What a Mother Knows (12 page)

“So is a little bladder.” Michelle pushed the water glass away.

“Ready?” Greenburg called.

“No,” Michelle insisted. “Can we get back to the last part? Is it against the law to not do the inspection? Was there some time limit?” Nervous, she held her breath.

“Not that I'm aware of,” Kenny offered.

“Good,” Michelle said. “I'm sure Drew was planning to do it when he got back.”

“Compliance is expected within a reasonable amount of time,” Dillenger said.

“‘Reasonable' is a bit of a gray area, is it not?” Greenburg asked.

“Not if it leads to a fatality,” Dillenger argued.

Michelle saw Greenburg wince. She wondered how he was picturing his nephew now—on his first birthday, or at his Bar Mitzvah, or the last time he saw him alive? He caught her looking and averted his eyes.

She forced herself to focus. “Are you saying that Drew could be arrested for not fixing the car quickly enough?”

Mr. Dillenger nodded. “There is precedence, Mrs. Mason, stating that a responsible party aware of a mechanical malfunction that contributes to a fatality can be found at fault.”

Michelle turned to Kenny. “Does that mean Drew could go to jail?”

Kenny watched the other men argue and spoke quietly. “It's possible, but this sounds more like due diligence. My guess is that Greenburg would prefer you not be found liable. If Dillenger's client is responsible, the damages will be much greater.”

“Damages?” Michelle whispered back.

Kenny shushed her as the men finished their discussion. He wrote a note on his pad:
payment
for
their
loss
. He underlined the last word, but Michelle understood.
Loss
was the four-letter word she was most familiar with. She looked out the window at the blue sky, imagining her daughter to be looking up at that same moment, at that same sky. She took a ragged breath and tried not to feel the hole in her heart.

Mr. Dillenger began anew. “Mrs. Mason, in the twenty-four-hour period preceding the car accident, had you consumed any alcohol, prescription, or nonprescription drugs?”

“Objection.” Kenny pushed the water glass toward her as if he was being polite. “Mrs. Mason's medical records are available by subpoena.”

“Noted. Mrs. Mason, we are aware that there is a family history of mental illness and that you underwent psychological counseling during your rehabilitation. Is it possible that, on this day, you experienced any depressive impulses?”

Kenny waited until Michelle drank some water. “Mr. Dillenger, with all due respect, there's no basis for this line of questioning. The weather report confirms hazardous driving conditions. Psychological profiling is standard for rehabilitation. And it's been established that my client has no memory of that day.”

Dillenger held his hands up in mock surrender. “Damn shame about your memory.” He twisted his pinky ring around his chubby finger. “Would you object to hypnosis?”

“No,” Michelle said.

“Yes,” Kenny said. “Remember the McMartin Preschool case? Couple of imaginative toddlers sent innocent teachers to jail. Hearsay is not admissible in California.”

“I didn't intend to use it in court, only to aid her memory,” Dillenger said. “Perhaps it would help to revisit the scene of the crime?”

“Objection. Assumes facts not yet in evidence and lacks foundation. No criminal charges have been filed yet.”

Dillenger put his palm up in mock surrender. “No harm meant. Too many reruns of
Law
and
Order
on the plane.” He looked at the court reporter, then back to Michelle. “Mrs. Mason, have you visited the three hundred block of Topanga Canyon Boulevard since the accident?”

The very idea gave Michelle goose bumps. Kenny refilled her water, but she ignored it. This one was easy. “No.”

“What was your daughter's relationship with Noah Butler?”

She picked up the water and drank the whole glass. Kenny nodded as if to say: good girl. “I don't know. Did you ask the other boys in the band?”

“We haven't found teenagers to be a reliable source of information,” Greenburg said, fixing a cuff link. Michelle couldn't help but smile at Kenny. When she looked up, Greenburg was addressing her. “Did you approve of the relationship?”

“What relationship?” Michelle asked.

“Objection,” Kenny piped in. “Even if a relationship were to be established, what mother thinks anyone is good enough for her daughter?” The others exchanged knowing smiles and chuckles.

Dillenger waited until the room was quiet again. “Since we are unable to verify the precise nature of Nicole Mason's relationship with the deceased, perhaps, Mrs. Mason, you could enlighten us as to yours?”

“I was Tyler's mom,” Michelle said. “He was Tyler's pitching coach.”

“Why was he in your car on the day of the accident?”

“I don't know.” Michelle strained to remember.

“Where were you going?”

“Good question.” She felt Kenny's gaze. “I don't know.”

“Isn't it true that you gave him his first big break?”

“I don't know.” She reached for the water glass.

“I may be from out of town, Mrs. Mason, but we've all heard of the casting couch. Could it be that you offered the deceased this opportunity to star in his own video in exchange for sexual favors? Could this knowledge be why your daughter has eluded subpoena for well over a year now? Out of embarrassment? Or to avoid ruining your reputation?”

“No! Isn't it more likely she saw the recall card in the mail?”

“Conjecture,” Kenny cried. “Please strike that from the record.” He gave Michelle a scolding look.

“I'm sorry,” Michelle said. “Can't we just apologize or give them money or whatever it is they want?”

One by one, they heard the sharp echo of her words. There was no more laughter, no more conversation, no one even looked in her direction. The clock tick-tick-ticked and stopped.

Kenny put his pen down. “They want their son back.”

They all looked up at Noah's face. Greenburg's phone interrupted like a funeral dirge, but this time he didn't answer. Michelle stood up so fast that her chair toppled over. Her right arm sprang loose and knocked over her glass. Water dripped on Kenny's notepad. He picked it up and shook it, knocking the glossy folder to the floor. It landed open to the eight-by-ten photo. She looked down and saw blood and pulp and tufts of hair. The room started spinning, the walls were caving, and the ceiling was pressing against her head. She had to escape.

She ran to the door but couldn't budge it. She turned to shove it with her hip and saw the boy on the easel, the smile that was gone forever. The door opened as the secretary returned. Michelle stumbled out to the hallway. She heard the lawyers' buzz behind her, but not a word they said. She fled down the hall to the ladies' room, slammed into a stall, and locked the door. She didn't ever want to go back to that room, to those eyes, to the horror she had tried to forget.

After a few minutes, the bathroom door banged opened. The tap of heels rose as they crossed the tile floor. The latch of the next stall slid shut. Michelle looked down and recognized the ankle straps. She slunk out to the bank of washbowls. The water flowed automatically, then stopped, revealing another noise: retching. Michelle gagged at the acrid odor. The toilet flushed and Ms. Rodriguez emerged.

Michelle noted the bulge beneath her jacket. “When are you due?”

“September.” She pulled a toothbrush from her purse and brushed.

The child would be a Virgo, like Nikki, Michelle thought. She wondered if Ms. Rodriguez would count baby teeth or billable hours. She was still young enough to believe that both were possible. Michelle used to believe that, too. She finished drying her hand. “Good luck to you.”

Ms. Rodriguez fumbled to put her toothbrush away. “Thanks. I lost the first one. I wasn't even trying then.” She put her hand on her belly and looked up at Michelle in the mirror. “I'd do anything to protect this baby.”

Michelle smiled. “Welcome to the club.”

Ms. Rodriquez smiled, then looked alarmed and left quickly.

Michelle looked in the mirror, disappointed. She had gone from friend to foe within the space of a sentence. Or was it during those weeks Michelle couldn't remember? Or the months that she didn't get the damn seat belt repaired? She could smell her armpits now, a blend of baby powder and fear.

Muffled voices seeped under the door. Kenny called, “Michelle? You okay?”

She shook her head at the question—she would never be okay again. But she could pretend. She pulled her sleeve down over her limp hand, smoothed a lock of hair over her scarred forehead, and marched out.

“Murderer!” The word hissed down the hallway.

“Keep walking,” Kenny said, steering her past.

Michelle held her breath through the poisonous cloud. She averted her eyes from the man in mirrored shades outside the conference room until she realized it was Noah's father. When he turned away, the Harley-Davidson wings on his jacket resembled an angel rising from his back. He took the elbow of a woman walking slowly, in a daze. Like Michelle, she was wearing black, but her caftan was not remotely stylish. She was in mourning.

Michelle had avoiding thinking about Noah's mother, but here she was, painfully real. She stole a glance at the woman's glassy eyes and stumbled. She wanted to say she was sorry, but Kenny pulled her past. “They have to blame someone,” he said.

Michelle nodded as he led her out to the lobby, but she couldn't get that word out of her head.
Murderer
, the man had called her. What if it was true?

When Kenny dropped Michelle off, she was relieved to see the Volvo parked in her driveway. Tyler had been out late every night, so she suggested he stay home and get some rest. His company would be comforting.

The garage door began to grind slowly up the rusty tracks. Michelle stood in the driveway and cringed, wondering if Drew still kept the WD-40 in the laundry room. At least she knew Tyler was awake.

As the door rose, she spotted his gray sneakers circling like sharks around a tarp-covered mound. His cough rang out, then the tarp dropped in a heap to the cement floor. Michelle stopped short as the hulking form in front of her was revealed. It was a black Harley-Davidson motorcycle.

The garage door crashed at the end of the track above Tyler as he swung his leg over the leather seat. “Tyler?” Michelle hurried up the driveway. “Is that Noah's?”

He looked back, his eyes wide with surprise. “It's mine.”

“Nice try. I'd never let you have a motorcycle. Too dangerous.”

“That's what Dad said.” He climbed off to face her.

Michelle almost smiled. “Why is it here?” She could hear the engine growl in her head.
Vroom, vroom.

“Noah's mom said to keep it.”

“But why is it here at all?”

“He left it here.”

Michelle wasn't sure if she recognized the Harley or imagined it from Cathy's account. Either way, Cathy said it wasn't there the morning of the accident. Since the game was called on account of rain, he must have stopped by to see if Tyler had gotten a chance to pitch. “Was Noah waiting here when we got home from the game or did he come by later?”

“Beats me,” Tyler said.

“I was probably giving him a ride home. Motorcycles are dangerous enough when the streets are dry.” She felt a wave of relief that Noah was in her car for safety reasons. That she was being a good mother, like she said in the deposition.

“Come on, Mom, let me keep it.”

“No. Doesn't Noah's father want it?”

“I dunno,” he said. “They're divorced.”

Michelle nodded, as if that explained everything. For Tyler, it did. For her, it simply explained why she'd given Noah a ride: she felt sorry for him.

“Please, Mom? Girls love motorcycles.”

Michelle looked at her son more closely. From the look of that hickey on his neck, Tyler didn't need any help with girls. For the first time, she had a feeling that Noah didn't either. She had to find something to prove it. She would start in Nikki's room.

Tyler's phone rang before she could mention the hickey, so she pressed the button to close the garage door. He shouted something amid the earsplitting noise, but she missed it as she hurried inside.

Michelle kicked the tower of boxes in Nikki's room. Her stiletto heel jabbed a hole in the cardboard and caught, forcing her down to the wooden floor. “Goddamnit!” she cried. “Tyler!”

She looked out the window as the Volvo pulled out of the driveway. She suspected he needed a licensed driver with him, but it was too late to scold him now. He could get the proper California certificate when he took her to the DMV. Bella loped in and licked her. She held up her arm to protect whatever makeup remained after crying all the way home from Beverly Hills, then crawled back to the bed and pulled herself up to a stand. Then she stormed to the kitchen to scrounge for scissors.

The drawers were still empty, but the knife block was on the counter by the refrigerator. Apparently, the Costco set wasn't good enough for Drew to take to New York, but surely it would slice through cardboard. Michelle grabbed the butcher knife and head back through the foyer just as the doorbell rang. “Go away!” she called.

“It's me,” Julie said, peeking inside. “Wow! You look scary.”

Michelle put her hand up to her new bangs and nearly stabbed her eye.

“Not the makeover, Michelle, that's fabulous. But if you want folks to believe in Killer Mom, you're on the right track.” She stepped inside with the mail.

“You've heard that, too?” Michelle scanned the street.

“Don't worry, the only one out there is the mailman. Remember Joe?” Julie shut the door and adjusted her clinging warm-ups. “He says welcome home. He missed your Christmas cookies.”

Michelle half-smiled, then saw the box from Verizon that Julie set on the hall table. “Finally! It was a little awkward moaning to Drew on my lawyer's phone.”

Julie leaned back as Michelle took aim at the top. “Shall I open the letter, or do you want to use your knife for that, too?”

Michelle recognized her mother's florid script on the return address. Elyse was famous for her ten-page diatribes and this would probably be the worst she'd ever received—an analysis of every word of their argument. “Neither. If Joe's still outside, tell him: Return to Sender.”

“Too late. Seriously, Michelle, you look gorgeous, but what's with the Lizzie Borden act?”

“The deposition was today.” Michelle marched back to Nikki's room, knife in hand. She hacked at the storage boxes, stabbing them like the killer in
Psycho
, over and over again. The blade cut jagged paths through the cardboard until bits of colored fabric poked out. Michelle stabbed the school mascot with her six-inch blade, until the dragon's stuffing fell in lumps around her, as if she was an island in a sea of puffy foam.

“Phone is charging,” Julie called, before appearing in the doorway. “Maybe you need a few more weeks in the hospital.”

“Guy Butler called me a murderer!” Michelle cried.

“That is the popular theory. Teddy bear shish kebab won't change that.”

Michelle tried to catch her breath. “It was an accident, Julie, even though the car company is trying to pin it on me and Drew for not getting the damn seat belt fixed. But I need to focus on Nikki. Drew doesn't know a thing about girls' clothes or keepsakes. He had to have missed something. Help me, will you?”

“Okay,” Julie said, easing the knife from Michelle's hand. “But let's sit down for a minute.” She led her over to the bed and sat with her until Michelle caught her breath.

“So I guess you heard what happened with Nikki?” Michelle asked.

“Heard about it? I nearly lost custody of my children because of it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We're separated. I'm getting a divorce,” Julie said.

“Oh, no. But you look fabulous. Are you happy about it?”

“No, being too stressed to eat is the only good thing about it. Asshole cheated on me.”

“That's awful.”

“I'm so sorry I couldn't say anything the night you got home. Drew asked us to avoid any serious conversation. It's nice that he's so protective. Not like Jack.”

She set the knife on the windowsill, out of harm's way. A shadow shaped like a dragonfly fell across the street as a helicopter buzzed. Julie bit her lip as it flew over and began to circle, close enough to read the call letters of a local TV station. A white van slowed as it passed.

“Oh, crap,” Julie said.

“What?” Michelle asked. Another helicopter was circling now, but it had the police emblem on the door. After a moment, they both nosed farther away.

“Probably a freeway accident,” Michelle said.

“Thank goodness. Not that I want anyone to be hurt, but…After Noah Butler's funeral, things went nuts around here. Fans started camping outside your house, and reporters parked vans along the street. Maybe it was a slow news week, but it got so bad that I couldn't let Dylan outside to skateboard. These people are like a cult—they graffitied the side of your house and pushed your fence down. It's still a little tilted, if you don't believe me.”

“I do, it's just so bizarre.”

“Tell me about it. My soon-to-be ex's lawyer convinced the judge that our neighborhood was not a wholesome environment. Even after Sophie sold the most Girl Scout cookies in her troop. 'Course, she sold them to me to drop off at your hospital, which irked Cathy no end, but still. After working my rear off to be tenure track at UCLA, I had to reduce my schedule to part-time so the court sees that I'm home keeping my children safe.”

“I am so sorry.”

“It was just bad timing. And then our favorite babysitter ran away.”

They surveyed the clothing strewn across the floor. “Julie, did Nikki ever talk about dating anyone?”

“If you mean Noah Butler, no. But she wasn't the kind of girl who talked much to grown-ups. I could ask the kids if you want. Why, do you think that's why she ran away?”

“What do you mean?”

Julie leaned past her to tug something up from behind the bed. It was the dust-covered Roadhouse poster with the corner torn off. She showed it to Michelle.

Michelle swore under her breath.

Julie crumpled it up and tossed it on a pile of white stuffing. Then she sat on the floor and gathered the fallen clothing into piles. “If it's any consolation, my kids thought she was the coolest babysitter ever. She showed us her new purple high-tops with those tiny black skulls and her name stitched on the back.” Julie folded a bunny T-shirt from
Donnie
Darko
, then held up a vintage Lucky Charms leprechaun top. “The picture she took of them in some of these T-shirts with their hair all funky is still on my fridge.”

“When did she take it? She didn't have a decent camera until her birthday.”

“Not sure. She sat for me when I taught a night class and Asshole was supposedly working. She was scheduled to come at seven the night of the crash so we could have a date night, but she didn't show. Her cell was off, so I figured she flaked. Teenagers, you know. Then I saw the police at your house the next day. She emailed the picture after that.”

“You mean, after the accident? How long after?”

Julie shrugged. “I'd just found out about Asshole's girlfriend, so I was in pretty bad shape. Nothing like you, of course,” she added quickly. “We were all praying for you.”

Michelle put her good hand on Julie's arm. Julie rose to her knees and gave her a hug. Michelle's shoulder hurt, but her heart felt better. It felt good to have a friend. She pulled away. “Do you have any idea of the date she, um…”

“Ran away? Must be hard to say out loud.”

Michelle pushed past the lump in her throat. “The stupid police lost track of the missing persons report. I need to remember more. I seem to have forgotten all the important things.” She sunk to the floor and leaned against the bed.

Julie noted the red soles of Michelle's shoes. “You haven't forgotten your sense of style. Louboutin, am I right?”

Michelle nodded. “EBay.”

Julie picked up some jeans with a $200 price tag attached. “These too?”

“No. According to Tyler, Nikki was having a rough time with the girls in her PE class, so I bought her a new wardrobe for her birthday. Guess I was desperate.”

“At least you weren't around to get the MasterCard bill.” Julie held them up, eyeing Michelle's hips. “These might fit you. Try them on.”

“I'd rather sell them—I could use the cash. I'm still seeing Dr. Palmer.”

“That's just greedy. Two handsome men.”

“For my arm. He has a book out, have you seen it?”

“I only have time for self-help:
Dating
after
Divorce
,
How
to
Not
to
Screw
up
Your
Kids
Forever
, that kind of thing,” Julie said. “But I sure know what you mean about needing cash.” She stood up and hung the jeans in the closet next to the shrunken Roadhouse T-shirt. “Is this what I think it is?”

“Used to be, before my mother washed it. Think it's worth anything?”

“Maybe, but it wouldn't look good to sell it.” Julie pointed at the loose ball of yarn that had rolled from behind the bookcase. “Care to donate that to Troop 577?”

Michelle tossed the yarn to her. It unraveled and a matchbook fell out.

Julie looked at the neon palm tree logo on the cover. “Does Nikki smoke?”

“She better not. She didn't used to. Then again, neither did her father, or so I thought.”

Julie read the cover. “Ever hear of the Venice Bistro?”

Michelle got up and went to her room. She came back with the CD Cathy had confiscated from the boys at the baseball game. The Bistro was listed above Victor in the credits. “That's where Noah's band played on Sundays.”

Julie opened the matchbook and read, “‘Hello, I Love You.' Cheesy line.”

“That's a song title. ‘Hello. I love you; won't you tell me your name?'” Michelle sang. “Evidently, that's how Noah expressed himself to everyone.”

“Not very original,” Julie said.

“No, but maybe it will stop Cathy from believing all those articles about my affair with him.” She pulled herself to a stand by the bed.

“He did look a bit like Jim Morrison. Sensitive, with the long eyelashes.”

An image flashed in Michelle's mind: Noah's eyes were alight as he hugged her, a little too long. She remembered his hard chest against hers in a way that was disturbing. She had been lonely and he had been grateful. Did she have an affair with Noah Butler? Or was her memory playing tricks on her again? She heard Julie's voice and shook it off.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm scared.” Michelle looked around at the mess, then back to the matchbook. “Feel like going out for a glass of wine? I bet there are lots of single men at this Venice Bistro.”

“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Julie asked. “I have a date.”

“Already?” The sound of Bella's bark distracted her, then she heard Tyler's voice as he came inside.

“Mom?”

They met him in the hallway. “What's up for dinner?”