There it was again. Stressed. Depressed. Another person telling me Desiree wasn’t in a good place. The baby. I must’ve also said it out loud because Sherry spoke.
“Huh? No, her arrest.”
“How do you know about her arrest?” It had to be her DUI two years ago. If there’d been a recent one, it would’ve made my Google Alerts.
“How I know about everything. I eavesdropped. She asked to use the phone in the office. Said her phone was out of juice. I let her. You know, ’cause she always tipped well. I couldn’t hear much until she started crying hysterically about her accident. Something about she’d been looking for this person for a couple of years. They knew she wasn’t driving. They needed to tell the police or she would. Said something about a video. She was pissed. She knew I heard her, but she didn’t care. Rich people never do—no offense. A couple of days ago, when I asked how she was doing, she said she was feeling better. That the problem was taken care of.”
Shitnuts.
She’d been just as insistent the last time we ever spoke.
Thirteen
There are sixty-two emergency rooms in New York City, which meant sixty-two frantic calls in the three hours from when I thought my sister had died to when I wanted to kill her myself. It’d been two years since that night, but I remembered it like it was last week. Remembered it better than last week because I had no clue what I was doing last Saturday.
At the time I was still in my basement studio apartment in Jersey City. It was fate—not the phone—that woke me up that Friday night. My cell was on vibrate, as usual. Otherwise, I would’ve woken to my customary 7 a.m. alarm for my weekend bike ride, just in time to learn that Desiree wasn’t dead. Instead, I had to pee. I was stumbling back to bed in the dark when I heard the familiar buzz of my phone on my nightstand. Only one person on Planet Earth had the gall to call me that late.
Desiree.
I picked it up. The photo that popped up proved me right. It was the one of her and me and Mel, all cheesing it up like the happy, functional family we could only be for the time it took to tap a button. I glared at the trio of matching faces as I sat on my bed. “If you want me to convince you not to go back to some random’s house…”
But where Desiree normally would cut me off with a plaintive “Leeennnaaaaa,” there was nothing but silence. I trailed off on my own, the dread bubbling up like boiling water. “Des? Everything good?”
A voice answered. One that didn’t belong to my sister. I still don’t know who she was—I never got her name. At the time, it didn’t occur to me to ask. So I’ve given her my own nickname: Zor-El. Since she became my own personal superwoman.
“Is this Lena?” she said.
“Yeah…” I said a quick prayer that maybe Desiree had left her phone on the back of some dirty-ass public toilet. There was precedence.
“I couldn’t reach her parents and you were her last call, so—” She stopped abruptly. And when she spoke again, it wasn’t to me. “No! Keep your eyes open. The operator said you need to keep talking, Desiree. It is Desiree?”
“Yes,” I said even though she wasn’t addressing me. “Her name is Desiree Pierce. She’s twenty-two. Has some allergies…”
And then Zor-El was talking over me so I shut up, hoping to piece together exactly what the fuck was going on. “Desiree, stay with me, okay? Help is coming.” Another pause. And then, “Shit.” And finally, “Shit.”
“Is she okay?” I yelled it to be heard over my rapidly beating heart. “What’s going on?”
But the only thing that answered was sirens.
Zor-El spoke to me again, breathless. “They’re here. Meet us at the hospital.”
She hung up before I could ask which. I called back immediately. She didn’t answer. I never spoke to her again.
Desiree and I had FaceTimed earlier that night. I’d just come back from drinks with Kat. She was putting on her makeup, getting ready for her 3,334th night in a row of not staying in. Another night. Another event. Another outfit. It was why I couldn’t remember where she had said she was going.
I scrambled to look it up on my cell, still sitting in the dark. Still sitting in my bed. Still sitting in my pajamas. Though she’d uploaded a pregame selfie earlier—complete with wineglass—there was no mention of exactly what she was pregaming for. I searched social media for any and all launches, events, and official after-parties in Manhattan. Places she’d have to make an appearance. If I knew where she’d been coming from, then I could narrow down where the ambulance was going to.
A few must-attend events littered Instagram but none with her tagged in pics. And much to her—and now my—dismay, she wasn’t famous enough for any celeb sighting tweets. That’s when I started cold-calling hospitals like I was trying to sell them a vacuum. The Upper East Side was first in case she had been on her way home. NewYork-Presbyterian. Then Lenox Hill and Mount Sinai.
No Desiree Pierces.
I expanded west, north, and south. Bellevue. Harlem Hospital. Beth Israel.
Googling. Calling. Hanging up dejected. Over and over and over again.
Nothing.
I finally willed myself to get out of bed, as if that would change my luck, like trying a different table at a casino. The calls kept me busy, kept my mind off what it meant if Desiree wasn’t at any hospital at all. When Gram died, the ambulance left without her. It was the morgue that picked her up, carting her off to who knows where to do who knows what. It was better to call hospitals than police stations.
I kept dialing as I did my laps around the apartment. St. Luke’s. Mount Sinai West. Langone.
Finally, at 5:30, I called Aunt E, knowing she got up early and hoping she might have more info. Maybe she had spoken to Mel and Veronika. She picked up on the second ring. “Lena? Everything okay?”
I continued Googling the number for Bronx-Lebanon. “Someone called. Something happened to Desiree. I’ve been calling hospitals but no one…”
I trailed off, and Aunt E didn’t rush to fill the gap. After a moment, she spoke. “We need to pray.”
I didn’t question it. Just dropped to the ground, my bare knees hitting decades-old carpet I’d only gotten around to cleaning once. I wore nothing but an extra-large T-shirt. We stayed on the phone and prayed. It felt longer than a Black preacher still going at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon, but for once I didn’t mind. I kept my eyes closed, my ears open, and my mind clear.
Prayer was soon replaced by Bible verses. The names were out of my head as soon as they were mentioned, but there’s one I’ll never forget. “But let all who take refuge in you be glad; let them ever sing for joy. Spread your protection over them, that those who love your name may rejoice in you.”
Aunt E stopped only when her caller ID beeped. She put me on three-way.
Tam.
Desiree was at Lenox Hill Hospital. She’d been admitted after I’d called. They’d tried the house, but Mel and Veronika were out of town. Veronika’s assistant was housesitting. Tam gave us the TL;DR version of what had happened. I put her on speaker while I added a bra and leggings to the T-shirt.
Desiree had been driving on West 64th Street when her car veered and hit a stoplight. She got out, took off on foot. The prosecution would say she fled the scene. The defense would say she was too dazed to realize what she was doing. Desiree would say nothing at all. A good Samaritan—my Zor-El—had found the car wrapped around a pole and followed a trail of blood to Desiree half a block up, passed out on the sidewalk from either the accident （her lawyer） or a mix of vodka and cocaine （the prosecution）。