Sugar and Spice and All Those Lies

by Evy Journey

  An efficient voice breaks into my thoughts. “Can you breathe well enough?”

  “Yes,” I say, glancing up at the woman with the efficient voice. I see only her eyes.

  She puts an oxygen mask on half my face; and as cool liquid courses down my arm, she fades into blackness.

  A smiling, maternal face is saying something—about me, I think. “Everything went well. We just finished stitching and bandaging your wound. We had to probe about a bit. The scissors were blunt. They left an ugly wound and grazed your shoulder blade, but luckily the wound didn’t go deeper. No serious harm done, although we’ll have to wait to see if there’s some nerve damage. If so, it may take a few weeks to have full use of your right arm again.”

  I force myself to say “thank you,” but all I remember is “no serious harm.” That’s all I need, to know that I can go back to life, as usual.

  “We’re keeping you overnight, at least. I think we’ll be able to discharge you tomorrow. We’re just waiting for hospital aides to take you to your room.”

  A day in the hospital. What about Thanksgiving? “Are my parents here?”

  “Yes. They’ve been informed about your room number so you’ll see them there.”

  Sometime later, my parents come into the room. Mom is scowling, her eyes dark with worry. “Thank God, you’re okay. How are you feeling?” She pulls a chair next to the bed.

  “Groggy. My shoulder is sore.”

  Dad stands at the foot of the bed. “The restaurant is paying medical insurance. What a relief. Never thought I needed to set aside money for this.”

  Mom leans over to stroke my forehead and my hair. I don’t remember her ever doing that before. “The doctor says everything will be fine.”

  Dad says, “Yeah, we’re glad you’re okay. Not much harm done, I hope.”

  I say, “The doctor says nothing serious.”

  “The hospital must have reported the stabbing. Got a call from Maurice half an hour ago. He saw the police at the Silvas. Took Cristi with them, maybe for questioning. What’s going on between you two?”

  “I think she just lost it. She came at me. Then, I saw blood staining my blouse and she was raising her arm. She had a pair of scissors. I put my arms up over my head, scooted over quickly to the other side of the bed, away from her. That was when people came running in. I was screaming at the top of my lungs.”

  Dad shakes his head. “Never can see why anyone should get so worked up over anything. Attacking a friend. That’s crazy.”

  Mom says, “I thought you were just doing catch-up because you two haven’t seen each other in a while. Next thing we know, Joanna comes barging into the house, shouting you’ve been hurt. I ask her how but she couldn’t tell us. Just kept shouting you were hurt. We rush after her, see you lying on the bed. Blood on you. I tell you, all that fear, that anguish when I was a child … when the police came.” Mom bites her lips; her mouth quivers as it always does when she recalls her father’s murder.

  “Oh Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “What’s there to be sorry about? I was scared, but then I got angry. Not at you but at that whole family. It actually felt good, blowing up like that. All this anger in me—just exploded.”

  “Your mom was like a volcano, shouting, ‘What have you done to my daughter? What have you done to my daughter?’ She pushed Raf away and he fell on his butt. I’ve never seen your Mom so angry. Or Raf looking so ridiculous on the floor.” Dad starts laughing.

  Mom says, “Raf tried to apologize, told us an ambulance was on its way. But I was still too angry so I shoved him away from you.”

  “You should have seen the Silvas cowering in their boots. Trixie tried to hand Julie a clean piece of cloth but Julie snarled at her, told her to stay away. So everyone stood frozen in place. Then, the ambulance arrived.”

  Mom resumes stroking my hair. “I looked at you, watched your chest going up and down; somehow I knew you’d be okay. So, I began to calm down.”

  Dad says, “What was Cristi so angry about?”

  “Something she thinks I’ve done.”

  Mom says, “What is it? What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything. We were talking, that’s all. She’s very unhappy about something and she’s blaming me for it.”

  “But why would she blame you?”

  “Mom, I can’t tell you much more about what’s going on in Cristi’s head.”

  Dad says, “Let her be. She needs to rest. It looks like the police are investigating. Maybe we’ll find out later what’s going on in that girl’s head.”

  Mom says, “I can’t understand it. Cristi has always been such a nice, well-behaved child, with that pretty smile on her face, like nothing ever goes wrong for her.”

  Shortly before noon the next day, my whole family arrives. My youngest brother Bernie, who is 12, runs to me, hugs me and won’t let go for a few minutes. Sabine, four years younger than me, tugs at his arm. “My turn.”

  Bernie lets go. After Sabine, Gerard—a year younger than Sabine, and Maurice, a year older—take their turn. I’m overwhelmed but deeply touched. There’s never been so much hugging in my family. We’re pretty laid back. When another family member joins us in a room, we may nod, but often, we simply take no notice of it.

  The hospital releases me a couple of hours later. In the car, Mom yields the choice front passenger seat to me. She squeezes in the back seat with my sister and three brothers. Bernie sits on my mother’s lap. Everyone is being solicitous and it feels good.

  Later, at home, Cristi’s parents come to see me. My parents and the Silvas seem to have made up.

  Mr. Silva says, “Truly sorry, Gina. We’re shocked—what Cristi did to you. We can’t explain it. The police came, took her away yesterday. She didn’t come home. She’s suicidal, they say. They put her in a hospital for observation.”

  Mr. Silva is scowling, but his wife, sitting next to him, is turning redder beneath her ruddy skin. Shame over what Cristi did to me? Or Cristi’s being put in a psychiatric hospital?

  Somehow, I’m not surprised Cristi is suicidal, but it’s sad, bewildering. I can’t imagine what it’s like being so unhappy that you’d want to kill yourself.

  Trixie Silva bursts out crying and my Mom and I watch her. Mr. Silva and my father look away. We all wait, saying nothing, doing nothing, until Mrs. Silva stops crying. “I’m okay,” she says, drying her eyes with tissue Mom hands her.

  A couple of minutes later, the Silvas leave.

  After they’ve gone, Dad says, “Cristi’s gone bonkers. That family’s in for some tough months ahead. If the police charge Cristi with assault, they’ll have to fork out a pretty penny to hire a lawyer.”

  He doesn’t expect either me or Mom to say what we think of his take on recent events. In his mind, what happened is now clear to him and he’s content.

  He pats my hand and says, “Well, rest up. You’ll be as good as new in a couple of weeks or so.” Then, he leaves the room. We hear him turning on the television.

  Mom stays and sits on the edge of my bed. “What’s Cristi so unhappy about, Gina?”

  I shrug my shoulders and don’t say anything.

  Mom isn’t satisfied with my silence. She watches me and waits. She’ll sit there until I give her some explanation.

  I relent and tell her about Leon and Cristi coming to the restaurant for dinner. I also mention the flowers, and the break-up, but not Leon’s excuse for it.

  She says when I finish, “Trixie told me about that young man. She was swelling with pride, seemed sure it was serious. Maybe Cristi gave a false impression. He can’t be that nice if he was sending you flowers while he was dating her. Did you make it clear to him you weren’t interested?”

  “I said nothing, did nothing, just ignored all of it.”

  “Why? That’s not good, Gina. You interested in this Leon?”

  “Well, how often does a very rich, good-looking guy send you flowers
every week? The whole year I was with Adam, he brought me a bunch of flowers once in a while. That was very nice, but it still can’t compare with every week. Yeah, so I admit I was intrigued.”

  Mom shakes her head. “Your Dad never gave me flowers. They’re dressing, that’s all. How much do you know Leon?”

  “Not much. Only what people at the restaurant say about him. Marcia, our pastry chef, says he’s a playboy and will tire of Cristi sooner or later. When he does, and if he still wants to go out with me, Marcia says I should say yes. Have fun, so long as I expect nothing more.”

  “That’s not good, either.”

  “But why, Mom? If I do, I’ll treat him the way he’s treating me. Why can’t I have fun? I work my butt off enough.”

  “It’s not what I’ve taught you.”

  “But that’s so old-fashioned, expecting a man to take care of me. Look what happened to Grandma. And it didn’t stop with her.”

  I thought Mom would be angry at what I said, but it’s time she accepts that I mean to do something else with my life than just marry and have babies. I’m not sure yet what I want to do about Leon if he persists, but Marcia has a point. Why can’t women enjoy men and sex without commitment?

  Mom stares at me, doesn’t speak for some minutes.

  “Okay. You’re an adult and can take care of yourself. I can also see you want to try things out. And I know you’ll do what you want to do. Doesn’t matter what I say. But be careful. I’d be sorry to see you hurt, to turn out like Cristi.”

  “Thank you, Mom, for understanding. I’ll be careful not to end up like her.”

  “Cristi may have gone bonkers; like your Dad says. But I can’t approve of her attacking you. Violence never fixes anything.”

  “I guess no one can tell what a person would do in anger, not even someone you think is your friend.”

  Shaking her head once more, Mom gets up. “Go to sleep. You need rest. I saved you some Thanksgiving dinner so when you’re starved, just holler. I’ll bring it to you. You need food to heal.”

  6

  I wake up before noon the next day. Sabine says I’ve been asleep twenty hours. No wonder I’m starved. My last bite of food was at lunch, before I visited Cristi. Intravenous feeding at the hospital doesn’t count. Food is something you chew taste, savor, and swallow.

  Remembering the Thanksgiving dinner Mom saved for me, I shout, though I doubt my parched throat carries my words too far out of the room, “I’m hungry.”

  Sabine saunters in, book in hand. “I’ll heat the plate Mom set aside for you.”

  She comes back minutes later, carrying a tray with a steaming plate of food. She sets it on a small desk that doubles as my night table. “Can you sit up?”

  I nod. “Yes, but help me. My shoulder’s heavy as lead. Hurts a bit.”

  “Wait. Can you hold yourself up a little?”

  I nod again.

  She takes the pillow from her bed, piles it on top of mine, and helps me lean back against them. She takes the tray and pulls out its legs, positioning it like a bridge over my thighs.

  I smile at Sabine. Whatever else my family is, we do what we can when one of us needs help. Maybe because of my mother, we take care not to hurt each other. When we were kids, Cristi once told me her father used his belt on her brothers whenever they did something bad. She tried to be good and she’d never been hit. My father has never laid a hand on any of us.

  Mom walks in while I’m eating. Sabine has cut the turkey breast into pieces.

  Mom says, “How are you feeling this afternoon? You sure slept.”

  “I’m good. Sore in my chest, and up and down my left arm.”

  “It’s not numb is it, your arm? Because if it is, the doctor says you’ll have to stay off work for a while longer.”

  I pinch a few spots on my left arm. “No, I don’t think so. There’s feeling along my arm. I almost forgot about work.”

  Sabine says, “Don’t worry. Mom asked me to call. I couldn’t get through to the restaurant but you gave Mom Marcia’s number so I called her. Good thing you did that.”

  “So you told Marcia?”

  “Yes, she said not to worry. She’ll tell the restaurant and she’ll call you tomorrow. Seems like a nice lady; sounded like she really cared about you.”

  “If I have a best friend in that place, it’s Marcia. She’s older, much more experienced, frank. Gives me advice like an older sister.”

  Before long, my father stomps into the room, rubbing his stomach round and round with his palm. He grins at me, “Good. You’re up and eating like a pig. And here I am with a growling stomach. I’ve got two great cooks in this house and there’s no food to be had.”

  Mom gets up and says, “Come along. I’ll make you a hamburger with lots of sautéed onions.” She looks back at me. “I’ll be back to talk to you later.”

  When they’ve left, I turn to Sabine. “Has anyone heard anything more about Cristi?”

  “She’s coming home Monday. But I heard they may charge her with … battery, I think, is what her mom said.”

  But she wasn’t thinking right, just hurting a lot.”

  “I don’t think it’s for you to say what authorities decide to do.”

  An hour later, Mom returns. “How did you like your mashed potatoes?”

  “Loved them. But you did something different. You couldn’t have mixed celery in but they smell a bit like celery.”

  “It’s celery root, boiled and mashed with potatoes. I’d almost forgotten about it, but cooking for that restaurant, you’ve inspired me; brought back some memories. Celery root is not cheap, but I thought: Thanksgiving. Why not splurge?”

  “I think they’re wonderful together. Maybe, you’ll have more great memories of food you can share with me.”

  “We’ll see. But that’s for another day.”

  “Heard anything more about Cristi?”

  “She’s still at that hospital—some kind of psychiatric care facility.”

  “How is she?”

  “A lot calmer, Trixie says. They put her on some kind of drug. It seems Cristi has been staying alone in her room a lot since she came home for this visit. But Trixie says she’s always been so quiet anyway. Not like Joanna. So no one thought anything was wrong.”

  “I wonder when they’ll let her out.”

  Mom shrugs. “Who knows? Trixie says she may be charged with battery.”

  7

  On Monday morning, a detective knocks on our door. He arrives mid-morning and he’s waiting for me in the living room. He rises as I walk in, a tall man of about thirty who fills his blue jeans, white shirt opened at the neck, and dark casual suit jacket with palpable strength. He has that familiar spark I’ve seen in many men’s eyes when they see me for the first time. But it dies as quickly as it lights up. He doesn’t goggle at me like others have done. Like Leon did. But he doesn’t look away in embarrassment, either.

  He extends a hand and I take it. He has a warm and comforting grip. “Miss Regine Lambert? I’m Lieutenant Hansen of the Oakland Police Department.”

  “Gina please. It was my mother’s choice to call me Regine but I never use it. I don’t actually like the name.”

  He doesn’t smile, but amusement creeps into his eyes. As we sit down across from each other, he says “I’m sorry to bother you while you’re recovering from your injuries but I need to ask you some questions about the stabbing incident.”

  “No, no bother. But I want to tell you up front I don’t want Cristi charged.”

  “Unfortunately, that’s not up to you. Nor me. I’m just gathering evidence and the district attorney decides.”

  “What do you want me to tell you?”

  “Let’s start with your version of what happened. You don’t mind if I record it in my phone, do you?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  I give him my story, in as much detail as I can remember. He doesn’t interrupt and his gaz
e is so direct I have to avert mine sometimes. But I can’t tell how much of my story he believes. Maybe cultivating a deadpan face goes with his job.

  “Thank you,” he says when I finish. His gaze travels down to something on the floor which he scowls at. My parents have never bothered to replace the living room rug; it’s shabby, worn thin from years of use. I think they’re just waiting for the wood underneath to show before they strip it off completely. The detective’s absorption in it makes me uncomfortable.

  He glances up again and, for the first time, I’m struck by how sad his eyes look. They’re gray and piercing, under unexpectedly long and thick lashes that make that sad look sadder still. Why did I not see that right away? It couldn’t have been the rug that brought it on. What demons could be lurking in this man’s breast?

  “You called Miss Cristi Silva’s former boyfriend Leon. Is that Leon of the rich Barrett family?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “A little. Do you like Miss Silva, Miss Lambert? Does she like you?”

  His questions catch me off-guard for a few moments. “Yes, of course. I like her. I believe she likes me, too.”

  “But she stabbed you with a pair of scissors.”

  “She was distraught.”

  “About the breakup with Leon Barrett?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “Which she blamed you for. Do you think it’s unfair of her to do so?”

  “Wouldn’t you think so, if you didn’t do anything?”

  “You didn’t ask Mr. Barrett to stop sending you the flowers.”

  “They brightened my apartment. I can see now that’s a mistake. But would it have prevented Cristi from stabbing me if I stopped the flowers?”

  He doesn’t answer my question, but he smiles—the first he’s given me. He puts his cell phone in his shirt pocket. “Thank you again for patiently answering my questions. I’ve no more for the moment. But it’s likely some new ones will come up so I’ll probably have to talk to you again.”