terrible but I don’t want that girl living in my house anymore. Maybe she should be locked up with her mother.”
 

The rest of their conversation was lost on Liz as her head reeled in disbelief. It sounded as though her mother was alive!
 

After that, Liz tried to learn more about her mother from her social worker but the other woman steadfastly refused to discuss the matter. Frustrated and unable to get anywhere, Liz reluctantly let the matter drop.
 

She ended up going to a group home for troubled teens where Liz stayed until she turned eighteen. She hated it at Hailey House. Most of the girls there were tough and many had juvenile records for stealing and assault. As with all of the other places where she’d lived, Liz stuck mostly to herself and befriended no one except for one of her schoolmates, Alice Kinkirk. When Liz found out that Alice’s mother was a reporter for the
Southern California Free Press Gazette,
she became Alice’s new best friend and it wasn’t long before Liz became a regular fixture at Alice’s house on weekends.
 

One Sunday morning, Alice’s mother poured herself a mug of coffee and joined the girls as they finished their breakfast.
 

“Is everything all right with your food, Liz?” she asked kindly.
 

Liz nodded enthusiastically. “I love the way you make your hotcakes, Mrs. K. They always taste amazing.”
 

Alice’s mother beamed. “You’re welcome to stay with us any time you want.”
 

“Thanks a lot.”
 

Mrs. Kinkirk cleared her throat. “Have you thought about what you’re going to do when you leave Hailey House?”
 

“I’m going to get a job,” she replied, “and maybe go to night school. I was thinking of getting a degree in business.”
 

“Do you have any family that can help you out?”
 

“I think my mom’s alive but she’s locked up somewhere and can’t help.”
 

“Locked up?”
 

Liz nodded. “That’s what my social worker told my foster mother before I got sent to Hailey
House.”
 

Alice’s mother tactfully changed the subject and the rest of Liz’s visit passed without incident. Six weeks later, Liz celebrated her eighteenth birthday with Alice’s family. Liz was genuinely touched by the chocolate cake, her favorite, as well as by the gifts from Alice and her parents. Later on, while Alice was getting some help from her father with her homework, Mrs. Kinkirk suggested that Liz help her with the dishes.
 

As Liz loaded the dishwasher, Alice’s mother casually asked, “Do you know which hospital you were born in?”
 

“St. Rose’s in Santa Monica,” Liz replied. “Why?”
 

She answered Liz’s question with another question. “Does the name “Weaver” mean anything to you?”
 

Liz thought for a moment. “I don’t think so.”
 

“What about Woodland Hills Lodge?”
 

“No.” She looked at Mrs. Kinkirk closely. “Why are you asking me all these questions?”
 

“Because I think I may have discovered some information about your mother.”
 

“What information?” Liz asked eagerly. “Do you know where she is?”