gone."
"Serena is gone? You mean she ran away?"
She waved the cigarette in circles. "Moved out."
"Moved out? She's a sophomore, you said. She's—what?—sixteen? Call the cops; make her come back."
"I did that. She just leaves again. What am I gonna do? Chain her to the radiator? After a while, you know, you keep calling the cops, they set Child Protective Services on you. I'm not gonna let them put her in some foster home..."
I sighed, rubbed the back of my neck. "Well, where is she?"
"I don't know. She stays with friends, one friend, then another. I don't even know most of them."
"Friends like other kids? Kids with parents? Is she staying with other families?"
"Sometimes. I don't know. No. No, I don't think so." She averted her eyes the way people do when you press them for details and they don't want to talk about the details because then they'll have to face them straight on themselves. Holding her cigarette between two fingers, she massaged her forehead with her pinkie and thumb. "She gets involved with these characters. They get their claws into her..."
Oh, wonderful,
I thought.
These characters ... with their claws in her...
I had to fight down a flash of irritation. People make such messes for themselves—for themselves and for their children, too. And yes, I knew I shouldn't've passed judgment on her. And yes, I did feel bad for her, too. Poor woman, the way
she looked, her face all swollen and pocked as if every day since I'd seen her last had been a punch in the jaw. For all her smart mouth and her bravado, Lauren had always needed someone to take charge of her, someone to lead her to a better place. Guys took advantage of that—guys like Carl—guys like me, like I was back then. She wanted leading? We led her, all right. We led her where we wanted to go, and then dumped her when we wanted to go somewhere else. Him off in Arizona, me on the Hill. And her left behind, looking like this. So, aside from all the petty stuff—you know, my smugness at having a good life, my satisfaction at doing better than an old girlfriend—I really did feel bad for her and guilty, to some degree. All the same, she'd sure made a mess of things, a mess for herself and a mess for her daughter. And it irritated me, I have to confess.
"Have you told her father about this?" I asked her. "Have you told Carl?"
She answered with an exasperated
Pah!
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Talk to her," she said. "Just go talk to her. Get her to come home."
"That's ridiculous, Lauren, I don't even know her."
"I know but ... she needs someone like you, Jason. She needs a man, a father figure, someone who's not an asshole. That's always been the big thing about you. I always remembered that. I mean, with all the fucked-up stuff we did and everything, you were never an asshole, not like Carl. I mean, this Jesus shit you're into—I don't know what all that's about. I guess everyone has their drug of choice, so fine, whatever, but ... You're the only guy I know who hasn't turned out to be a piece of shit. Serena's gonna hurt herself or get hurt or get pregnant or I don't know what and ... I can't be Daddy for her. I can't reach her. Please. Go and talk to her. She might listen to you."
I had no idea what to say to that. Baffled, I shook my head. My eyes were turned down to Serena's photograph. That child-woman face, the pouting Little Girl Lost, was gazing up at me. It seemed to me now that she did have her mother's eyes, after all, those same hurt, defiant eyes, begging for someone to take charge of her.
"Look," I said. "I'm sorry. I mean, I want to help you, Lauren. I do. I'd like to help Serena, too, but ... This doesn't make any sense to me. I don't even know what I'm doing here. You and me—it's a long time ago now. You don't just call a guy up after all these years. Not for something like this. She must have a teacher or guidance counselor or something..."
She made that exasperated noise again, the same noise:
Pah!
"What
"Serena is gone? You mean she ran away?"
She waved the cigarette in circles. "Moved out."
"Moved out? She's a sophomore, you said. She's—what?—sixteen? Call the cops; make her come back."
"I did that. She just leaves again. What am I gonna do? Chain her to the radiator? After a while, you know, you keep calling the cops, they set Child Protective Services on you. I'm not gonna let them put her in some foster home..."
I sighed, rubbed the back of my neck. "Well, where is she?"
"I don't know. She stays with friends, one friend, then another. I don't even know most of them."
"Friends like other kids? Kids with parents? Is she staying with other families?"
"Sometimes. I don't know. No. No, I don't think so." She averted her eyes the way people do when you press them for details and they don't want to talk about the details because then they'll have to face them straight on themselves. Holding her cigarette between two fingers, she massaged her forehead with her pinkie and thumb. "She gets involved with these characters. They get their claws into her..."
Oh, wonderful,
I thought.
These characters ... with their claws in her...
I had to fight down a flash of irritation. People make such messes for themselves—for themselves and for their children, too. And yes, I knew I shouldn't've passed judgment on her. And yes, I did feel bad for her, too. Poor woman, the way
she looked, her face all swollen and pocked as if every day since I'd seen her last had been a punch in the jaw. For all her smart mouth and her bravado, Lauren had always needed someone to take charge of her, someone to lead her to a better place. Guys took advantage of that—guys like Carl—guys like me, like I was back then. She wanted leading? We led her, all right. We led her where we wanted to go, and then dumped her when we wanted to go somewhere else. Him off in Arizona, me on the Hill. And her left behind, looking like this. So, aside from all the petty stuff—you know, my smugness at having a good life, my satisfaction at doing better than an old girlfriend—I really did feel bad for her and guilty, to some degree. All the same, she'd sure made a mess of things, a mess for herself and a mess for her daughter. And it irritated me, I have to confess.
"Have you told her father about this?" I asked her. "Have you told Carl?"
She answered with an exasperated
Pah!
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Talk to her," she said. "Just go talk to her. Get her to come home."
"That's ridiculous, Lauren, I don't even know her."
"I know but ... she needs someone like you, Jason. She needs a man, a father figure, someone who's not an asshole. That's always been the big thing about you. I always remembered that. I mean, with all the fucked-up stuff we did and everything, you were never an asshole, not like Carl. I mean, this Jesus shit you're into—I don't know what all that's about. I guess everyone has their drug of choice, so fine, whatever, but ... You're the only guy I know who hasn't turned out to be a piece of shit. Serena's gonna hurt herself or get hurt or get pregnant or I don't know what and ... I can't be Daddy for her. I can't reach her. Please. Go and talk to her. She might listen to you."
I had no idea what to say to that. Baffled, I shook my head. My eyes were turned down to Serena's photograph. That child-woman face, the pouting Little Girl Lost, was gazing up at me. It seemed to me now that she did have her mother's eyes, after all, those same hurt, defiant eyes, begging for someone to take charge of her.
"Look," I said. "I'm sorry. I mean, I want to help you, Lauren. I do. I'd like to help Serena, too, but ... This doesn't make any sense to me. I don't even know what I'm doing here. You and me—it's a long time ago now. You don't just call a guy up after all these years. Not for something like this. She must have a teacher or guidance counselor or something..."
She made that exasperated noise again, the same noise:
Pah!
"What
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