“I’ll go,” I say.
Cali is sitting by the pool with one leg hugged to her chest and the other dangling into the water. I fear she’ll be upset, but as I settle myself down next to her, pulling up the edge of my skirt and letting my own calves slide into the cool water, her face looks serene, even happy. For a moment, we sit together in companionable silence.
“I’ve always loved the cello, you know,” she begins, “but after New York, I started to worry that I was getting jaded, that it had become about what it meant to my identity rather than the music itself, about being part of the Philharmonic, about being a principal. Not about the music.”
“And now?”
She turns to face me. She’s smiling, but her eyes are sad.
“Now I know it wasn’t just the status, the job, the dream. It was always the music. Always me and my cello.”
“Then you have to go back,” I say. As I say this, I am thinking of the mountain. Certainly, I too had become wrapped up in the glory, the pursuit of crystal globes and gold medals, sponsorships and deal making. But in the end, it was always me and the mountain. My first and truest love. What if it didn’t all have to be over? As Blair said, there was always going to be an after.
“Yeah,” Cali says. “Maybe I’ll go find some little orchestra in Texas or something, move back home. I could always teach.”
“No. Just because it’s not about the glory doesn’t mean you have to give up the glory. Hearing you play tonight . . .” Words escape me for a moment. “I’ve never heard anything like it. I was so moved.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m envious, you can do what you love until you’re old. You don’t belong on some dinky little stage, you belong in the spotlight, at like . . . I don’t know.” We both laugh. I so obviously know nothing about classical music, and I don’t need to in order to see how talented Cali is. “Carnegie Hall? That’s all I got, but you know what I mean.”
“You’re very convincing,” Cali says, “but what about you? I mean, I know you got injured but . . .”
I’m still not ready to go into it. Especially not tonight, in this beautiful, crisp evening air, in the afterglow of the music, the prelude to another night with Gianluca.
“There is a very long story,” I say, “that I’m not quite ready to tell. But I will tell you, I promise. Is that okay?”
“You take your time,” she says. “I’ll be here.”
I send G a text message when I’m back in my apartment and he’s at my door in a half hour.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, and the familiar way he kisses me when he walks through my door is comforting. I’m not nothing to him. Am I?
“You took the bike,” I say as he sheds his moto jacket, placing his helmet gingerly on my narrow kitchen counter.
“Every chance I get before the weather turns,” he says. “Wasn’t sure I’d be able to make it tonight, I can’t stay long.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” I say, hoping I don’t sound as pathetically grateful as I feel. He makes himself at home, pouring himself a glass of Fernet, which I keep here only for him.
“Me too. How was your night?”
“Good. Cali played the cello for us.”
“Cali plays the cello?”
“You didn’t know?” This is the thing about G: even though he wants me to tell him everything, to bear my soul as well as my body—intimacy distilled down to its elements—I’m not sure he remembers the details of my life or anyone else’s. “She used to be in the New York Philharmonic.”
“Che, really?” He whistles, impressed. “That gorgeous and talented too?”
I nod, suddenly wishing I hadn’t brought it up. I feel a sharp stab of jealousy. I know Cali is beautiful but I don’t need to be reminded by the man I am about to take my clothes off in front of. I don’t need to think of myself being measured against her.
“Is she seeing anyone?” G asks, making it worse.
I shrug. “I suspect she and Edward might be into each other.” Edward, I want to add, who is wealthier than you, and more powerful, whose money helps you and your studio keep going.
“Lucky bastard,” he says, shaking his head. He drinks the rest of his Fernet. Smiles at me. “Come here you.”
Idaho Journal Sentinel
October 12, 2008
MOMMY DEAREST: DID THIS IDAHO MOTHER MURDER HER DAUGHTER?
Ava Granger had a brief and difficult life up until her death on September 10. Her mother, Penny Cleary-Granger—Hayden resident and older sister of ski racer Katie Cleary—seemed like a paragon of motherhood to most who knew her. By all appearances, she’d gone to heroic lengths to care for her daughter, Ava, who was born premature and had been diagnosed with failure to thrive. But now, the Journal Sentinel has learned, Penny Cleary-Granger is under investigation for the murder of her three-year-old daughter. What happened?
“Penny was such a good mom,” a family friend of the Grangers, Samantha Perkins, told us. “I don’t know how I would cope if my child was sick, and now she’s under suspicion of hurting her? I can’t even imagine. I don’t know how she’s still standing.”
A look at her extensive social media history paints Penny, 29, as a devoted mother who would go to any lengths for her daughter, and a loving military spouse who kept the home fires burning for her husband, Air Force Captain Stewart Granger, while he was away on multiple tours of duty in Iraq and Afghanistan. A Journal Sentinel investigation has discovered five separate Facebook pages for Cleary-Granger, with the followers totaling over 7,000. Many are “friends” who had never met Ava or Penny in person, but have followed Penny’s extensive chronicles of her daughter’s illnesses for years from such far-flung locations as New York, London, and Perth.
Neighbors of the Grangers in their small town of Hayden, ID, remember Ava as a happy little girl, despite her many trips to the hospital. “She was cute as a button,” Nadine Frost, who lived next door to the Grangers, said. “And with Stewart having to be gone so much, there was a lot for Penny to deal with, you know? But she never complained. Even though she was working part-time and being a full-time mom, she was always offering to watch our grandkids. And she was so good with them! We always felt so secure since she was a doctor and all. She was constantly taking them in for earaches, fevers, all that stuff kids get.”
Though records show that Penny Cleary-Granger holds a nursing degree from Boise State, a Journal Sentinel investigation into her employment history shows that she falsified documents in order to work as a physician’s assistant, a job she left voluntarily before her daughter was born. She appears to have told friends and acquaintances that she was still working as a physician’s assistant or, in some cases, a doctor.
Asked whether she remembers anything strange, Frost recalls that Penny seemed a bit paranoid about Ava’s health, in particular her claims about her daughter needing to be fed via her NG tube. “The little munchkin always ate fine when I watched her. And she was with me a couple of times a week while Penny was at work,” Frost said. “Seemed like maybe she was worrying a bit too much. So I guess I thought that was a little strange.”
The combination of her sick daughter and the fact that Penny’s husband was on a tour of duty in Afghanistan garnered plenty of sympathy for the young mother among peers who knew her, but according to a separate Facebook page Penny created called “Ava’s Rainbow: A community of support for my little soldier!” Stewart Granger had died in the line of duty. No one who knew the Grangers in person—and would therefore know that Stewart was very much alive—was in the Facebook group, which was set to private.
The community of Hayden, already shaken by the death of Ava Granger, has been rocked to its core as news has spread that Penny is a suspect in her murder. The Hayden Police are currently investigating whether Ava’s mysterious death in Shriner’s Hospital for Children in Spokane, WA, was caused by a lethal amount of sodium, fed to the child via her G-tube. Her mother had access, as she was constantly by her side in
the hospital and left unsupervised for long stretches; it’s the motive that remains baffling. Why would a mother—especially one who appeared to the outside world to be so devoted—harm her child?
The bizarre case has raised the specter of Munchausen syndrome by proxy, a psychiatric disorder that causes a parent—usually a mother—to invent, or even inflict, medical aliments in their child in order to receive attention and sympathy. Cases in this day and age are amplified by the ubiquity of social media outlets where mothers of children suffering from illnesses—real and imagined—can gather in previously unheard of numbers.
As the investigation into Ava’s death continues, the residents of Hayden struggle to make sense of the charges.
Samantha Perkins counts herself as a stalwart supporter.
“There’s just no way she’d ever hurt her. I’m a mom too, and moms just know,” she said, her eyes tearing up. “We just know.”
Liz Crosses the River
THAT SATURDAY, Gemma knocks on my door early.
“Good morning!”
I blink at her bleary eyed in the morning sunshine. It’s 9:00 a.m. and the summer is fleeting, the sun coming up a little later each day.
“Hi,” I say.
“Another late night of tango?”
I smile, though I’m smarting because most of the night was spent arguing with G, who’d come over an hour later than he said he would. I called him on it and it had caused a big fight, which ended up being the prelude to several rounds of sex. This had begun to feel like a pattern.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“We’re going on a visa run, come with us!” As a condition of our respective tourist visas, we’re required to leave the country every three months. The easiest way to do so is to take the ferry from Buenos Aires to Colonia, a tiny, charming Uruguayan city just across the Rio de la Plata.
“Oh okay, sure. Give me a sec.”
I’m hungover and exhausted, but I rally, and soon we’re aboard the high-speed ferry—the Buquebus—and rocketing across the churning brown waves of the river. The Rio de la Plata is an unlovely body of water. At 140 miles, it’s the widest river in the world, and being in the middle of it feels like being at sea. The river is an estuary, a meeting of the Uruguay and Paraná Rivers that empties into the Atlantic, meaning it’s never anything but the color of mud, obscuring everything below the surface.
We dock in Colonia and have our passports stamped.
“Let’s show Liz the historic district and grab some lunch down there,” Edward says, taking Cali’s arm. I’m the only one who’s never been here.
“Oh yes! It’s only a short walk, and there are some incredible ruins. They dug a whole little slice of the seventeenth century out of the hillside.”
We take photos by the Portón de Campo and continue on to the Calle de los Suspiros.
“Ah, this is my favorite street in the district,” Gemma says. “The ‘street of sighs.’ People mistake it for a romantic reference—that the sighs are lovers’ sighs—but really it was named for the sighs of the slaves hauling stones up from the wharf to build the town.”
As we walk, Gemma continues on her historical tour of Colonia with Cali, and I fall back with Edward. We walk in easy quiet, but at some point I realize he’s looking at me from the corner of his eye, smiling curiously.
“You know,” he says, picking his way carefully through the uneven cobblestones, “you don’t really look like a ‘Liz.’ What made you choose it?”
I stop in my tracks and meet his gaze for a moment that unfolds into an eternity. Possibilities race through my mind, that I’ve misheard him or that he means something other than what I think he does.
“It’s my middle name. Elizabeth,” I say finally, looking out at the harbor. The sunshine is sparkling off the river and the outlines of our friends are thrown into sharp relief.
“And Sullivan?”
“My mom’s maiden name.”
“Ah.”
“How did you find out?” I finally ask.
“I knew the night I met you. I Googled it to confirm, but I was fairly certain. My ex followed the story obsessively. She was heartbroken for your family. For you, in particular. She and her own sister are inseparable.”
I nod, taking this in. “I don’t really know what to say.”
“I’m not trying to put you on the spot. I won’t say anything. But for what it’s worth, I don’t think anyone would judge you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
I laugh, but it’s heavy as a stone. “Well, that was definitely not my experience back home.” As the shock of Edward’s revelation recedes, I realize it’s a relief that someone knows.
Edward shrugs. “Maybe, but it’s different here. Everyone came here for a reason. Everyone’s life is a mess back home.”
“Not quite like mine though.”
“Well no,” he acknowledges, “and I’m not trying to minimize what’s happened to you. I just thought an outside perspective might be helpful.”
“It is,” I say. “I’m not ready to talk about it. But thank you. For not saying anything.”
He shrugs. “It’s not my story to tell, Liz.”
We have a wine-soaked lunch in Colonia’s Plaza de Mayo.
“God,” Gemma says. “I could eat a fucking horse. I’m a monster when I’m on the rag.”
“Gemma.” Edward rolls his eyes.
“Oh I’m sorry, darling, does my healthy, functioning female body offend you? Don’t be prissy.”
I laugh and it occurs to me that I can’t remember when I last got my own period. Before the past year it was like clockwork, but the stress has made my cycle erratic. I guess it still hasn’t gone back to normal yet.
We take a languorous walk around the small, picturesque city. We stroll through the artisanal market and Gemma buys up an armful of leather goods. We buy ice cream at the edge of a park where children are running around and people are walking dogs of all sizes.
If Cali hadn’t seen him, we might have missed him altogether. He could have so easily disappeared into the idyllic tableau of the park on a sunny Saturday.
“Dude,” Cali says, clutching my arm and gesturing to a couple in the park who are playing with their two small children. The mother, who looks about Gemma’s age, catches my eye first. She’s attractive and slim with black hair and light eyes. As I look more closely at her, I realize that she looks exhausted and maybe a little melancholy watching her children. Then her eyes meet her son’s and she lights up. I glance across the field at the father and feel the gut punch of recognition. Gianluca is playfully chasing a toddler who runs in circles, squealing with delight. Seeing him here is so out of context that my mind struggles to make sense of it.
“Maybe it’s his niece and nephew?” I say, trying to keep my voice even.
“Does he have siblings?” Cali asks.
“I don’t know.”
“Do you want to go say hi?” Cali asks softly.
“Nah,” I say. “Anyway, we have to get going to catch the Buquebus. Right, Gemma?” I say, turning to find her.
“Oh, we have a few minutes. Why . . .” And then she sees what we’re looking at. I’m half surprised that G doesn’t notice the four of us there, but then again, he’s not expecting us, and he’s focused on . . . his kids. We’re only an hour away from Buenos Aires, and yet we’re in another country where Gianluca, evidently, has another life.
Both Edward and Gemma are quiet for a moment as we all watch the little family convening near a bench. The boy and girl climb all over G, clinging to him as he sips a thermos of what I assume is maté and has a tense-looking conversation with the woman.
“You didn’t know?” Edward says, making me realize that he did. Perhaps it’s how he pled his case to get Edward to invest: I have a family to support.
“No,” I say. “No.”
“Well, he’s not with her, is he?” Gemma asks.
“I honestly have no idea. I don’t know what’s going on. Edward?
” I ask.
Edward shakes his head. “They’ve been split up for a long time.”
“Let’s go,” Cali says finally. “Do you want to go, Liz?”
We make our way silently back to the ferry terminal and board the Buquebus to head back to where we came from.
“Maybe,” Gemma says, sitting down gingerly next to me on the upper deck, “there is a good explanation.”
“For why Gianluca has a secret family that he’s never mentioned to me?”
“But maybe there is more to the story. Maybe he’s not the bad guy. It’s so much more complicated when there are children involved.” I’m surprised that Gemma is defending him.
“So complicated that you can’t mention their existence to the person you’re dating?” Cali asks. And I wonder, Am I dating G? It feels like less than that, and more, all at once.
I nod. There is no way to explain to them what I’m feeling without telling them all much more than I’m willing to. For one thing, I cannot bear to look at children who are the age that Ava would have been. And the sight of the youngest one—with his dark eyes and ruddy cheeks, so healthy and cheerful—has cut me to the quick. The fact that he belongs to G is too much. Then, it’s as though an alarm had been tripped and my mind rockets back to my missed period. But it’s been this late before, hasn’t it?
“I should end it,” I say woodenly, knowing as the words come out that I’m right but also that I won’t do any such thing.
Edward says, “That seems hasty.”
“Hey,” Cali says, “whose side are you on here?”
“Gianluca has had a difficult life. Much more so than he lets on; most people who know him have no idea what he’s been through.”
“Maybe Edward’s right. I can see you’re crazy about him,” Gemma adds.
Yes, I think, considering the lack of sleep and the way that G has expanded in my mind to captivate my every thought, crazy is exactly the word. And it’s not sustainable, but the idea of never being with him again makes me feel faint. And what if I am pregnant? What am I doing? Am I really so incapable of balance? Does everything have to be an obsession? Does everything have to be a drug?
We Came Here to Forget Page 23
