What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

They were both quiet as they thought of all the stylists they had ever known. Then Becca smiled. “I know who you need: the Wizard!”

  Michelle pushed the cookies away. The woman known as the Wizard was a Hollywood legend behind the scenes. Not only could she turn a plain Jane extra into a red carpet femme fatale overnight, but she was famous for the glamorous return of a certain alcoholic has-been who went on to win an Oscar. “Is she still working?”

  “Not officially—she must be eighty by now. But I bet I can find her.”

  “I bet she charges a fortune.”

  “This one’s on me. The truth is, you’re right—I do owe you. And I can’t imagine how horrible it must be to come home to all this.” They both rose and hugged good-bye. Silence filled the kitchen, as comforting as any words could possibly be.

  “Okay, then,” Michelle said, walking her out. “Off to see the Wizard.”

  Becca gave her an air kiss and hurried to her waiting limo. The uniformed driver closed the door behind her.

  13

  Michelle climbed out of the Volvo, then held the medical release form above her head to protect her new hairstyle from the drizzle. Cody came to the rescue from the back seat, his black umbrella already opened. “Thanks.”

  “Keep it,” he said. “I only took it to school to get my mom off my back.”

  “Then tell Cathy thanks. I’ll be out in ten minutes.” She tiptoed around the puddles to protect the new boots the Wizard had chosen, then realized she’d forgotten the umbrella. When she glanced back, Cody was still there, shadowed by the high-rise across the street.

  “Stop gawking and get in before I puke, dude,” Tyler called from behind the wheel.

  “Not my fault your old lady is smoking hot,” Cody mumbled.

  Michelle pretended not to have heard him and turned back toward the Palmer Clinic. She reminded herself to thank Becca as well. It had taken an entire day, but there was no doubt that the legendary stylist still had a magic touch. Michelle took a deep breath, raised her chin, and strutted past the mud-splattered luxury cars and the silver Prius with a Star Trek bumper sticker.

  She had been afraid to do this, to get Dr. Palmer’s signature and say good-bye for good. But as soon as he was formally dismissed, Drew could pay Kenny, Kenny would clean up the legal mess, and Michelle could focus on what really mattered: finding her daughter.

  Michelle stomped her high heels on the sodden doormat, then hit the buzzer with her elbow. The door opened automatically, of course. It was designed to accommodate handicapped patients.

  Inside the waiting room, a Jamaican nurse brushed her braids behind her shoulder and applauded as a muscular man signed in with his fiberglass arm. Once he disappeared behind the swinging door, she logged Michelle in, eyed her outfit, then set a starfish-printed patient gown on the counter. “I’m Bree,” she said with a lilt. “Dressing rooms are down to the right. Need help?”

  “No thanks, I won’t be changing.”

  Bree pursed her plump lips. “Then I’ll let Dr. Palmer know you’re here.” They heard a man humming to a jazz instrumental just inside the double doors. Bree laughed and pointed behind her. “He’s eager to see you.”

  “Me?” Michelle asked.

  “You’re kind of famous around here.”

  Michelle scanned the magazines strewn on the table by the couch. “Not from the tabloids, I hope.”

  “No, from the Medical Association Journal. We hear of coma patients who make a full recovery from time to time, but it’s always worthy of a case study.” Bree removed Michelle’s wet raincoat just as Dr. Palmer peeked over the swinging doors.

  “Did she call?” he asked.

  “She’s here,” Bree said.

  Dr. Palmer looked around Michelle at the empty waiting room. Bree pointed at Michelle. His eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Mason. I didn’t recognize you.”

  Bree laughed.

  “Could you please turn the music down?” he asked Bree, while holding the door open for Michelle. In heels, she was almost as tall as he was, so she avoided his gaze by admiring the Lakers tie he wore under his lab coat.

  Inside the cavernous treatment room, the clanging of weights echoed as the music dropped to a background buzz. Michelle looked past a row of exam tables and padded benches to the tall machines where a dozen patients struggled with steel plates and pulleys. She caught the eye of the burly man with a prosthetic arm who had dropped his stack of weights. One by one, all the men slowed their movements to look up.

  “You all right, Sam?” Dr. Palmer called. The man grumbled something and turned back to his task. Dr. Palmer turned to Michelle. “Sorry about that.”

  “About what?”

  “About—at the risk of ruining our doctor-patient relationship, Mrs. Mason, you do look quite nice.”

  Michelle studied her reflection in the mirrored wall by the weights. She tucked a chestnut-colored lock behind one ear to reveal her gold earring, and her red lips spread into a smile. Yes, she’d finally come back to life. If only Drew could see her. But Dr. Palmer was the one who was looking at her now, in a way that made her conscious of how close he stood.

  “You’ve never seen me dressed,” she said. Then she realized how that sounded. And worse, that it was true. He’d seen her, scars and all. Alarmed, she stepped away. “I mean, except for the hospital gown. But those days are over.”

  “Speaking of which, mind if I check your progress?”

  Michelle shrugged. A final checkup seemed like a good way to officially close the case. She smoothed her clinging wrap dress over her hip and tried to convince herself it had nothing to do with the chiseled cut of his cheekbones. She followed him to a makeshift office at the back of the room, where he laid her coat across a door resting on cement blocks. When he plucked a clipboard from a plastic crate filled with files, Michelle shook her head. “This doesn’t look much like a doctor’s office.”

  “I apologize for any inconvenience,” Dr. Palmer said. “But it’s mostly a physical therapy facility, so I spend money where it counts. If my grant comes through I’ll get a real desk, but I spend half my time at the hospital anyway.”

  The desk phone rang. He hesitated.

  “Go ahead.” Michelle wandered toward a pale blue wall lined with light boxes, then stopped at several display cases. Beneath the glass was an unusual display of hardware. She looked up as Dr. Palmer hung up and joined her.

  Michelle pointed at the middle case. “I understand the medical equipment, but what makes this rusty hook more important than a real desk? Reminds me of my son’s Captain Hook costume from Halloween.”

  Dr. Palmer chuckled. “It’s crude, but it was popular a few centuries ago. Worked better than this.” He pointed to a plastic baby doll arm attached to a sling.

  “That reminds me of a horror movie,” she said. She pointed at the shiny white tube of wires in the next case. “What’s this?”

  “That’s a prototype of the prosthetic worn by the gentleman who dropped his weights.”

  Michelle looked across the room. “Robocop?”

  “He is a cop, actually. Or was, before the shooting. The Utah 3 was an option for you as well, had we amputated.”

  Michelle hugged her arm. “Interesting work.”

  Dr. Palmer scowled. “I’m just a glorified mechanic—that’s what pays the bills. But, want to see something really neat?”

  “Neat?” she scoffed. He didn’t wait for an answer, so she followed him, weaving between the examination tables to the gurgling aquariums against the back wall. Michelle studied the mounted posters above the tanks. She recognized Aron Ralston, the mountain climber who’d cut off his arm to save his life, and a faded photo of Bethany Hamilton surfing sometime after the shark ate her arm in Hawaii. Michelle had read about them in People, but she was too uncomfortable to see their movies. She certainly never imagined having anything in common. At least she still had her arm; for that she was grateful.

  As she rounded a pad
ded table, she stubbed the toe of her boots on a heavy box. A picture of Dr. Palmer graced the cover of the books stacked inside. The photograph didn’t do his short hair and coffee-colored skin justice. She almost asked for his autograph, then remembered that she needed it elsewhere. She opened her purse for the release. It was stuck to the get well card she always carried.

  “Mrs. Mason?” Dr. Palmer beckoned her to the first tank, labeled Starfish Enterprise.

  Michelle didn’t see anything moving inside the misty glass, but the algae smelled like Tyler’s socks after a baseball game. When Dr. Palmer pointed inside, she scanned the seaweed for signs of life. Finally, she spotted a coral starfish with a missing arm. Then she spotted the stub growing from the scarred joint of the starfish. Equal parts fascinating and creepy. No, more creepy, she decided, following Dr. Palmer to the next tank. She spotted the salamander right away. There was something stuck to its side. She studied the growth until she recognized the shape: toes. She felt faint.

  Dr. Palmer’s thick forearm caught her waist just as her knees gave out. “Easy now. Little soon for high heels, isn’t it?”

  “No, but now I see why Lexi called you Dr. Frankenstein.”

  He chuckled. “More like the Reanimator. These sea creatures are just a hobby. But regeneration research is big business. Burn centers are experimenting with spray-on liquid skin cells. And the Pentagon is funding projects to benefit veterans—prosthetic arms with synthetic impulses propelled by rocket fuel.”

  “Sounds like science fiction.”

  “So does being put in a coma to save your life. Look it up—a lot of money has been spent on ‘pixie dust’ made of genetic material.”

  “From stem cells?”

  “From pigs, actually.”

  “Pigs?” Michelle smelled the clean scent of soap on his arm as he helped her to a bench.

  “It works like a cellular scaffold—a hammock for fresh growth.” He picked up her limp arm and twisted it slowly in each direction.

  “Ouch. I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do scientists, that’s why it’s such a compelling subject. I applied for a research grant to study it. That’s why I wrote the book. I thought the publicity might help win funding.”

  “No, I meant what does pixie dust have to do with me?” Michelle asked.

  He looked from her hair down to her stylish boots. “It does look a bit like someone waved a magic wand over you.”

  Michelle blushed. “Wish it could have fixed this useless arm.”

  “You think it’s useless?”

  “You’re the one who said it’s tricky. That’s why I’m here—to get you to sign off. I’m one of those people who actually does the exercises on my own.”

  “Great. But tricky doesn’t mean hopeless. We could try some alternative therapies.” Dr. Palmer reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of chocolate Kisses. “You like chocolate, right? My mama sent me these. Thirty-six Kisses for my thirty-sixth birthday.”

  “Happy birthday,” Michelle said, swooning at the scent.

  He unwrapped a Kiss and popped it in his mouth, closed his eyes, then swallowed. “Would you like one?” He unwrapped another and held it out to her limp right hand. “Oops, sorry.”

  Michelle slapped the release down on the table and snatched it with her left hand. “I think you like torturing people. Honestly, I don’t know why they didn’t just cut the damn thing off.”

  “As I recall, there was already one DOA in that crash. Maybe it was too risky.” Dr. Palmer walked over to the fish tanks. He opened a vial of fish food.

  After unwrapping the Kiss with one hand, Michelle savored the chocolate, feeling better already. “Since you have your own clinic, why aren’t you treating professional athletes? If you signed on with a football team, you could be making millions.” She followed him as he fed each creature.

  “Hard to care about football players. As soon as you fix them up they rush back out to get hurt again.” He looked across the room then lowered his voice. “Rehabilitation only goes so far. I’m more interested in regeneration. But without the research grant, I’m limited to these cold-blooded experiments.”

  Michelle looked back at the starfish. She didn’t notice his hand on her shoulder until she flinched. “You want me to be one of your experiments?”

  “The referral was to reinforce the progress you made in the hospital. But you are a viable prospect.”

  “How?”

  “Your arm was a peripheral injury to the brain trauma. No connection at all. Do you think you might have reached across to the passenger side?”

  “Maybe,” Michelle said, straining to remember. “Don’t all mothers reach out to protect the passenger?”

  “No idea,” Dr. Palmer answered. “My mama took us on the bus. But your arm is a separate injury, probably from reaching out and getting hurt during impact. Recovery might still be possible. When I touched your shoulder, you flinched.”

  “Of course I did, it’s freezing cold in here,” Michelle snapped.

  Dr. Palmer went to the next tank, but Michelle didn’t follow. He sat on the bench and tied the lace on his wingtip. Then he grasped her useless hand before she could stop him, so she had no choice but to sit down. When he kneaded her wrist, she cried out.

  “So what if I flinched?”

  “It was a muscle contraction. The nerves are atrophied, but they could regenerate.” He showed her a small electrical meter with wires connecting to a switch that resembled a medieval torture device. “The idea is to wake up your nerves. To jumpstart the natural process of rebuilding muscle.”

  “Is that one of those ab stimulators that actors use to avoid sit-ups?” Michelle asked.

  “Similar,” Dr. Palmer said. “Insurance companies don’t cover those either. It’s like cognitive therapy: we know talk can rebuild neurological pathways, but it takes years. Why not take a pill and feel better right away?”

  Michelle smiled. “Do you have a pill that will do that?”

  “No.” He poured alcohol on a swab. “Give it a test run. My treat.”

  The air filters gurgled, and the raindrops pinged against the roof. Michelle took a deep breath. She felt more comfortable here than she had anywhere else since she’d woken up. No one here knew what she’d been like before the accident. No one here cared how it happened. No one here was judging her. She felt a cocoon-like comfort just leaning against the table beside him.

  “If it works, will I be able to knit again?”

  “Doesn’t knitting require lateral supination?” He moved his hands to feign knitting, but it looked like he was dancing the Pony. He shook his head. “Probably not. But you might be able to crochet.”

  His cell phone rang, and Michelle recognized the Star Trek theme. “May the Force be with you,” she teased.

  “That’s Star Wars, not Star Trek.”

  “Oh right, much cooler.” She couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

  He turned it off. “Why is Star Trek so lame and Star Wars so cool?”

  “Special effects?”

  Michelle was tempted to brag that she lived within running distance of Spielberg Drive, the frontage road for the Motion Picture Hospital where her medical coverage maxed out a million dollars ago. Then she remembered that Spielberg didn’t direct Star Wars, he directed E.T. “Phone home” was the line from that one. She noted the electrodes on the table. She needed to phone home as well, to ask Drew about this.

  Dr. Palmer was justifying his affinity for science fiction. “In the morning, I used to get on the bus in Crenshaw, all ninety pounds of me. Then an hour later, boys from the nice neighborhood would pull me off and beat the daylights out of me. I used to close my eyes and ask Scotty to beam me up.”

  “Are you trying to tell me you were a geek?”

  He split his hand into a Vulcan peace sign. “Still am, under the lab coat.”

  “No, this is what you men don’t understand. Clothes don’t hide who you are; they show who you are. I bet tho
se little thugs are sorry now.”

  He laughed. “One of them is a mechanic at the gas station on the corner. He has to drive past here every day. My mama wanted me to autograph a book for him, too, but I said no, so she signed it herself.”

  “Your mother sounds fun,” Michelle said. Then she remembered. “I can’t even sign my own name.”

  He patted the seat beside him. “So practice. Or change your name to X.”

  “I can make a great X. And I can put on lipstick now,” Michelle said.

  Dr. Palmer rubbed her arm gently. “Good. The more you practice, the faster you’ll regain coordination.”

  “You’re assuming I was coordinated in the first place,” Michelle joked.

  “May I?” Dr. Palmer asked. When she nodded, he traced the scar on her shoulder until it disappeared under the fabric of her dress.

  She tugged the fabric higher. “Ow!”

  Dr. Palmer stood up. “You protect yourself with a thicker shell than my crustaceans.” He went back to his desk and returned with a novelty pen complete with a tiny Starship Enterprise floating in the barrel. He sat down at a table and skimmed the release form before looking up. “Look, everybody else gave up on that arm a long time ago. Not Lexi, but nurses never get the respect they deserve. Her opinion doesn’t carry a lot of weight.”

  “It does to me.”

  “That won’t be enough for the insurance company. I’ll sign the damn thing. But just so you know? I think you’re stronger than you realize.”

  Michelle thought of Drew’s second mortgage and Cathy’s Hamburger Helper and all the trouble she had caused. “People are counting on me to end this.”

  “Are you afraid it will hurt?”

  “Hurt? What’s an arm compared to—” Michelle pressed her heart. She sunk to the bench beside him. “Do you know about my daughter? That she’s missing?”

  “Yes. And when you find her, won’t it be nice to put both of your arms around her?”

  Michelle tried not to cry. “You mean if I find her?”

  Dr. Palmer laughed.

  “What’s so funny?” Michelle asked.

  “The folks who want that release signed—they’re right. The odds are against you. But they’ve been against you from the start, yet here you are. There’s no doubt in my mind that you’ll find your daughter.”