What a Mother Knows (13 page)

“Let's go out,” Michelle suggested. “When's the last time you saw the sunset over the ocean?”

Julie laughed and helped her up. “Thanks for the yarn.”

“My pleasure. Hope you get lucky tonight.”

Julie gave her back the matchbook. “You too.”

As they strolled down the Venice boardwalk, Michelle watched the blazing sun drop to the line where the sky met the sea. The last surfers paddled in, their dark figures aflame against the brilliant backdrop. She thought of Nikki again, still, always. Was she watching the same sunset? Or was she on a different patch of the planet, where the day was done and the stars were winking down at her?

Tyler stopped to watch a half-naked man juggle chainsaws. With his sharp profile backlit by the sun, Tyler looked so much like his father, who'd sworn that Nikki was still alive. She was desperate to believe him.

As the twilight deepened, the wind rose. Michelle looked toward the pier and spotted the Bistro. The neon palm tree on the bar sign blazed like a beacon lighting her path. She waved to her son through the dwindling crowd of tourists sorting through water pipes and handcrafted jewelry. He headed toward her, momentarily distracted by a bikini-clad model posing for a photographer in the last golden light.

Michelle pointed out the bar a few doors down. “Ever hear of that place?”

He looked over at the patio, just starting to fill up with art students dining on dollar pizza. Painted on the wall above them were the words,
Break
On
Through
Every
Sunday
, then the hours for the weekly Doors tribute concert.

“No,” Tyler said. “But I'm guessing you have or we could have gone straight through Topanga and stopped in Santa Monica.”

“Smarty-pants.” Michelle showed him the matches. “I found these in Nikki's room and thought it was worth checking out.”

“Guess it'll be more fun than stapling ‘missing' signs to telephone poles.”

“Thanks, you're a good kid. Your father did a good job while I was gone.”

Tyler said something that was drowned out by the hip-hop beat of a Rastafarian closing up a sunglasses booth. They waited for an elderly man to rollerblade past, then crossed the boardwalk to the Venice Bistro. On the patio, a greasy-haired hulk in a Gold's Gym tank sat on a barstool. Tyler held back, pointing at the “You Must Be 21” sign nailed to the gate.

The bouncer squinted at her suit, then down at her legs. Michelle dug her right hand into her pocket and flashed her friendliest smile. “Hey, handsome.”

He glanced at Tyler's face. “Does he have ID?”

“No, but neither do I,” Michelle said. “Can we use the bathroom?”

“Leave junior outside, darlin', and you can use whatever you like.”

“Aren't you sweet. But he's with me.” She winked and whipped out a fifty. He opened the gate.

Inside, a Dodgers game blasted from the TV mounted up by the security camera. Michelle pointed Tyler toward the empty counter beneath it. The bartender wore only a burgundy bra beneath her leather vest, but Tyler was more intrigued by the red Cheetos she was pouring into plastic tubs. Michelle spotted a wiry old man counting receipts in the archway lined with band photos.

He gave her the once-over as she approached.

“You the owner? I'm writing an article on bands who play Doors music.”

“For real?”

“Why not?” She pointed at the photos. “Who was your most famous?”

“The Doors,” he said. “Been here a while.”

“No wonder. I'm interested in a tribute band called Roadhouse.”

He pursed his lips. “They don't play here no more.”

“That's too bad. You'd think they'd be more grateful.”

“Damn straight.” He cracked a roll of quarters over the change drawer.

“When they did, you ever notice a girl hanging around Noah Butler?” He chortled until he coughed a wad of phlegm. “I know, there were probably dozens. But rumor has it there was one girl in particular.” She reached in her handbag and pulled out the folded paper with her mother's obituary on one side. She shook off the bad feeling and showed him the birthday image of Nikki with disco ball earrings.

“We don't serve minors.”

“That so?” She pointed to Tyler, dumping his pocket change at the bar.

“He with you? Cuz I don't want any trouble.”

“No trouble intended. I just want to know about Noah's girl.” She put the picture back and pulled out her last fifty.

He held it up to the light, then pointed across the room where the bartender was setting a slice of pizza in front of Tyler. Michelle's stomach cramped, but not from the greasy smell. Aside from two Hells Angels playing pool in the corner, the bartender was the only girl in sight. She didn't look like Nikki, with that washboard belly and bleached hair, but who knew? No, Michelle knew: that was not her daughter. Tyler knew, too, or he would have called out instead of shoving the folded slice in his mouth.

Michelle burned at being taken for a fifty-dollar ride. She stepped over a mound of straw on the floor to reclaim her son, but something stuck to the red sole of her Louboutin. She wiped her heel against the metal rung of a barstool.

“You okay?” Tyler asked, wiping his mouth with his hand

The bartender handed them each a paper napkin. Michelle smiled thanks, wondering what Tyler made of her risqué outfit and the flowered tattoo winding around a skull and crossbones. The girl was too young to be a Deadhead. Michelle looked closer at the skull tattoo. She saw the blue eyes and the inscription below:
Noah
R.I.P.
Michelle's mouth went dry. She turned to push her bad hand out of sight. “Thanks. I see you've met Tyler. I'm Michelle.”

The bartender stared at her, then looked down at the wadded straw Michelle was brushing off her heel. “Sick shoes.”

Judging from Tyler's grin, Michelle realized that meant they were nice. Which of course they were. “Sick arm.”

“It's called a sleeve, Mom. But don't bother. Celeste doesn't know Nikki.”

“Celeste. What a pretty name.” Michelle couldn't help but kiss ass—there had to be a clue here somewhere. She studied the matchbook. “Do you have any coffee?”

“Just Kahlua,” Celeste said, eyeing the matches. “Where'd you score those?”

“Don't you give them out?”

“Been a few years. No more smoking on the beach.” She poured the Kahlua. When Michelle put the matches down, Celeste made a grab for them.

Michelle reached for them, too, but with the wrong arm. She cried out.

Celeste nodded. “I knew that was you. Got a tweet from the Roadhouse website. You were in Beverly Hills today, right?”

Alarmed, Michelle gulped down the liquor. “Just give them back and we'll go.” She looked at Tyler, who took his last bite and stood up. “Please?”

Celeste read the lyric inside the flap. “No way. This is Noah's writing.”

“How do you know?” Michelle asked.

“We were tight,” she said, then turned to stack beer glasses.

Michelle shook her head for Tyler to sit back down.

“Don't you want to go?” Tyler whispered.

Michelle lowered her voice and leaned away from the bar. “Not if we can prove her story. Do you remember when Kenny asked if Noah was Nikki's boyfriend?”

“I get it. If he was Celeste's boyfriend instead, then he couldn't—”

“No, musicians aren't known to be exclusive, honey, but it would sure make it look like he went for a different type.”

Tyler nodded. “So you wouldn't have motive to kill him in order to protect Nikki—that's what they'd say on
CSI
.”

“No one is saying that here. But this could help deflect any gossip and keep the car company on the hot seat. They might even have to pay us.”

“Could I get a car?”

Michelle smiled. Teenagers. She had forgotten how the world revolved around them. “We'll talk about that later. For now, just act impressed, okay? Maybe Celeste knows something about Nikki.”

Tyler sat back down. “Celeste, that's so chill that Noah was your boyfriend.”

“Don't bullshit me, kid. Your old lady wants the matches back.”

Michelle shrugged. “I don't believe you. Why keep it a secret?”

“No secret. I told that dude from
Rolling
Stone
, but he just wanted to fuck me. I gave him a phony name, and he cut me from the article. Prick.”

Michelle ignored Tyler's look. “He probably didn't believe you, either.”

“I do,” Tyler argued.

“Oh, honey, you'll see. People lie all the time. Even under oath.”

“Fuck you,” Celeste said. “I'm no liar.”

“She has a tattoo, Mom. What more proof do you need?”

“Anyone can get a tattoo.” Michelle pushed the glass forward for another shot of Kahlua. When Celeste refilled it, she snatched the matches back. “How do you know this is his writing?”

Her eyes flashed. “I told you—we had a thing. He wrote me a note.”

“Heard it before, Celeste.”

Celeste hesitated, then crouched down behind the bar. After a moment, she stood up and set a macramé purse on the counter. She dug inside and pulled out a rumpled cocktail napkin. She spread it out to reveal the faded handwriting. Sure enough, it matched the lyric inside the matches. But it wasn't a love note, it was a playlist.

“Not exactly proof.” Michelle spied the small blue rectangle that had fallen from the napkin. “What's that?”

“Just trash that fell out of his pocket when he took off his Levis.”

Tyler blushed and looked at his mother, but she was thinking about the camera she'd bought for Nikki's birthday. She'd gift-wrapped the case with a 2 GB memory card. But the camera itself came with a test card. And that little blue piece of plastic could be it. Why would Noah have it? This was a long shot, but so was finding Celeste. “That reporter was a jerk not to believe you.”

“Crazy, right? Like I wasn't good enough for him? Noah wasn't one of those dudes that slept with every chick who tossed her thong on the stage.”

“Glad to hear it,” Michelle said, smiling at Tyler. “That reporter will regret it when someone pays a ton of money for your story.”

“Who would believe me?”

“Everyone, if you testify. Other reporters will be there, too. Just show up at the trial in June with that sleeve bared and tell the truth about you and Noah.”

“You could even blog about it,” Tyler said.

Celeste turned to the bar mirror. “Everybody on the Roadhouse fan site says they slept with him. Like friggin' Jesse James. But it's not true.”

“You have evidence,” Michelle agreed. “I'll tell my lawyer about the napkin. But I'll need to take the disk now.”

“No way. It's sentimental.”

Tyler interrupted. “Give her money, Mom.”

Michelle was feeling woozy from her first alcohol in years. “Do you have any? I'm out. I'm sorry, I can't even pay for my drinks.”

Celeste gave her the once over. “I'll trade for your shoes.”

Horrified, Michelle looked down at her beloved black Louboutins. The memory card could turn out to be blank. But what if it wasn't? She sat on the sticky barstool and slipped off her shoes, one by one. “Deal.”

Celeste came around the bar and offered her tattered boots in trade. Michelle shook her head. Celeste lifted her ragged jean hem and jammed her feet into the stilettos. She rose, not just in stature, but attitude. “How do they look?”

“Sick,” Michelle said, watching her beloved shoes disappear around the bar.

The straw pricked her feet and poked runs in her pantyhose that rose quickly, as if trying to escape. It was time for Michelle's escape as well. She led Tyler out. Halfway across the room, Noah's voice began crooning from the speakers.

Celeste shouted from behind the beer tap. “Hey, Killer Mom! Am I going to be famous?”

Michelle looked back. “I hope so!”

Number one hundred forty-five,” the tinny voice blared across the Department of Motor Vehicles. Michelle kneaded her pounding temple as she slouched in the second row of plastic chairs bolted to the bare cement. The good news was that her license was still valid. All she needed was a new picture and they'd replace the one that disintegrated in the accident. And despite the packed waiting areas circling the hub of clerks' windows, the system was impressively efficient. If only the police department was as efficient with their missing person files.

Tyler bopped his head to an unknown beat over in the main waiting area. Earbuds in place, he smiled as he texted who knows what to who knows whom on his phone. Michelle wished she'd brought the book Dr. Palmer gave her at her last appointment, but she'd only grabbed the mail before rushing out. For the last hour, she had ignored her mother's letter burning a hole in her purse by practicing her left-handed signature and programming her new phone.

There wasn't much left to do to break the boredom. Michelle was dying to listen to Nikki's get well card again but the voice recording was too soft to be heard over the hubbub. Michelle stood to find the ladies' room, then saw a preppy woman from the PTA standing nearby. Michelle sat back down quickly, slumping behind the man in front of her. The last thing she wanted was to catch up with one of those moms whose kids were always on the honor roll.

“Number one hundred seventy-six,” the Orwellian voice droned. The number on her application was 181. Michelle stretched her neck until she felt that familiar flicker of pain in her shoulder. There were no more excuses for stalling. She reached into her purse and pulled out her mother's missive. She'd expected a long letter documenting every misspoken word, every hurt feeling, every detail of how Michelle had gone wrong years before that argument. But this envelope felt mysteriously thin. Michelle was tempted by the trash can nearby, but the suspense was unbearable. The envelope was a time bomb ticking to explode.

Michelle counted to ten in French to calm her nerves. Then she unfurled the string closure that Elyse had so thoughtfully provided, and pulled out two pages of monogrammed stationery. She studied the elegant arcs of her mother's handwriting until the words leapt off the poisoned page.

Ma
chérie,

It pains me to have left in your time of need.
Mais
alors
, I had no choice. Perhaps if you come here to rest, I can help you through this unfortunate situation. You are not the only one who has suffered.

Mother

A round-trip e-ticket from LAX to CMH was printed on the second page. Michelle looked up toward the heavens. Recover? The only way for Michelle to recover was to get her family home. The very idea of being back at her mother's house in Ohio and being lectured twenty-four hours a day made her more nauseous than any hangover.

“Number one hundred eighty-one,” the loudspeaker droned.

Michelle marched to the line behind the window where her number was displayed. As she waited for her paperwork, she was distracted by the ticket stuffed back in her purse. How should she respond? If only “no, thank you” would suffice. Michelle got the form and filled each box with careful marks, as if it was tangible proof that she was a person of good character, not an ungrateful daughter or bad mother or—God forbid—a murderer. Her lawyer would be pleased.

That was it! Kenny was the perfect excuse to reject her mother's invitation. Michelle dug her phone out of her purse. It was three hours later in Ohio, so her mother would be in the studio teaching
pointe
to her advanced students. She found the number and hit Send. She took a deep breath while it rang, then Elyse's voice spoke over classical music. Michelle knew exactly what to say after the beep.

“Hello, Mother. Just got the mail and wanted to thank you for your generous invitation. My lawyer insists I stay in Los Angeles. He actually said, ‘Don't leave town.' Shall I return the ticket so you can get a refund?”

By the time Michelle handed her documents to the snaggle-toothed man with the clip-on tie behind the counter, she was giddy with relief. She gave him such a dazzling smile that he checked out her bare left hand and asked her for a date. She thanked him politely and went to wait in line behind a Spandex-clad cyclist ranting on his Bluetooth. She realized she could make her own calls now and held up her phone. “Husband,” she commanded. After a few rings, he answered.

“Hey, there you are. How's the new phone?”

“So far so good. I had to charge it, or I would have called you last night.”

“That's all right. Are you feeling better today about the deposition?”

“I guess so.” There was something nagging at Michelle, but she felt a jab in her shoulder. She looked behind her at a woman wielding a plastic hairbrush and moved up. She heard Drew calling her name. “Sorry, I'm at the DMV. But guess what I found in Nikki's room yesterday?”

“Michelle, I told you to let it go,” he said. She could hear the edge to his voice, even three thousand miles away. “I'm worried about you. Your mother called, still upset that you asked her to leave.”

“If I need a nurse, I'll call Lexi. Besides, Tyler is a great help,” Michelle said, glad she hadn't mentioned the Venice Bistro.

“Kenny said you're making erratic decisions about medical treatment. Is that true?”

“No, there's nothing erratic about it. I want treatment.”

“Michelle, I don't want you getting your hopes up.”

“You'd rather I have no hope at all?” She remembered what was bothering her. “Oh! I have a question about something that came up in the deposition.”

“Make it fast, I have to get back to the set.”

Michelle stepped up in line. “Okay. One of the lawyers threatened to hold you in contempt of court if you prevented anyone from testifying. But since Tyler already gave a statement, who was he talking about?”

“He was talking about Nikki.”

“How can they subpoena a missing person?” Michelle asked.

Voices shouted his name in the background. “I gotta go,” he said.

“Wait! That detective couldn't find Nikki's file, but he said if we had the date it might help. When I couldn't get hold of you, Tyler and I went to the school.”

“Michelle, I told you not to do this. It's too much activity, too soon. You need to take it easy.”

“But Drew, we only learned when she dropped out, not when she ran away. How long did you wait before going to the police? What was the date of the report?”

“Forget about the report, Michelle,” Drew said.

“How can I?”

“One hundred eighty-one?” the clerk's voice rang out.

Michelle looked up at the clerk, then back at the phone in her hand. Why didn't he care about learning whether the police had new leads? The clerk called her number again while she waited for Drew's answer. But still, he didn't speak.

“Hang on,” she told Drew. She put the phone down to keep her arm hidden, then hurried to the
X
in front of the camera. She stood still and smiled—flash!—then stepped away.

The woman behind the camera rubbed her stiff neck. “Again, one hundred eighty-one, open your eyes!”

Michelle stepped back and waited for the next flash. Something did not add up. The camera flashed again. This time, her eyes were wide open. She put the phone back up to her ear. “Oh my god. You never submitted a report, did you?”

“Michelle…” He was pleading.

“You lied to me!” He hesitated a moment too long. “Where is she?” Michelle demanded.

“I don't know!”

“Are you lying now?”

“No! I was trying to protect you.”

“From what? What else are you lying about?” Michelle asked. She felt a shove and moved aside to wait for her paperwork.

“There's a lot at stake here, Michelle.”

She leaned against the wall. “Is this about money, you fucking asshole? Did you tell Tyler he could get a car if we won the case?”

“Number one hundred eighty-one! Need your signature!” The woman behind the camera called. People were staring at Michelle. She had been shouting. The clerk gestured to the hairbrush lady, already toeing the taped line.

Michelle couldn't keep the phone open and take the papers with one hand. Frustrated, she burst into tears. She dropped the phone into her backpack, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and hurried back to the counter. “I'm sorry. My husband just lied to me!”

“Welcome to the real world.” The clerk stamped her temporary license. “Next!”

Michelle headed toward the drinking fountain to splash her face and calm down enough to call Drew back. What was he afraid of? As Nikki's guardian, if he knew where she was, he'd be put in jail for obstructing justice. Maybe he didn't report her missing to keep the police detectives from finding her. He could have been afraid that Nikki's testimony about ignoring the recall might send him to jail, right? Maybe it still could.

A voice interrupted her thoughts. “Michelle? It's me, Colleen. How nice to see you. And looking so trim.”

Michelle blinked at the woman locked arm in arm with her daughter in the plaid school uniform. She sounded sincere, as if she didn't know about the accident. How refreshing. Michelle cleared her throat. “I could say the same thing about you. Tennis, right?”

“Something like that.” Colleen's smile was as polished as a china plate, her eyes just as flat. “You remember Natalie? She just passed her driver's test.”

“Congratulations, Natalie. Wow, time flies. Tyler's around here somewhere. Remember him? You were in second grade together, I think.”

The girl nodded politely while dabbing on lip gloss that reeked of watermelon, then pulled a comb from her mother's purse. Colleen nodded toward the restroom. “Go ahead, but come right back. Don't talk to strangers.”

Michelle watched her trot off. “Adorable. And how is your son? Did he get that scholarship to Yale? Or was it Penn?”

Colleen's lips trembled. “Montana.”

“Tennis camp?”

“Boot camp.” Her eyes turned red, as if all the blood vessels burst at the same time. Then they flooded. “We had to kick him out. He was using…” She jabbed the inside of her elbow.

“Oh my god, Colleen, I am so sorry.” Michelle had goose bumps.

Colleen rubbed her eyes. “I didn't know what to do.”

“I'm sure you did the right thing,” Michelle said. “If anyone is a good mother, it's you.”

“Makes no difference,” she said. Her eyes narrowed. “His dealer was a girl. From the Palisades, no less. Did you know that heroin is cheaper than pot?” She shook her head and pulled a tissue from her sleeve.

Michelle saw Natalie approach and lowered her voice. “How's Natalie?”

“Hard to tell. Her big brother hacked into her savings and stole it all.”

“I am so sorry, Colleen.” Michelle reached out to console her, but she reached with the wrong arm. Fiery pain burned down her arm.

“Mom, it's our turn.” Natalie put the comb back in her mother's purse.

Colleen tucked her tissue away and slapped on a mask of good cheer.

“Good luck,” Michelle called, as if luck had anything to do with it. Maybe it did, she thought, catching Tyler's wave from the test area. How ironic that a near stranger had confided in her, as if she had all the answers. Michelle didn't even know what questions to ask.

Tyler headed over with his paperwork, stopping by Natalie for a hug. Colleen looked back at Michelle, just as surprised. Michelle waited for him. “You remember Natalie?”

“From Facebook. She's a friend of Cody's.”

“Tyler, you would never do drugs, right?”

“Mom, I'm not stupid. I'd get kicked off JV.”

“Sorry,” Michelle said. “What about your sister? She ever say anything about drugs?”

“Nope.” He checked his phone “Can you drop me at Eric's? School's out early, so he's having a kickback.”

“A party?”

“No. A bunch of kids kicking back.”

“Not a party?” Michelle wasn't clear on the difference. When she was in school,
party
was a verb.

“Nope. I just asked Nat for a ride, but she has to drop her mom off.”

“Okay, but let me call your dad first. I have a question about insurance coverage.” Among other things, she thought. She found her phone and pounded redial until
husband
appeared on the display.

“No answer.” She looked at Tyler.

“He must be busy. Text him, that's what I do.” He looked at her limp hand. “That might be hard.”

“Slow, anyway. Like my brain these days.” She dropped the phone back in her purse, wondering what would have happened to Tyler had his dad gone to jail. “Tyler, did your dad ever mention you moving in with Nana?”

“Sort of.” He shoved the papers in his jeans pocket. “His hours are so long, I guess he thought I'd be better off in tights than shooting up in Times Square.” He noticed her alarmed expression. “Kidding. I wouldn't wear tights, even for Nana.” He laughed.

“What's so funny?” Michelle led him toward the exit doors.

“I was just thinking about that time we visited, and Nikki had to take her ballet class. Nikki wanted to wear a tutu, but Nana said it was only for recitals. She put on some goofy music, and all the girls were twirling like little dolls. But not Nikki—she just stood there. Nana got so mad, in front of the parents and everyone, but Nikki wouldn't twirl without her tutu.”

“She just stood there, crying,” Michelle said. “But how do you remember that? You were six.”

“We were watching through that two-way glass. You gave me change to buy Milk Duds from the machine. You usually made me get a granola bar. Remember?”

Michelle nodded. She didn't remember the candy, but she'd never forget feeling so torn between her mother and her daughter.