Summer 1992

As I lay in bed that night, I kept running over everything in my mind. The entire disaster that evening had been preventable. I'd known from previous experience that Teresa felt abandoned whenever Maria had an overnight guest. I remember my sixth-grade slumber parties being so fun, and I thought Maria should have some, too. But these young ladies were more complicated. I thought, "It always comes down to this. If I had only done this or that differently, none of the fighting and screaming and throwing things would have happened. But no. I had to do what I thought was right, and now I get to figure out how to make good tomorrow morning."

But that was still hours away.

Quietly, I climbed out of bed, opened the bedroom door, and walked down the hallway. Moonlight peeked in through the skylight. The hallway was littered with books, stuffed animals, and slippers thrown in a rage.

I turned on the bathroom light so I could see while I checked on the girls. Blood was splattered all over the floor, the sink, the mirror, and the faucets. The bath towel had bloody handprints on it. The toilet seat had been put down, but it was covered with blood as was the handle. This might have freaked out the average person, but I was a premed in college. I'd worked in an ER, a hematology laboratory, and a hematology clinic, processing blood and other samples. I'd seen open-heart surgeries and autopsies. Surely I could cope with this little situation without disturbing Tony or Maria's guest.

I scurried down the steps to the kitchen and retrieved a flashlight. It was time to check out each girl, one at a time. I went into the spare bedroom to examine Maria. At age eleven, she still looked so tiny. In her pajamas, she was almost too thin. I gently tapped her on the shoulder. She slept so soundly, and I always hated waking her. But she still needed someone to keep a close eye on her, and she was used to periodic inspections in the middle of the night.

Next, I checked my youngest stepdaughtr's friend who had come for a sleepover. She was sleeping soundly and appeared to be fine.

Then I went into the other bedroom to check out Teresa. Her pillow was covered in blood. So was her down comforter. I asked her to stand up so I could find the source of the bleeding. As I asked her to step into the bathroom, I saw her hands and arms were covered with blood.

When did life get so damn complicated? I needed to know what part of her body was bleeding, and this time, it wasn't obvious.

"Teresa, where is all this blood coming from?" I asked.

She shook her head as if to say she didn't know. Teresa, now fourteen years old, would never talk about anything if she didn't want to. I'd learned that children with hemophilia often feel guilty about bleeding, and they refuse to tell their parents. They know the treatment will involve needle sticks, and it might even prevent them from continuing their much-more-fun activities.

Teresa's eyes were still red and swollen from crying earlier that night. All the giggling by her sister and her friend had been more than Teresa could take. She had felt abandoned in her own home by her sister, who paid total attention to her guest. And she was angry with me, the person who had actually suggested it would be fun for both girls to have a sleepover guest.

Playing detective, I surmised that Teresa had cried alligator tears early in the night and moved her head from side to side while buried in her pillow. This caused a nosebleed. Because Teresa was so upset, she didn't ask for help; she just let it bleed. Because she had been lying down, some of the blood went down her throat and into her stomach. It must have made her nauseated. At some point, she got up to go to the bathroom and threw up into the toilet. She used her hands to pinch her nose to stop the bleeding, and then, once it stopped, she wiped her hands and face on the towel.

The root cause of this bleeding episode was jealousy over her sister having a friend. It was too much for Teresa to handle, and it was also totally preventable. I should have listened to Tony and not arranged for a slumber party.

I had to quickly get things cleaned up before little Katlyn woke up. I didn't want her telling all the kids at school that people inside Maria's house were dripping blood all over the place. It was our little family secret, and I wanted to keep that secret as long as I could.

After all, what we deal with would keep Stephen King awake at night.

Things had definitely become weird. Only a few years ago, life had been much simpler. This was before I met the girls and their dad.