What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

  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 bot
h 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.

  Furious, Michelle swept the articles off the table. “My daughter is missing!” She turned and headed back toward the bedroom.

  Michelle could hear Tyler as she headed down the hallway. “Coach, can we finish this another time? Dad said she needs to rest, you know, and not get so upset.”

  “You’re a good kid, Tyler,” Kenny said. “Unfortunately, there isn’t a lot of time. The judge has fast-tracked the case.” He called down to Michelle. “The next deposition is coming right up, Michelle. We need to prep you. “

  Michelle stormed into the bedroom and slammed the door. She climbed back in bed, but her mind was racing. She opened the get well card and listened to her daughter’s message for the hundredth time. But instead of listening to her voice and cherishing every inflection, this time she focused on the words.

  “Hello, Mother. I feel awful about what happened.

  But I can’t see you like this. I hope you understand.

  Love, me.”

  Now that Michelle knew more about the accident, she wondered what her daughter had meant. Initially, she’d assumed Nikki meant that she couldn’t bear to see her mother injured. But maybe she was upset about more than that. Tyler said the video gave her a bit of notoriety at school—the accident would have put an end to that. If the cheerleaders had read those magazines, too, and teased Nikki about her mother having an affair with Noah, that would explain how she got angry enough to slam a locker door in someone’s face. Either way, Nikki hoped her mother would understand. And of course Michelle wanted to, if only she had the chance.

  When the sound of muffled coughing intruded on her thoughts, it was almost a relief. Michelle felt herself slip back into mom mode, when concern for her child outweighed everything else.

  “Tyler, are you all right?” she called.

  He opened her door. “Just the spring pollen. Coach said I can get a ride to the game with Cody’s mom if I go early.”

  “Okay, but the ball field won’t be any better for your allergies.”

  “Worth the hassle,” Tyler said. “Will you be okay here alone?”

  She nodded and reached for her son’s hand, so he could help her sit up. When he leaned over, she kissed his cheek, grateful he still let her do that. His sister used to turn her head until Michelle’s lips met her hair. Boys were so much easier, she thought, as he waved good-bye and left. What was it about mothers and daughters that felt so fragile?

  She saw Nikki’s card on the bedside table and considered showing it to Kenny. She felt bad about causing a scene when he had only been trying to help. But what if Kenny decided to keep the card? Michelle couldn’t bear to give it up.

  11

  A few hours later, Michelle hiked past the West Valley playground where she used to push Nikki on the swings. She quickened her pace toward the manicured baseball diamond and spotted the blue team warming up. For once, she wished she had her cane. While the winter rye was as plush as shag carpet, Michelle’s legs ached for a rest. But she was determined to get to the field before her son came to bat.

  As Michelle approached the fence by the dugout, she spotted Kenny in the outfield. Tyler was nearby, throwing the ball to Cody.

  A man stuffed into stretch pants in the dugout glanced up from his newspaper, then did a double take. He spit out a sunflower seed and stood up. “Well if it isn’t Tyler’s Mom.”

  Michelle relaxed a little. They were all called that, Somebody’s Mom. That was the only title that mattered here.

  “Howdy there, Michelle!” Kenny’s wife, Cathy, approached in a T-shirt bedazzled with the words: Team Mom. Michelle was grateful to see her nod at the coach, who loped back to the third-base line. Cathy gave Michelle a warm hug. “Sorry I couldn’t say anything about Nikki the other night. Drew insisted, and when you said she was coming home, I didn’t know how to handle it.” She released Michelle and looked around. “How did you get here? Never mind. You look good,” she said with a nod to the linen dress and ribbon-edged cardigan that Elyse had bought. “How are you feeling?”

  “A little overwhelmed,” Michelle said. “I’ll feel better after I’ve spoken with Kenny again.”

  “Would you like to sit with me and Emily until he has a moment?” Cathy pointed toward the bleachers.

  Michelle looked over. A coven of baseball moms perched on the first few rows strained their necks around the crowd to see her. Michelle waved. Some of them waved back halfheartedly before turning to chatter with each other. But from the way their eyes kept darting back to her, Michelle guessed that they read the gossip magazines‚ too. She hugged her right arm. “No thanks, I’ll wait.”

  “Anything I can help with?” Cathy persisted.

  “I want to apologize for this morning.”

  Cathy lowered her voice, but her tone hardened. “I didn’t hear the whole story, but I do know one thing: my husband knows what he’s doing.”

  Michelle heard the pride in her voice. “I don’t mean to be ungrateful.”

  Cathy smiled. “Good, because I need to ask you a favor.” Before she could explain, warm-ups ended and the boys ran into the dugout and onto the field. “Game’s on.” She marked the score chart, then offered a lemon bar from a Tupperware container. Michelle demurred.

  “What’s wrong? You used to rave about these. Did your taste buds change?”

  “A little, but Drew is the one who loves those. I’m more of a chocolate person—otherwise, why waste the calories?” Michelle was teasing, but Cathy didn’t laugh. Shouts erupted and fans behind them cheered. They looked up at the field as the shortstop caught a grounder and shot it to
first base for the out.

  “That’s the way, boys!” Cathy shouted. She marked hieroglyphics on the score chart.

  “What happened?” Michelle asked. “I can’t seem to remember the plays.”

  “Can’t blame the coma for that.”

  Michelle glanced back from the field. “Excuse me?”

  “Since we’re being honest, Michelle, admit it. Six years of baseball and you never took the time to learn how the game is played.”

  “I never had the time.”

  Cathy kept her eyes on the game. “Maybe because you were so busy with your BlackBerry and your Variety and your bills. It was sweet when Nikki started coming and the two of you would knit, but even then you had to ask me for the score.”

  “Sorry, but I thought it was enough to leave work early and fight traffic to be here.” Michelle’s voice rose along with her frustration.

  “Dressed in designer suits and heels that poked holes in the grass.”

  “In Hollywood, you either go glam or go home.”

  “Oh, Michelle. Look at you. You went from a hospital gown straight to a designer dress that a celebrity wore on Letterman last night.”

  Michelle started to explain, but Cathy was on a roll. “And there was more than one complaint about how you flirted with the dads while your husband jet-setted around the world.”

  “He wasn’t jet-setting, he was living out of a suitcase. And I wasn’t flirting; I was trying to get help for Tyler. I was friendly to the moms, too!”

  “Sure, to switch snack day. Seriously, polite is one thing; friendly is another. Forget it. From what Kenny says, you can’t remember much, anyway. But this has been really hard on everyone, you know? Not just you.”

  Michelle tried to enjoy the game, but after a few minutes, she realized that Cathy was right. She had no idea what was happening on the field—nor did she care, unless Tyler was involved. But did that make her a bad person? She looked down at the Tupperware. “The truth is, I could never make lemon bars. I can’t even do Slice and Bake cookies without burning them. I was never Team Mom or Captain of the Neighborhood Watch. Even if I stayed home, I could never be like you, with the homemade snacks and holiday decorations.”