LET’S SIT,” I say when Liza and I are alone.
“Why?” she snaps, returning to hostile mode. “This isn’t going to take long.”
I don’t push it; I need Liza to stay, to talk to me. So we remain standing where we are. “How long have you been hanging out with Fiona Carmichael?”
“A few months.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” The words sound desperate and pleading.
“We thought it would be awkward since you were her guidance counselor.”
We. Like they are a unit, a team. It sends a chill through me.
“Did Fiona ask you not to tell me?” I press.
“No, we decided together.” But uncertainty flits across Liza’s features, and I know the subterfuge was Fiona’s idea.
“Is she going on this Australia trip with you?”
“Yeah, she is.” My daughter folds her arms. “So?”
I feel panicky, but I steady my voice. “Do you know what Fiona did to Abby Lester?”
My daughter rolls her eyes. “She didn’t do anything, Mom.”
“She did. She uploaded a video to Snapchat of that poor girl overdosing. She’s admitted it.”
“Abby’s not the innocent angel you think she is.” Liza’s face is twisted and cruel. “She took Molly and went after Hugo Duncan, even though she knew Fiona liked him.”
“What are you saying?” My mouth tastes sick and sour. “You think Abby’s to blame for what happened? You think it’s her own fault?”
“Kinda.”
My voice trembles. “Jesus Christ, Liza.”
“Abby was a party monster that night! She wanted to get messed up. She was so desperate to fit in.”
We stare at each other wordlessly. My mind is scrambling through every course I took on counseling teens, every parenting book I’ve ever read, but I’m at a loss. What do I say? Do I even know my daughter anymore? I’ve been so absorbed by the publishing process, so immersed in the trolling drama, that I took my eye off the ball. And now Liza has morphed into an entirely different person, someone cold and cruel and without compassion.
On rubbery legs, I move to the couch before I collapse. Thankfully, Liza doesn’t bolt for the door, but follows me, sitting at the opposite end of the sofa. She breaks the silence.
“No one forced Abby to take those pills, Mom. She wanted to take them.”
“Even if she did, those kids stood by and watched her take a deadly dose of MDMA. And when she went into medical distress, no one called for help. They stood by and they laughed.”
“It wasn’t like that.” There’s something so assured in her tone, so certain.
“How do you know?” My throat closes, but I force my voice to come. “Were you there?”
Her cheeks flush with guilt, and she swallows thickly. “For a bit.”
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach, but I press on. “Did you… did you see what happened to Abby?”
Liza’s face crumples with emotion, and she looks like my little girl again. “I was staying over at Sage’s that night. Wyatt picked us up later. We got there after Abby had already taken the pills. Fiona said that Abby took so many to get attention. Everyone said she was desperate to get in with the cool kids. And then Abby started twitching and freaking out.”
“She could have died, Liza. Do you know how serious that was?”
“I wanted to wake up her parents, Mom. I really did.” The tears spill over. “Wyatt almost did, but then… he… he couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
“We would have been attacked. We would have been called narcs and everyone would have turned against us.”
She’s probably right. But I want to believe that I raised a girl with a stronger moral compass, one who would put another child’s safety above her personal reputation. Wyatt’s words loop through my mind.
She’s got a bunch of new friends. She’s different around them.
“Who brought the drugs to the party?” I ask.
“I’m not sure.”
“Tell me, Liza.”
“I honestly don’t know. I think it might have been Hugo. He sneaked in before we got there.”
“Fiona’s boyfriend,” I state. “I know that girl, Liza. Fiona Carmichael is not a good person.”
“She’s nice to me,” my daughter says sulkily. “And she’s popular. Everyone wants to hang out with her. She has tons of followers on social.”
“You’re smart and curious and amazing. Since when is looking cool on social media so important to you?”
“You’re one to talk,” Liza snaps back.
“What do you mean?” But my face burns with guilt.
“You’ve spent the past year and a half on your phone, posting selfies in Miami like some influencer. It’s gross, Mom. It’s embarrassing.”
“It’s my responsibility to promote my book,” I try, but it sounds feeble.
“You think the girls at school don’t talk about Burnt Orchid?” she continues. “They’ve all read it, you know. And they all bug me about it. They ask me if I was molested by your boyfriend. They ask me if I went to juvie or if we were ever homeless. They send me gifs and memes of you screaming on that woman’s lawn. I hate it!”
She’s so angry, and I can’t blame her. For the briefest moment I consider the possibility that my own daughter is behind my online and in-person harassment, but she would never do that to me. She wouldn’t terrify me. She wouldn’t send me child pornography. She is still my baby. Under her anger, she still loves me.
“I’m sorry,” I say through my own tears. “I didn’t know it would be like this.”
“You never thought about me at all,” Liza says, getting up off the couch. “You just wanted your dream of becoming a famous author. You didn’t care what it did to the rest of us.”
“Where are you going?” I get up, too, and trail her toward the door.
“Back to Dad’s.”
“You’re not going to the beach?”
Her eyes, red with tears, harden. “Suddenly, I’m not in the mood for a party.”
She storms out, slamming the door behind her.
Moving back to the living room, I sit on the sofa and drop my head into my hands. I’ve failed as a mother. I let my daughter down and she’s made toxic friendships, terrible decisions. I’m filled with regret, self-loathing, and guilt. So much fucking guilt. I’m overwhelmed and I’m exhausted. But I know what I must do.
I reach for my phone and make the hardest call of my life.