What a Mother Knows (22 page)

“Nikki!” Michelle crouched down to pick up the pills.

Instead
of
helping, Nikki sniffed back tears and unzipped her father's toiletry kit on the counter. She pulled out two pill bottles and shook them like maracas. The thick white tablets were Vicodin, for pain in vertebra L5, known as the tall man's Achilles. The small white circles in the other bottle were Ambien. Nikki slammed a bottle of blue capsules on the counter next to the others. The lid was loose, so several bounced into the sink. Nikki pulled more bottles out like rabbits from a top hat. Michelle recognized the Zoloft sample from the commercial that paid for Tyler's summer camp. There were red anti-inflammatories, too, and yellow pills she had never seen, from a doctor whose name she didn't recognize.

“Voila,” Nikki said, waving her graceful hand like a magician's assistant.

But
there
was
no
magic; Michelle couldn't snap her fingers and make them disappear. It resembled an old-fashioned candy store, or her mother's medicine cabinet long ago. She picked up the spilled pills and swept them together in her hands. This was crazy—they weren't pill people. That Grace Slick song came to mind, “One pill makes you larger/And one pill makes you small.”

Nikki
held
the
open
prescription
bottle. “Don't mix up the dope, Mom.”

“It's not dope,” Michelle said, dropping the matching pills in the bottle.

“So why does Daddy call this his dope kit?”

“That's a military acronym for Department of Personal Effects,” Michelle said. “It's just a toiletry case. This is medicine, prescribed by doctors.”

“Oh, is Daddy sick?” She raised an eyebrow as Drew's voice could be heard cheering for the Dodgers game along with Tyler and his friends.

“You know he has a bad back. He's getting a shot next week so he can keep working.”

“Like the baseball players? And Lance Armstrong? What's the big deal, anyway? If you can take medicine to do your job better, why not? Don't pilots take NoDoz? Why is it okay that some people are born bigger and stronger, and if your parents are remotely artistic, you'll suck at algebra?”

“Don't say
suck
.” Michelle zipped the dope kit. “Is that Noah's philosophy?”

“It's a lot of people's philosophy. Tyler has an asthma inhaler in his backpack, allergy medicine in the cupboard, and two kinds of cough syrup under the sink. And what about you, Mom? Coffee in the morning, tea in the afternoon, and wine at night. What's the difference?”

Michelle
lowered
her
voice. “The difference is that some drugs make your life better and some make you miss it entirely. If your life is that bad, let's change it. I want you to be happy, Nikki. I want you to experience the kind of joy you get from nature: a spectacular sunset or a beautiful flower or—”

“A pretty piece of foil?” Nikki asked. “Are you happy, Mom? Is it working for you?” She pulled a pack of Juicy Fruit from her jeans pocket and set it on the counter. Michelle saw the matching foil and regretted every word
.

Julie was calling through the bathroom door. “Michelle? I brought you the jeans in Nikki's closet, if that's okay. I don't see any casual clothes here, unless you have some in your suitcase.”

Michelle opened the door to the adjoining bedroom and took them. “I haven't even told you about Hawaii. Someone said that Nikki was dealing drugs.”

“Oh my god! She babysat for my kids!”

“It wasn't until she got to Hawaii, as far as I know,” Michelle said. “And it might have been prescription drugs.”

Julie nodded. “A lot of students sell ADHD meds for studying. Wait a minute, didn't you say that Noah's mother is a doctor?”

Michelle shivered. How had she forgotten that? “An anesthesiologist.”

“Then maybe Noah stole samples. Or a prescription pad.”

“I hope not,” Michelle said. She remembered Dr. Braunstein admitting that Noah volunteered with Tyler's baseball league for community service. He had gotten in a little trouble, she had said, like “boys do.” Michelle had been so distracted by finding the turtle postcard that it hadn't sunk in. But what if it was drug-related?

The jeans were too low for Michelle's taste, but they did fit, except for the lump in the back pocket. Once she was dressed, she went back to the living room where Julie was separating some of the paper into piles.

“They look good,” Julie said.

Michelle turned around. “Can you get the other tag out, please?”

Julie pulled out an origami football. “It's a note. Want me to open it?”

“No. It probably reads: ‘I hate my mother.' Sometimes Nikki was so sweet; other times she said ‘Mother' like a swear word.”

“Aren't all teenagers like that?” Julie unfolded the paper and held it up so the fading writing was visible. “Uh-oh. This looks like the writing in the Venice Bistro matchbook. That knitting yarn we found it in was a big hit with my daughter's Girl Scout troop, by the way.”

“Glad to hear it. Is this another ‘Hello I love you?'”

“Not exactly,” Julie said. She read aloud: “The time to hesitate is through
…
” Julie hummed until the whole room swirled with the music. “Can't read the rest. Something about a funeral, right? That's a little creepy.”

“It's from ‘Light My Fire.'” Michelle felt woozy, but not from jet lag. She knew she had seen it before, but where? She struggled to remember. “I think I found that in the laundry.” The memory flashed in her head—it was the same laundry basket her mother had used. “I didn't mean to spy, but it was right there in her dirty clothes. And it sounded like a plea for sex, so I went to Nikki's room when she was getting ready for bed and asked her about it. She turned on me, all red-cheeked and angry. She told me to not worry. Nothing had happened, except—Noah called her a baby.”

“You're remembering a lot more lately. That's good.”

Michelle nodded at Julie. “I don't remember her words exactly, I just remember this huge feeling of relief. Even though she was upset. I thought it meant she was still a virgin. She still had panties with turtles on them.”

“You're lucky. My kid is nine and she's already swiped my lace booty shorts.”

“Nikki wanted lace panties, too. This was after her birthday, about the time we bought the jeans, I guess. The cheerleaders were teasing her in PE class.”

Julie folded the note back into a football and gave it to Michelle. “My son did mention that our babysitter beat up a cheerleader. He was very impressed.”

“She didn't beat her up,” Michelle said, but she didn't bother explaining. It didn't matter. She had reached out to comfort Nikki that night, and Nikki had pulled away. She hadn't mentioned being suspended. Michelle pressed the edge of the football against her thigh. “I figured it was puppy love—that it would pass.”

“That picture of them kissing didn't look like puppy love. It reminded me of when Jack and I were starting out. You know, that first rush when you can talk all night and your heart feels like it's taking wing. Nothing compares to it, until—”

“The birth of your first baby,” Michelle finished. They were both quiet for a moment. “I'm glad Drew didn't find this when he packed her things. If he showed it to Kenny, it would look bad. I remember that now—that feeling of anger. First I give the kid this big break with the video, then he goes after my daughter?” She looked at Julie. “I think I hated Noah Butler.”

“Why didn't you call his mother?” Julie asked.

“He was over eighteen, for chrissakes. Plus…I did business with his father, Guy Butler. He did A&R for the album and promised that Victor would get a credit on everything related to the video. I guess I had a vested interest in Noah's success.”

“Why didn't you forbid Nikki from seeing him?”

“Ha.” Michelle stood up. “I can't wait until your kids are teenagers. Seriously.”

Michelle jammed the note back in the jeans pocket where she found it. “Just what I needed—something else to worry about.”

“Why, can they get a search warrant?”

“Only if they know about it. But Kenny said they can amend the lawsuit anytime. That's why I didn't want anyone seeing Nikki's pictures, remember? I even took the prints with me.” Michelle looked around at the rest of the mess. For once she was glad the living room was so bare. A few piles had been sorted, but it would take forever to organize the rest, especially with one arm. A full trash bag already leaned against the front door. “Thanks for your help today.”

Julie smiled. “I just hope no one asks me about it. I don't want to lie under oath.”

“Of course not,” Michelle said. “No one should lie under oath.” After a quick hug, Michelle let Julie out and shut the door. Then she tucked the note into the trash bag.

She leaned against the door and looked up at the family portrait before surveying the mess in the living room. This whole thing was crazy-making. Michelle looked longingly at the empty coffee mug. She needed more. She wished she could inject it directly into her veins. She looked for veins on her limp right arm and thought of Wes. She'd like his opinion on what to do next. But he'd already put himself out by hiding the memory disk in his safe, and she was reluctant to call and take time away from another patient. That's all she was to him, she reminded herself. Even though they had been on a first-name basis since the day she showed him Nikki's pictures, she was still a patient. She would talk to him soon enough, at her next appointment.

“Hey!” Julie peeked her head back in. “Forgot my mug.”

Michelle went back to the living room and stepped over a stack of automotive records to get it. When she came back to the hallway, she noticed something that had slid into view. She handed Julie the mug and picked up a white postcard. The Orrin Motors logo was printed above “Recall Notice #5175, Potential Seat Belt Malfunction.”

Julie snatched it. “This is proof that you're innocent. Or not liable or whatever. The rain caused the accident and the seat belt is the reason that it got ugly.”

Michelle saw the back, where purple doodles filled the corner. “Nikki definitely saw it.”

“So maybe that's why she ran away. Not drugs or blaming you for her boyfriend's death. Let's stop worrying about this legal stuff. They're not accusing you of murder, right? Even if you hated Noah Butler, why would you drive dangerously, if you could get hurt, too?”

Michelle thought of her mother but didn't answer. She walked Julie outside to where the realtor sign violated the pristine lawn.

“Besides, right now you have other things to deal with.” Julie hugged her good-bye again, then crossed the street. She called back. “Don't worry, once this blows over, Nikki will come home.”

Michelle kicked the For Sale sign over. These days,
home
was a four-letter word.

Lexi adjusted the bandage on Michelle's wrist and looked for an empty table among the laptop crowd in Starbucks at the corner of Ventura and Topanga Canyon Boulevard. No such luck. She held the door to the patio open for Michelle.

Michelle picked up her latte, wondering what drink Nikki and Noah brought his mother at work. She saw Lexi waiting and hurried out.

They shooed pigeons away from an empty table and sat down. “So, how have you been since I last saw you?” Lexi waved at Michelle's auburn hair and the blouse draping the designer jeans. “You look healthy. Stylish as ever.”

“After twelve hours of sleep, I feel pretty good,” Michelle said. “Except for a few minor concerns about killing a rock star, driving my daughter to deal drugs, alienating my husband to the point of selling our house, and trying to keep my mother from driving me crazy.”

“That is a lot to deal with. But why did you say, ‘killing a rock star'?”

Michelle sipped her latte. “It's easier than explaining the negligence charge.”

“Funny how it's easier to blame yourself than to accept all these things that are out of your control.” Lexi grinned and unbuttoned the aqua sweater over her scrubs. “Although during one of the therapy sessions I sat in on, I do recall some mention of control issues.”

“True, but there's reason to feel blame about some things,” Michelle said. “During the last month, I've lied, stolen, hidden things…I used to think of myself as a good person. Maybe I was wrong about that, too.”

“I doubt it. I warned you about adjustment issues. Plus, good people can do bad things, right? But if you feel bad…” A car alarm went off, so they waited until it stopped.

“I don't feel bad so much as clueless. One of the lawyers suggested hypnosis. Do you know anyone who does that?” Michelle asked. “Besides the shrink who kept asking about my mother? That's so cliché. I just need to remember the accident.”

“You need to?”

“I want to.”

“That could be dangerous,” Lexi said. “Memories are mutable—you could create a false one. Have you seen the accident site? The senses can be a strong trigger to recall actual events.”

Michelle finished her latte. “Drew thinks it will upset me.”

“He didn't think you'd be upset about the house?”

“Thank you!” Michelle tossed her cup in the wastebasket nearby.

“Two points,” Lexi said. She checked her Mickey Mouse watch. “Let's do it.”

“What?”

“You don't think I'm going to let you drive one-handed through Topanga, do you?”

***

Lexi drove straight out of the parking lot up Topanga before Michelle had time to chicken out. An ancient oak tree still guarded the corner where the road crossed Mulholland Drive and headed up over the Santa Monica Mountains. The gnarled branches seemed to poke the air in protest of the cactus garden now tucked like a patchwork quilt around it. Michelle could only imagine the other changes the tree had witnessed over the centuries, from horseback riders to hitchhikers, hippies to Hollywood actors, all the people who had come and gone.

Lexi pressed the gas with her tennis shoe until her Jetta zipped up the first rise of the coastal range. Michelle found herself clutching the strap of her seat belt so hard that her knuckles went white.

“Okay so far?” Lexi asked.

“Nervous,” Michelle admitted. The truth was that she was scared. Not just of going back to the scene of the horrifying crash, but of what she would learn there.

They inhaled the eucalyptus and pine as the car rounded the first set of horseshoe curves. A new wooden sign announced the entrance of the Santa Monica Mountains Park. Michelle turned to read it. “They paved over the gravel lookout?”

“You mean the make-out spot?”

Michelle smiled. She and Drew used to park here and search for their street in the grid of lights below. As the stars rose over the valley, against the backdrop of snowcapped mountains, they pointed out constellations and dreamed of the future. According to the sign, the view could only be seen during park hours now. The future felt just as limited.

Despite the sun flooding the two-lane road, Michelle shivered. She gripped the edge of her seat as Lexi drove slowly up and around the mountain. Volcanic rock jutted out above the bushy tree line to the left. Bright mustard plants lined the edge of the road like caution tape as the canyon yawned to the right.

The road switched back like a figure eight around the mountain until it crested again. Michelle took a deep breath and noticed several cars trailing them in the rearview mirror. The Mercedes behind them honked. Lexi looked back and waved at the driver. He ignored the double line and sped past, barely missing an oncoming car.

“That guy has a death wish,” Lexi said. She caught herself and changed the subject by pointing across the road to the pole topped with a pink plaster pig. “Who do you think put that flying pig up there? Some local artist?”

“Probably my old boss,” Michelle said. Pigs were sure flying now. They approached the concrete ruins of the infamous roadhouse ahead. She didn't point it out. Her phone rang and she checked the number. “Where's three-oh-five?”

“I think that's a Florida exchange,” Lexi said. “My grandparents live there.”

“Must be a wrong number,” Michelle said, relieved that it wasn't her husband. She felt a familiar pang of guilt. Then something else tugged at her. She did know someone in Florida—her stepbrother. She answered, but it was too late. If it was him, he'd leave a message. She was too distracted to deal with it.

A mile farther, as the narrow lane hugged the mountain, dented signs warned about falling rocks. Michelle longed to look down to see the creek, but the curves were closer now, treacherous and tight. There was no place to pull over, no shoulder to lean on. The metal girder ended just ahead. “How could they run out of guardrail? This used to drive me crazy, when my kids rode on the camp bus.”

“I guess it's a spot that doesn't seem risky.”

“It's all risky—too tempting. You know, that urge to just yank the wheel?” She saw Lexi shrug. “Oh come on, everyone gets that urge.”

“No, Michelle. Flying is a popular fantasy. Yanking the wheel is not.”

“Don't worry, I'm not suicidal,” Michelle said, slouching lower in the seat. “I'd never risk being crippled, or leaving my kids without a mother.”

Lexi looked at her, concerned. “But that's just what happened.”

“No, look: the edge of this road is so close you could sneeze and drive off.” Michelle imagined how soft the air would feel when flying, how sweet the moment of freedom before the blood and broken bones. Why not yank the damn wheel and get it over with? To end all the questions, once and for all. “Maybe I'm cursed with a vivid imagination.” Or was it memory, she wondered.

Lexi was watching now. “Didn't you tell the doctor that your mother was suicidal?”

“Yes, but not like this—she wasn't impulsive. She planned ahead. Shouldn't you keep your eyes on the road?”

Lexi chuckled as they passed the rainbow-colored peace sign staked in the side of the road, up where the Mercedes now waited behind a line of cars. There was always traffic at the driveway descending to the Theatricum Botanicum where Shakespeare was performed every weekend. A Jeep bursting with tie-dye-clad teenagers led a train of cars coming the other way. A dented blue van with surfboards tied to the roof rack raced ahead of a Jag. A Star Tours van rumbled past, packed with tourists snapping photos from the windows.

A motorcycle cop zoomed up behind the Jetta. The red light flashed just long enough for perspiration to prickle beneath Michelle's blouse. He steered slowly around Michelle's window and nodded his aviator glasses at her as he passed. He was young and good-looking, like the cop who fetched her from biology class the day they found her mother.

The
theater
was
noisy. The young dancers were aflutter, worrying over their fallen idol. A security guard had found her unconscious, without even a pulse. Michelle was escorted past the yellow tape to identify her mother's duct-taped toe shoes, the blue ribbon from her favorite corset, and the green stem of a plastic daisy with all the petals plucked. The police thought it was an accidental overdose, from the cheese and crackers and the bottle of wine. But Michelle knew that her mother had planned it. She found her empty pillbox by the stage curtain when they tore down the tape.

When
she
had
already
missed
her
afternoon
classes, Michelle talked the detective into dropping her off at the hospital. She was too young to be admitted to the intensive care wing, so when the nurse wandered away, she snuck in.

Elyse's name was posted outside of a private room, but Michelle barely recognized the wisp of a woman sleeping beneath her sheet. Elyse's high cheekbones looked like they were wrapped in rice paper; her pallor was tinged yellow, like an old, painful bruise. She was a broken doll of a ballerina, fractured and frail. Machines mimicked life by pumping liquid through thin tubes stabbed into her blue-veined skin and by forcing air through the plastic worming into her nose. The worst part was that she was absolutely still. So still that Michelle wondered if she would ever wake up.

Michelle
breathed
in
time
with
the
compressor, as if her own free will had died along with her mother. After what felt like hours of humming silence, Elyse lifted her crepe-paper lids like a curtain before the show. Her eyes bulged from her sunken face. Her faded irises floated in a bloodstained sea as she stared at Michelle without surprise.

Michelle
wanted
to
shout
and
break
the
spell. But she was afraid. If she was too loud, too pushy, her mother might close her eyes again and shut her out forever.

Elyse
licked
her
scabby
lips
and
whispered
with
all
her
might. “Three minutes…so peaceful.” She turned her head away from the noise of the nurses in the hall, the machines in the room, the girl by her bed. “I wish I was dead.”

Michelle
made
herself
sit. She watched herself wait. For what, a sign? Would her mother take it all back? Elyse had been gone for three minutes. One hundred eighty seconds of oblivion. Michelle could sing the national anthem in that amount of time, recite the pledge of allegiance in pig Latin, run away and not be missed. Could she hold her breath that long? One, Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…Michelle swung her leg back and forth. Eight, Mississippi, nine Mississippi…she felt woozy. Where was she, twenty-seven or twenty-eight Mississippi? She let the air go and gasped for breath. Three minutes was a long time.

Elyse
didn't care if Michelle earned an A in biology or wore a sundress in the snow. She didn't care if she got to see her grow up or get married or have children. She didn't care about her at all.

“Michelle?” Lexi's voice cut through the past. They had passed the traffic and were riding the curves once more. “I just asked how much farther it is.”

“Oh, sorry.” Michelle shrugged. “I have no idea. That's the point, right?”

“What were you thinking? Anything helpful? You sound annoyed.”

“I am. I was thinking of my mother. After all those nights I counted her pills, how did I not know she snuck out? To do it when I wasn't watching?”

“It wasn't your job to protect her,” Lexi said.

“Maybe not. But it was my job to protect Nikki. And I know I would have done anything. It would have been so easy, just to—”

“Yank the wheel?” There was a moment of stillness, then Lexi saw the tall cross by the road a hundred yards ahead. She pulled over and parked behind a few other cars. They climbed out slowly and hiked over.

Michelle felt wobbly as her heels sunk in the soft dirt. “Please don't tell any of this to the lawyers.”

“I'm not a shrink, Michelle. As far as I'm concerned, this is emotion running amok. And with good cause.” They passed a few teenagers heading back to their cars before seeing the picture of Noah nailed to the cross above a column of shiny CDs. Flowers wilted at the base next to a pair of pink panties and a pile of guitar picks.

They stepped past the shrine to the edge of the cliff behind it. “The only thing I could possibly testify to is the fact that you have a very strong will to live. Or you would not have survived. And we wouldn't be standing here now.”

Michelle clutched Lexi's arm and took one more step closer. She had to see the cradle of the canyon where Noah Butler had died.

Nothing was there. A meadow grew, fed by the creek. There was no sign of a life lost or others changed forever. Michelle forgot to breathe, and darkness enveloped her for the slightest of moments.

A hawk cawed as it flew over them.

Lexi nudged her back to the car. “Shall we keep going toward the beach?”

Michelle nodded. She longed to see the ocean, put some space between her and this wooden cross.

They drove slowly through the small town of Topanga in the center of the canyon. Bicycles were locked up outside the organic café. Michelle was tempted to stop for coffee as if this was a regular day. But there were too many people out, from gauze-skirted women holding hands outside the antique barn to art lovers flocking the gallery and wine bistro. She used to love the sequined mermaid statue at the vintage clothing store. Today, she couldn't even smile at the gray-haired protesters waving Honk for Peace signs by the post office.