What a Mother Knows (15 page)

The next image was dark. Michelle sat back, thinking the photos were a dead end, except for a scrapbook. She hid her face as a man got into a car a few spaces down and drove away. Then she clicked again, just in case.

Another image flashed on the small screen: Noah sitting astride a gleaming black motorcycle. Michelle recognized the chrome handlebars and the leather saddlebags immediately—this was the Harley in her garage. Noah's face looked harder than it had in the photo in the law office conference room. Dark stubble dotted his chin. His blue eyes were piercing, as if he had a plan, and he was looking directly at the lens. At the photographer. At Nikki.

Michelle tried to identify the background, to see where he was, but there was a blurred rim of pink at the corner. Nikki's finger, no doubt. Michelle clicked the button again.

Two faces appeared close-up, as if captured an arm's length away. Nikki and Noah, lips locked together in a kiss. Noah's eyes were closed, as if he was deep inside the moment. Nikki's brown eyes were open, wide open, and they were dancing. She seemed to be waltzing, in that one-two-three rise before sweeping across the floor in the arms of the one you…

Oh god. Nikki had been in love with Noah Butler.

The world stopped spinning; the parking lot was still. Michelle was slowly aware of her own breathing and the traffic outside. Someone was shouting. She looked up.

Victor approached, waving his arms. He saw her and shouted again, hurrying toward the car.

Michelle dropped the camera in her lap and reached across the steering wheel to crank the engine. She shifted clumsily. She heard banging on the window, but she didn't look up. She honked long and loud, then put her hand on the wheel. She hit the gas and sped away.

Michelle was still shaking forty-five minutes later, when she turned off the freeway into her tree-lined neighborhood. Every speed bump past the elementary school made her cringe with pain from her fall down the stairs. She was driving slowly to minimize the jostling when she saw a sleek black Porsche pull into her driveway.

A huddle of parents pulled their children away from the fallen fence as a tall figure with dark hair cut through the weeds to the front door. It was Victor.

Michelle braked and backed up to pull in Julie's driveway, which required a flurry of motion with one hand. She slunk down to watch from the rearview mirror. After knocking on the door a few times, Victor walked around the back of the house. Michelle looked in the side mirror and caught sight of a bruise blooming on her cheek. She climbed out of the car, leaned over to slip her arm through the camera strap and grab her purse, then bumped the door shut with her hip before running up to Julie's porch. She kicked the door. She had never appreciated the tall cypress trees bordering Julie's yard until now.

Julie opened the door in her work clothes.

“May I come in?” Michelle didn't wait for an answer. She stepped over the yapping dog and around a headless Barbie into the messy hall.

Julie backed out of the way, then followed Michelle inside the living room to the bay window. “I was just heading to work. Are you okay?”

Michelle peeked outside between the chintz curtains. Victor was leaning against his Porsche, pulling his phone from his pocket. A ringing sound erupted inside Michelle's purse. She turned to Julie. “My boss wants his camera back.”

Julie took the camera and eyed Michelle's cheek. “What happened?”

“I fell.”

“That's what Rihanna said. You need to go to the hospital. You could have a concussion—or worse, after all you've been through.”

“Seriously, I tripped on the stairs at my office.”

“Let's get you some ice.” Julie led Michelle to a shabby chic couch and set the camera by Michelle's purse. Michelle scooched away from some crayons and relaxed in the comfortable mess. It was so different than her empty living room. Julie returned and moved the camera aside to sit down and apply a mouse-shaped block to Michelle's cheek. “What's with the camera?”

“There are pictures of Nikki and Noah on the memory disc.”

“So? I told you she was a fan.”

“Big fan. They're kissing. As if no one else exists.” She waited for a reaction, but Julie just sighed and repositioned the ice pack. “Did you know?”

“Of course not. It's just been a long time since anyone has kissed me like that. I was trying to remember how it feels.”

Michelle saw the corner of Nikki's get well card peeking out from her purse. “I wonder if that's why she ran away.”

“You mean, because she was angry that you…ruined it?”

“She said she felt awful—and she didn't want to see me.” She nudged her purse with her foot. “Will you keep the memory card for me, just in case?”

“Just in case what?”

“In case anyone else gets the idea that my own daughter blames me.”

“Doesn't everyone blame their mother for something?”

“Sure. But aren't some mothers to blame?” Michelle thought about Elyse, then shook it off and took over the dripping ice pack.

Julie went back to the window. “Still there. He's cute, your boss. Single?”

“Not worth your time. He's a player. Not to mention a traitor. He's waiting for me to come home so he can see the disk. He's making a documentary about Roadhouse.”

“That's weird, but what does it have to do with the memory card?”

“Everything! If he includes the shot of Noah Butler kissing my daughter, I'll be cast as the avenging mother.” She handed the ice pack back to Julie. “Would you let your daughter date a musician?”

“She's nine.” They heard the old Mustang engine rev up and roar off. Julie peeked between the curtains. “Coast is clear, except for that white van, he's been parked there all day.”

“You know what I mean. Even if Sophie was sixteen, I bet you'd say no.”

Michelle struggled to pull the memory card out with one hand. “The lawyer from Orrin Motors wants to suggest the accident was my fault, that I didn't use normal precautions or some such thing. And Noah's parents could amend their lawsuit anytime to add something or other about intentional harm. I thought I could prove I didn't have a grudge after we found this skanky bartender from the Venice Bistro who claims she was his girlfriend. She's the one who gave me the memory card. Unfortunately, it doesn't prove anything about her. It only proves that Nikki and Noah really did have a relationship.”

Julie returned and put a consoling hand on Michelle's knee. “That doesn't mean you were responsible for his death.”

“Then why does it scare me so much?”

“Motherly concern?” Julie guessed.

“I hope that's all it is.” Michelle offered Julie the disk. “In any case, if you have it, I can honestly say that I don't.”

“Why can't you just say there's nothing on it?” Julie asked.

“We worked together for years. He'll know if I'm lying.”

“I wish I could help you, Michelle. But, this divorce is taking forever and I could still lose custody of my kids. I can't harbor evidence.” She pushed it away.

“You just said it's not evidence,” Michelle pleaded.

“Saying and doing are two different things. That guy in the van watching your house might be a detective. Seeing him sit there all day reminds me of when Jack was on workers' comp and the insurance company watched to make sure he was really hurt. Why don't you send it to your husband?”

Michelle's eyes flashed. “Drew's been lying to me.”

“Oh my god. Did he have an affair?”

“No, nothing like Jack. Turns out he never reported Nikki missing. And I understand why he lied, but…” She shrugged.

“I know what you mean,” Julie said. “I don't even care all that much about Jack screwing around. It's the lying about it that hurt. Like he thought I was stupid.”

“Exactly,” Michelle said.

“Made me think I was the crazy one. My mother even bought me boobs, thinking if that didn't keep Jack home, at least it would make me feel better.”

Michelle couldn't help but look at Julie's chest. “Did it?”

“It doesn't hurt,” Julie admitted. “Sophie nursed so long I was embarrassed to wear a bathing suit. And now I get really fast service at the dry cleaner.” They laughed together. “My mother isn't the class act that yours is, but it sure helps to have her on my side.” She looked at the memory card. “What about your mother?”

Michelle shook her head. “She'll tell Drew, and he'll want to strap me to the bed so I can recuperate.”

“Is there anyone you do trust?” Julie asked. “How about that cute care manager? You should have her take a look at you, anyway. There is something to be said about recuperating.”

“Lexi? She's at work. I can't bear to go back to that hospital. Plus, I'll have to visit everybody and…” She pushed herself to a stand. “Ow.”

“You really should see a doctor,” Julie said.

Michelle thought for a moment. “You're right.”

***

Dr. Palmer studied the X-ray film clipped to the light box on the wall of his clinic. Michelle tried to stay calm and focus on the colorful images that so captivated him, but they reminded her of Tyler's old Lite-Brite. She was tempted to go find the nurse who was printing out pictures from the memory card, but she didn't want to pass the patients at the weight machine. She was wearing little more than torn ribbons of pantyhose beneath her hospital gown. She shivered, guessing that the air conditioning was set to accommodate the shirt and tie Dr. Palmer wore beneath his lab coat.

Michelle smelled the half-eaten plate of jambalaya on his desk and felt her stomach growl. She spotted the bowl he kept chocolate Kisses in, so she tiptoed around a few boxes of books. It was empty. “No chocolates?”

“Didn't know you were coming,” he said. “Good thing you did, though. That must have been a nasty fall.”

“Then why aren't you looking at my shoulder?”

He tore his eyes away from a pizza-shaped image. “Once you were in the MRI machine, it seemed prudent to do a brain series.”

“No wonder it took so long in there.” Michelle turned away so he couldn't see what she was really thinking. She didn't want him to know that she'd felt comforted by the immobility. There was nothing she could do in that white cylinder but rest. It felt safe, like the coma. Except for the screaming in her ears.

“You were lucky today. After the accident, it took months for the swelling to go down and your brain activity to return to normal. There may still be an increased risk of hemorrhaging.”

“But how am I doing now?”

“You need to see me again in a few days. And you could benefit from more therapy.”

“I tried that. Starting when I was a kid and my mom tried to kill herself, and again when Nikki got depressed and started crying at night. She refused to go, so I went. Didn't make me feel better, though.”

Dr. Palmer pulled the scans down from the light boxes. “I meant physical therapy. More than once a week.” He saw her blush at the misunderstanding. “Don't be embarrassed. You've been through a lot. People who avoid psychotherapy are often the crazy ones.”

“What were you in for?”

He pointed at her in mock anger. “You didn't read my book?”

“I've been busy,” Michelle said.

He gestured for her to sit, then flashed a penlight in her eyes. “So I gather. You could benefit from a bit more rest, Mrs. Mason.”

“You sound like my husband.”

“Is that good or bad?” Dr. Palmer looked up from his clipboard.

“I'm too tired to think about it,” she admitted. “But do I really have to read the book to find out your secret?”

Dr. Palmer shook his head. “No secret. When I was a kid, my brother was jacking a car and his finger got torn off. I played lookout.” Their eyes met, then he went on. “One of my mama's jobs was cleaning a building with a therapist's office, so—”

“Let me guess: after years of therapy, you channeled your guilt into fixing people?”

“That's what the book jacket says, but it wasn't so obvious at the time. Not until I did a stint at juvie hall and broke my mama's heart.”

“What happened to your brother?” Michelle asked.

“I don't know. He's a trucker now. We don't talk much.”

“I'm sorry.”

Dr. Palmer slipped the pen back in the pocket of his lab coat and returned to the light boxes. “You can't control other people's actions. Only your reaction.”

“And sometimes not even that,” Michelle added, following him to the next film of her shoulder. On the image, ribbons of red nerves wrapped around her rotator cuff, then extended down the thin white bones of her arm. “So, what's the verdict, Dr. Palmer?”

He pointed his pen at the shoulder joint. “There's definitely an extension of nerve tissue here. You had a burst of motor movement prompted by the neurological regeneration. There was a cortisol release when you had to break your fall.”

“Cortisol is the stress chemical, right?” Michelle knew the name from the research she'd done when Nikki started crying at night. Cortisol burned tracks in the brain, making people more sensitive to depression, more prone to reoccurrences of it.

Dr. Palmer aimed his pen back at the image of her brain. “See these nerve pathways here? Some are dormant, but some are just being built. When you had to protect yourself from the fall, your instincts kicked in—”

Michelle interrupted. “I was only protecting the memory card.” He turned to look at her, but it was hard to explain, even to herself. When she was first pregnant, she made Drew promise that if they were ever on a sinking ship, they would save each other first. She could always have another baby, right? But as soon as Nikki was born, she felt differently. “I was protecting Nikki's privacy.”

“Maternal instinct, then.” Dr. Palmer said. “In any case, the nerve bundle in your arm was already under construction. Physical stimulation could aid the process.” He began to knead her shoulders. “Your husband should massage you every night.”

Michelle weakened beneath his touch before she could murmur a response. “He's in New York.”

A ripple of concern washed across Dr. Palmer's face. “Well, your mother could do it. She's in town, isn't she?”

Michelle hesitated to answer. But it felt good to confide in him. Until now she hadn't realized how much she censored herself with Tyler. Before she could say anything more, the double doors swung open, and Bree brought in the folder with prints from Michelle's disk.

Music wafted in from the waiting room and overwhelmed the gurgle of air filters that echoed around the open room. When the doors closed, it faded.

Bree handed Michelle the folder with the memory card clipped to the outside. “We're out of matte paper, hope it's okay.”

Michelle nodded, grateful to avoid talking about her mother. When the nurse went across the room to help patients using the weight and pulley machines, Michelle changed the subject. “Why don't you play music in here?”

“We do,” Dr. Palmer said. “But we had strict orders to avoid the radio in the hospital, so I thought you preferred quiet.”

“No. Maybe my husband didn't want me to hear Roadhouse. But my son blasts it in the car—and aside from his taste in music, it doesn't bother me.”

“Good. Sensory information might help trigger your memory.” Dr. Palmer looked up from massaging her shoulder and called to Bree as she checked on Robocop at the weights. When she left to put music on, he looked back down. His fingers hit a pressure point.