What a Mother Knows (8 page)

Michelle thought she was dreaming again, swimming through darkness in search of some light. Round, racking sobs filled her head, water slipped through her fingers, and her lungs strained for air. She fought to pull out of it, to keep from drowning beneath the weight of her tears. Then she unclenched her hand from the bed sheet to wipe her eyes. They were dry.

Someone else was crying. Michelle fumbled to find the lamp on her bedside table, then gave up, leaping from the bed only to bang her bad shoulder into the wall. She ignored the pain and stumbled out the door into the dark. Another sob barreled down the hall like a cannonball. Michelle prayed it was her daughter. While Nikki's tears used to torment her, now the sobs were a symphony, the hiccups heaven-sent. Michelle could bear anything, even her baby's unhappiness, if only she could see her again.

Michelle pushed the door open. A figure lay beneath the knit blanket. Michelle tiptoed in. A car sped past, streaking light through the shutters and across the walls. The light gleamed against the woman's silver hair. It was Michelle's mother.

Elyse was quiet now. Whatever nightmare roused Michelle had ended. She backed slowly out of the room and sat down in the hallway. She crossed her legs and leaned back against the wall in a familiar position. This wasn't the first time her mother's tears had woken her.

Behind
the
locked
door
her
mother
was
crying. She'd called Michelle to her room late at night. Wine-stained crystal goblets were lined up along her bedside table like wounded soldiers. Elyse's bloodshot eyes were smeared with mascara as she begged her little girl to go downstairs for more wine. She needed to take her Seconal, she cried, she was in so much pain.

Michelle
saw
the
gold
pill
box
cupped
in
her
mother's hand and refused.

Elyse
slapped
her.

Michelle
felt
the
handprint
rise
like
a
hot
brand
on
her
cheek.

“Go away!” Elyse screamed.

Michelle
stood
frozen
in
fifth
position
until
her
mother
swallowed
the
pills
dry
and
pushed
her
out
of
the
room. Michelle pounded against the door. There was no answer. She took a bobby pin from her pin curl and bit off the plastic tip. She jabbed the metal point in the keyhole until the lock clicked open. Then she pushed the door ajar and sat guard all night. The next night, Michelle waited until her mother went to bed, until she heard silence, then she picked the lock and crept inside. She put her hand to her mother's mouth to make sure she was breathing. Then she opened the pillbox and counted her pills.

Michelle leaned her head back and tried to make sense of things. Here she was, outside her mother's door again. But this was Nikki's room—Elyse was supposed to be at a hotel. As Michelle looked back at her mother's moonlit silhouette, she felt grateful that the door hadn't been locked.

She could hear the crickets now, their song rising until the repetition was painful. Michelle pulled herself up against the smooth white wall and limped to the kitchen to get an ice pack. She tiptoed around shopping bags that hadn't been there when she fell asleep, then noticed the stolen attendance report on the dinette. Elyse's cat-eye glasses lay on top. Michelle slipped them on.

The official record showed a week-long absence in October, a three-day suspension in November, and the semester ending with incompletes. Nikki could have run away any time after Thanksgiving.

Michelle turned the page and saw a spot of red. Another drop was on the table. For a moment, she feared her mother was hurt and felt that old familiar panic. Then she realized what she was looking at and flushed with anger. Michelle yanked the trash can open and saw the gleam of glass buried beneath crumpled napkins. She pulled out an empty bottle of Bordeaux.

Michelle strangled the wine bottle by the neck and stormed back into Nikki's room. She set the bottle down and shook her mother awake. Elyse pulled off her satin eye mask and sat up slowly.

Michelle held the bottle up. “Back to your old tricks, Mother?”

Elyse shook her head. “I had one glass and poured the rest out.”

“I don't believe you. Did you cancel your hotel room, or just pass out?”

Elyse pulled her silk robe over her matching peignoir and followed Michelle into the kitchen. The morning sky was beginning to glow through the window. Elyse checked to be sure she had filled the coffee machine, then pressed the button to brew. “French Roast?”

“Oh, now it's okay?” Michelle asked.

“Anything to help you calm down.”

“I heard you crying, Mother. Were you drunk?”

“
Non, ma chérie, je suis très fatiguée
. And I was upset.”

“Upset that I'm no longer an invalid, so you can't tell me what to do?”

“Don't be rude,” Elyse said. “I know you're tired, too, but—”

“If you only had one glass of wine, why didn't you just cork the bottle?”

“I didn't want to leave any temptation for Tyler.”

“Right, because teenage boys have a real palate for Bordeaux.” Michelle opened the wrong cupboard for a coffee mug.

“You're overreacting,” Elyse said

“Am I? Nikki used to cry, too, you know. She got it from you.”

“She was a teenage girl with raging hormones. That's perfectly normal.”

Michelle slammed the cupboard. “She cried a lot more than normal, Mother. Her own brother called her a loser. And you know what she wanted to do on her birthday? Watch
Winnie
the
Pooh
.”

“So?”

“She was sixteen.”

“Everyone needs a break now and then.”

“Everybody doesn't have a genetic predisposition for depression, Mother. And most kids don't refuse to go to school on their birthday. But I remember now. I took her home, but she just curled up in her bed and cried more. She put on those stupid disco earrings and got out her paintings of ponies and ripped them all up. People do things like that before killing themselves!”

“So, she felt bad about the trouble at school and decided to clean up her act.”

“No, she was so miserable that I was afraid to leave her here alone. But I had to go to work. That must be why I brought her to the set. She had been crying all night, every night, for weeks. Just like you!” Michelle dissolved into tears. “What if she…”

Elyse wrapped her arms around Michelle. “Shhh. Nikki would never hurt herself. She's much stronger than I was.”

Michelle broke free. “She'd better be. Because if anything happens to her, I'm blaming you.”

Elyse held Michelle's glare. “It's you I'm worried about,
ma
chérie
.”

“Me?” Michelle grabbed a paper towel and dabbed at her eyes.

“You need to rest. Let me help you.”

“I don't want your help,” Michelle insisted. “I'm not a child.”

“You've never been a child, that's the problem.”

“Whose fault is that?” Michelle asked.

Elyse stiffened. “Don't make me say something we'll both regret.”

“Then don't say anything at all. Just get the hell out!”

The coffee maker gurgled. Elyse yanked the carafe out, then dumped the steaming liquid in the sink. She opened the trashcan and dropped the carafe in. The glass shattered against the side.

Tyler entered, rubbing his eyes. Bella bounded in after him. “What's up?”

“I'm afraid I must go,” Elyse said.

“Is something wrong?” Tyler asked.

“No,” the women said in unison. Elyse pivoted and went to pack.

“Go back to sleep, honey,” Michelle said. She heard them say their good-byes as she opened the window. Elyse was right that she needed rest, but exhausted or not, Michelle had meant what she said. She just shouldn't have said it aloud.

Michelle was still stewing when a taxi pulled up in the driveway. The driver, whose head was wrapped in a white turban, trudged to the porch. He saw her and shouted, “Does a Madame Deveraux live here?”

Michelle shook her head. “No, thank goodness, but she'll be out shortly.”

The wheels of Elyse's suitcase rolled down the hall like an aftershock, getting louder as they approached. Elyse set another shopping bag in the kitchen. “Here are some other items you won't like. Feel free to return them—or give them to Lexi, for putting up with you. Also, Dr. Palmer's office called.” She tapped a note pinned on the refrigerator beneath the green plaster fin, all that was left of the turtle magnet.

Michelle looked around. “You didn't happen to see an envelope from Nikki's school, did you? With clothes from her locker?”

Elyse pointed across the room at the laundry basket on the couch.

Michelle rushed over and dug through the folded pile for the hand-stenciled T-shirt that Nikki had worn in the Roadhouse video. She tossed Tyler's jeans aside and pulled out a black rag held together with safety pins. Sure enough, Elyse had washed it. Michelle held it to her face and sniffed, but her daughter's scent was gone. Michelle shook it in the air. “Mother!”

Elyse sighed. “A good deed never goes unpunished,
mais
ou
i
?
” The house was quiet as she slipped out, then Michelle heard laughter outside.

Michelle nearly tripped over a shopping bag on her way to the window. When she spied the beautiful leather purse inside, she felt a pang of guilt. She shook it off, then looked outside. Her mother was smiling, flirting with the driver as he lifted her luggage into the trunk. That was more like it, Michelle thought.

When the taxi backed out of the driveway, Michelle snatched the shrunken T-shirt to bring to Nikki's room. She turned and caught her reflection in the oven glass. The truth was, blaming her mother might make her feel better, but if anyone was responsible for something bad happening to Nikki, it was Michelle. For whatever reason, she wasn't there when her daughter needed her most.

Michelle was sorting the rest of the laundry when Tyler called out from the front door. “Coach is here! Are you decent?”

That was debatable, Michelle thought, now that the guilt from kicking her mother out had set in. “Let me get dressed!”

Kenny's voice barreled down the hall. “No need, Michelle, I'm due at the courthouse at eleven.”

Michelle heard the front door shut and zipped up her hospital bathrobe. She took her cane, almost as an excuse for not being dressed. At least she still had her pearls on—it was impossible to take them off by herself.

Kenny looked different than usual as he looked up from chatting with Tyler in the foyer. “Hate to barge in like this, Michelle, but I've been trying to reach you.”

“Sorry about that. Do I need to sign a permission slip for Tyler to play?”

“Nothing that simple,” he said. “I need to file some documents. May I?”

As she followed him into the living room, Michelle realized what was different. Instead of his blue baseball jacket, he was wearing a suit. A stinging sensation overwhelmed her, as if a swarm of wasps was trapped beneath her clothes. It reminded her of the feeling you get after your foot falls asleep and the warm blood rushes in. Only this time she could feel the pins and needles all over. “Does this have to do with Nikki?”

“Ah, the million-dollar question.” He pulled a chair out for her at the dining room table, then sat down at the end. “Make that fifty million.”

“What are you talking about?”

He opened his briefcase and took out a legal pad. “Do you remember anything about the accident yet?”

“I don't remember who visited me at the hospital yet.”

“Lexi said that'll be patchy for a while,” Tyler said. “TBI patients can't have retrograde memory without autograde—the old stuff comes back first. It's like a rule.”

Michelle smiled. “Remember my care manager from the party? She dropped off a medical release earlier. Tyler has a thing for older women,” she teased, thinking of the cheerleaders.

Tyler blushed. “No, she just knows all this stuff from dating your physiatrist. He's the dude in charge of all the other doctors. “

Kenny nodded. “From what I gather, before you remember recent events, you have to recall much earlier experiences, correct?”

“But I do,” Michelle said. “I remember so much from when the kids were little…” Her thoughts went to Nikki as a little girl, twirling in the front yard. She tried to picture Nikki the last time she'd seen her, with the braces off, but all she could think of was the video.

Kenny cleared his throat. “Memory is a tricky thing, Michelle. You'd be surprised how many witnesses identify the wrong suspect in police lineups. Compound the power of suggestion with a trauma-based amnesia and you'll understand why I asked Drew not to say anything he might have heard about the accident.”

He pulled the rubber band from a thick file, then spread newspaper articles on the table.

Michelle looked at Tyler. “Could you please get those old reading glasses from the car?” While he ran outside, she read the headlines: “Fatal Crash in Topanga” and “Freeway Accidents Rise Over Rainy Weekend.”

“Ah, yes,” Michelle said. “
Force Majeure
. That's what the motion picture insurance companies call it when a production shuts down and they won't pay. An ‘Act of God.'”

“Your insurance company has a similar philosophy,” Kenny said, scowling. He unfolded a feature article.

Michelle spotted her professional headshot, but barely recognized the striking brunette in a dark blazer. The caption read, “Michelle Mason, Executive Producer of Golden Hour Productions.” Noah was in the picture beside hers, with dark hair to his shoulders and eyelashes any girl would envy. The caption read, “Noah Butler, singer-songwriter, whose band, Roadhouse, signed with Sanddollar Records.”

Kenny read the next line. “‘Survived by his father, Guy Butler, CEO of Butler Music, of Malibu, and his mother, Laura Braunstein, MD, of Tarzana.' Says he was ‘thrown clear of the wreckage.'”

Tyler came back in with the glasses, but she just toyed with them.

“So, I know it happened after a game. It was raining.” She looked at Tyler. “And your father wasn't there.”

“He was just back from location. He had to return mikes and submit receipts and stuff. We were late for warm-ups, and you didn't want to stop for gas, so you switched cars.”

“How do you remember all that?” Michelle asked.

“I had to answer a bunch of questions when you were in the hospital.”

Michelle looked sharply at Kenny. “A deposition? Drew allowed that?”

“It was necessary. You answered a few preliminary questions as well. Tried, anyway. But everyone is in agreement that you were driving the SUV.”

Michelle leaned back from the table. “Then we must have been more than a few minutes late, because I hate that car—it rattles. Plus, I'm five foot eight, and I can barely see over the hood.”

“Please don't repeat that to anyone; it implies you couldn't control the vehicle,” Kenny said. He showed her a white postcard stamped with the Orrin Motor Company logo. “Do you remember getting a recall notice about a seat belt malfunction? Or whether the seat belts were working? It's part of our defense.”

“Defense for what?” Michelle asked. “How could a seat belt cause a car crash? And why are we talking about the crash instead of Nikki?”

Kenny hesitated, then opened a file of legal documents. “There's no way to sugarcoat this, Michelle. Your husband mentioned that I helped out with the estate, but once you regained consciousness last year…Well, let's just say it became a whole new ballgame.”

“Are you trying to be funny?”

“Nothing funny about it. The driver is responsible for the safe transport of passengers. Your insurance company dealt with the burial expenses, but once it was clear that you would survive, Noah's parents decided to file a civil suit. Noah Butler was thrown from the car. They believe you're liable for their son's death due to negligence.”

Michelle tossed the glasses down. “I haven't gotten so much as a speeding ticket since college. What could they possibly gain by suing me?”

“Besides closure?” Kenny sighed. “Noah was more than just a volunteer pitching coach. The band he started is extremely popular. When I checked Google this morning, there were twenty-five pages of related articles.”

“What does that have to do with the lawsuit?”

“He wrote most of the original songs they play. And they had already recorded that first album before the accident.”

“What first album?” she asked, then clapped her hand to her mouth. The cane clattered to the floor.

Kenny bent to retrieve it. “You remember something?”

“He told me he was making an album with his friends at UCLA. He had written all these songs and was using crowdsourcing funds to pay for the recording sessions—I had just been to an industry seminar about it, for financing independent features. Noah said his friends thought a video would help.”

“Those friends are now millionaires. The boy was talented. He was nineteen, legally a man, but you know what I mean.”

“I do. He was a sweet kid, too, or, I would have just paid him for extra pitching lessons.” She looked at Tyler.

“Were you having an affair with him?” Kenny asked.

“Of course not! I'm a married woman.”

“Take it as a compliment,” Kenny said. “Tyler's not the only one who appreciates older women.”

Tyler shrugged. “Some of the boys on the team used to call you a MILF.”

“That's disgusting,” Michelle said.

Kenny clicked his pen a few times while he studied her reaction. “Tyler, how about pouring me a cup of the coffee that smells so good?”

“I'm afraid we're fresh out,” Michelle said. “Tyler, stay right here. This whole idea is ridiculous. And your father knows it.”

Kenny put his pen down and pulled a laminated
National
Enquirer
article from his briefcase. The headline read: “Hollywood Producer in Fatal Crash with Young Lover?” The photo showed Michelle with her arm around Noah. Before Michelle could look closer, Kenny pulled out a yellowing page from
Us
Magazine
that read: “Funeral for Roadhouse Rocker Held in Malibu.”

“At least my picture's decent,” Michelle said.

“This is no time for jokes,” Kenny said. “You were an attractive woman in your prime with a husband who was out of town half the year—a typical ‘location widow.' Right now, all we know for a fact is that you went to all the trouble of producing a music video for this boy. You have to admit it reads well.”

“You believe everything you read?”

“Of course not.” He pointed at the printed mailing label. “But my wife has been subscribing for years. And I've noticed that often where there's smoke, there's fire. Would you really put your company on the hook for tens of thousands of dollars for a couple of pitching lessons?”

“Oh please, it was a low-budget video. Noah could have shot it in his basement, if he had a camera.”

“You remember?” Kenny asked.

“No, but I saw it.” Michelle avoided looking at Tyler. The last thing she wanted to do was get him in trouble with his coach. “Victor probably shot it on leftover short ends of film with that old Arri he keeps in storage. We did a lot of public service announcements, so his crew often volunteered their time to stay in his good graces. And I could usually rustle up a little tabletop stage for half a day as a favor. Victor needed something besides commercials on his director's reel to get out of advertising. He wanted to do movies—why else work in Hollywood?”

Unless you have kids, she thought. Then someone has to stay close to home. She caught herself and smiled at Tyler.

Kenny made a note. “So this music video would help your career, too?”

“I suppose so,” Michelle said. “Does that help?”

“Not really,” Kenny said. He put the pictures away and tried another approach. “How about your daughter? Could she have been involved with the deceased?”

Michelle shook her head. “That's just as ridiculous. Didn't you ever see her on the field? Scrawny thing, with braces right up until her birthday. She was too shy to get out of the car at Tyler's games until we started knitting together on the sidelines.”

Ken held up a still shot of Nikki from the video. “That's not how she looks here. And she wouldn't be the first to jumpstart an acting career this way.”

“Not a chance. She was tagging along with me at work, and somebody probably talked her into dressing up to save us from paying an extra.” She pulled the photo down. “I've always kept my kids as far from Hollywood as possible.”

She rose to leave, but Kenny stopped her. “I'm not finished.”

Michelle surveyed the clippings spread across the table. “I am. So far you've accused me of being an unfaithful wife and a bad mother. What does any of this have to do with being a negligent driver?”

“Just covering my bases,” Kenny said. “Noah's parents filed separate lawsuits against you and Orrin Motors. You—meaning, the lawyer hired by your insurance company, Pacific Auto, to represent you—filed an answer to that, saying you were not liable for negligence, and a cross complaint against Orrin alleging product liability due to faulty seat belts. So naturally, Orrin filed a lawsuit against you. And if the jury finds that both you and Orrin Motors are liable to some extent, they want to be sure the judgment is split according to whatever percentage the responsibility is determined.”

“I lost you at Noah's parents.”

“We are saying that you did not drive improperly. Period. We're using the seat belt issue as one argument. No one in Detroit wants a class action suit about seat belts. Or controversy about the death of a rock star. And since Orrin sent notices to inspect and repair a potential seat belt malfunction to all owners of that vehicle model, they allege you were negligent in disregarding the notice and also in operating the vehicle. If I argue that there is no legal deadline as to how long a car owner has to address a recall, they'll want to convince the jury that you are known to be irresponsible or have some motive to drive improperly. If any evidence comes out that supports their allegation, it could get ugly. They'll be like pit bulls with a steak bone, trying to pin this all on you. Do you understand?”

“They want to make me the bad guy?”

He nodded.

“Then let them. I feel horrible about poor Noah, of course. But they can fight over the money all they want. All that happened a long time ago. Right now, my daughter is still out there. And I intend to find her.”

Kenny nodded. “Here's the thing, Michelle. Attorneys representing the car manufacturer want to find her, too. They want Nikki to testify against you.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because there are millions of dollars at stake, and she's the only one who hasn't been interviewed. She's the closest thing to a witness they have.”

“She saw the accident?”

“No, but she may have seen you drive away. And she may have known about the recall. Your husband said you wouldn't allow her to drive the SUV.”

“That car was huge. Practically a truck. She was just learning to drive!”

“In any case, she disappeared shortly after your doctor induced the coma, and the negligence claim was filed soon after you woke up. Believe me, they are sparing no expense to find her.”

Michelle rubbed her bad arm. So that's what Drew meant when he said everyone was looking for her. He wasn't just talking about the police or the detective he hired. He meant the lawyers, too. “I'll find her.”

Kenny sat up. “Why, is there a reason we need to find her first? Does she know something?” He gestured at the magazine articles on the table.