What a Mother Knows
Page 14
“I only have time for self-help: Dating after Divorce, How to Not to Screw up Your Kids Forever, that kind of thing,” Julie said. “But I sure know what you mean about needing cash.” She stood up and hung the jeans in the closet next to the shrunken Roadhouse T-shirt. “Is this what I think it is?”
“Used to be, before my mother washed it. Think it’s worth anything?”
“Maybe, but it wouldn’t look good to sell it.” Julie pointed at the loose ball of yarn that had rolled from behind the bookcase. “Care to donate that to Troop 577?”
Michelle tossed the yarn to her. It unraveled and a matchbook fell out.
Julie looked at the neon palm tree logo on the cover. “Does Nikki smoke?”
“She better not. She didn’t used to. Then again, neither did her father, or so I thought.”
Julie read the cover. “Ever hear of the Venice Bistro?”
Michelle got up and went to her room. She came back with the CD Cathy had confiscated from the boys at the baseball game. The Bistro was listed above Victor in the credits. “That’s where Noah’s band played on Sundays.”
Julie opened the matchbook and read, “‘Hello, I Love You.’ Cheesy line.”
“That’s a song title. ‘Hello. I love you; won’t you tell me your name?’” Michelle sang. “Evidently, that’s how Noah expressed himself to everyone.”
“Not very original,” Julie said.
“No, but maybe it will stop Cathy from believing all those articles about my affair with him.” She pulled herself to a stand by the bed.
“He did look a bit like Jim Morrison. Sensitive, with the long eyelashes.”
An image flashed in Michelle’s mind: Noah’s eyes were alight as he hugged her, a little too long. She remembered his hard chest against hers in a way that was disturbing. She had been lonely and he had been grateful. Did she have an affair with Noah Butler? Or was her memory playing tricks on her again? She heard Julie’s voice and shook it off.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m scared.” Michelle looked around at the mess, then back to the matchbook. “Feel like going out for a glass of wine? I bet there are lots of single men at this Venice Bistro.”
“Can it wait until tomorrow?” Julie asked. “I have a date.”
“Already?” The sound of Bella’s bark distracted her, then she heard Tyler’s voice as he came inside.
“Mom?”
They met him in the hallway. “What’s up for dinner?”
“Let’s go out,” Michelle suggested. “When’s the last time you saw the sunset over the ocean?”
Julie laughed and helped her up. “Thanks for the yarn.”
“My pleasure. Hope you get lucky tonight.”
Julie gave her back the matchbook. “You too.”
16
As they strolled down the Venice boardwalk, Michelle watched the blazing sun drop to the line where the sky met the sea. The last surfers paddled in, their dark figures aflame against the brilliant backdrop. She thought of Nikki again, still, always. Was she watching the same sunset? Or was she on a different patch of the planet, where the day was done and the stars were winking down at her?
Tyler stopped to watch a half-naked man juggle chainsaws. With his sharp profile backlit by the sun, Tyler looked so much like his father, who’d sworn that Nikki was still alive. She was desperate to believe him.
As the twilight deepened, the wind rose. Michelle looked toward the pier and spotted the Bistro. The neon palm tree on the bar sign blazed like a beacon lighting her path. She waved to her son through the dwindling crowd of tourists sorting through water pipes and handcrafted jewelry. He headed toward her, momentarily distracted by a bikini-clad model posing for a photographer in the last golden light.
Michelle pointed out the bar a few doors down. “Ever hear of that place?”
He looked over at the patio, just starting to fill up with art students dining on dollar pizza. Painted on the wall above them were the words, Break On Through Every Sunday, then the hours for the weekly Doors tribute concert.
“No,” Tyler said. “But I’m guessing you have or we could have gone straight through Topanga and stopped in Santa Monica.”
“Smarty-pants.” Michelle showed him the matches. “I found these in Nikki’s room and thought it was worth checking out.”
“Guess it’ll be more fun than stapling ‘missing’ signs to telephone poles.”
“Thanks, you’re a good kid. Your father did a good job while I was gone.”
Tyler said something that was drowned out by the hip-hop beat of a Rastafarian closing up a sunglasses booth. They waited for an elderly man to rollerblade past, then crossed the boardwalk to the Venice Bistro. On the patio, a greasy-haired hulk in a Gold’s Gym tank sat on a barstool. Tyler held back, pointing at the “You Must Be 21” sign nailed to the gate.
The bouncer squinted at her suit, then down at her legs. Michelle dug her right hand into her pocket and flashed her friendliest smile. “Hey, handsome.”
He glanced at Tyler’s face. “Does he have ID?”
“No, but neither do I,” Michelle said. “Can we use the bathroom?”
“Leave junior outside, darlin’, and you can use whatever you like.”
“Aren’t you sweet. But he’s with me.” She winked and whipped out a fifty. He opened the gate.
Inside, a Dodgers game blasted from the TV mounted up by the security camera. Michelle pointed Tyler toward the empty counter beneath it. The bartender wore only a burgundy bra beneath her leather vest, but Tyler was more intrigued by the red Cheetos she was pouring into plastic tubs. Michelle spotted a wiry old man counting receipts in the archway lined with band photos.
He gave her the once-over as she approached.
“You the owner? I’m writing an article on bands who play Doors music.”
“For real?”
“Why not?” She pointed at the photos. “Who was your most famous?”
“The Doors,” he said. “Been here a while.”
“No wonder. I’m interested in a tribute band called Roadhouse.”
He pursed his lips. “They don’t play here no more.”
“That’s too bad. You’d think they’d be more grateful.”
“Damn straight.” He cracked a roll of quarters over the change drawer.
“When they did, you ever notice a girl hanging around Noah Butler?” He chortled until he coughed a wad of phlegm. “I know, there were probably dozens. But rumor has it there was one girl in particular.” She reached in her handbag and pulled out the folded paper with her mother’s obituary on one side. She shook off the bad feeling and showed him the birthday image of Nikki with disco ball earrings.
“We don’t serve minors.”
“That so?” She pointed to Tyler, dumping his pocket change at the bar.
“He with you? Cuz I don’t want any trouble.”
“No trouble intended. I just want to know about Noah’s girl.” She put the picture back and pulled out her last fifty.
He held it up to the light, then pointed across the room where the bartender was setting a slice of pizza in front of Tyler. Michelle’s stomach cramped, but not from the greasy smell. Aside from two Hells Angels playing pool in the corner, the bartender was the only girl in sight. She didn’t look like Nikki, with that washboard belly and bleached hair, but who knew? No, Michelle knew: that was not her daughter. Tyler knew, too, or he would have called out instead of shoving the folded slice in his mouth.
Michelle burned at being taken for a fifty-dollar ride. She stepped over a mound of straw on the floor to reclaim her son, but something stuck to the red sole of her Louboutin. She wiped her heel against the metal rung of a barstool.
“You okay?” Tyler asked, wiping his mouth with his hand
The bartender handed them each a paper napkin. Michelle smiled thanks, wondering what Tyler made of her risqué outfit and the flowered tattoo winding around a skull and crossbones. The girl was too young to be a Deadhead
. Michelle looked closer at the skull tattoo. She saw the blue eyes and the inscription below: Noah R.I.P. Michelle’s mouth went dry. She turned to push her bad hand out of sight. “Thanks. I see you’ve met Tyler. I’m Michelle.”
The bartender stared at her, then looked down at the wadded straw Michelle was brushing off her heel. “Sick shoes.”
Judging from Tyler’s grin, Michelle realized that meant they were nice. Which of course they were. “Sick arm.”
“It’s called a sleeve, Mom. But don’t bother. Celeste doesn’t know Nikki.”
“Celeste. What a pretty name.” Michelle couldn’t help but kiss ass—there had to be a clue here somewhere. She studied the matchbook. “Do you have any coffee?”
“Just Kahlua,” Celeste said, eyeing the matches. “Where’d you score those?”
“Don’t you give them out?”
“Been a few years. No more smoking on the beach.” She poured the Kahlua. When Michelle put the matches down, Celeste made a grab for them.
Michelle reached for them, too, but with the wrong arm. She cried out.
Celeste nodded. “I knew that was you. Got a tweet from the Roadhouse website. You were in Beverly Hills today, right?”
Alarmed, Michelle gulped down the liquor. “Just give them back and we’ll go.” She looked at Tyler, who took his last bite and stood up. “Please?”
Celeste read the lyric inside the flap. “No way. This is Noah’s writing.”
“How do you know?” Michelle asked.
“We were tight,” she said, then turned to stack beer glasses.
Michelle shook her head for Tyler to sit back down.
“Don’t you want to go?” Tyler whispered.
Michelle lowered her voice and leaned away from the bar. “Not if we can prove her story. Do you remember when Kenny asked if Noah was Nikki’s boyfriend?”
“I get it. If he was Celeste’s boyfriend instead, then he couldn’t—”
“No, musicians aren’t known to be exclusive, honey, but it would sure make it look like he went for a different type.”
Tyler nodded. “So you wouldn’t have motive to kill him in order to protect Nikki—that’s what they’d say on CSI.”
“No one is saying that here. But this could help deflect any gossip and keep the car company on the hot seat. They might even have to pay us.”
“Could I get a car?”
Michelle smiled. Teenagers. She had forgotten how the world revolved around them. “We’ll talk about that later. For now, just act impressed, okay? Maybe Celeste knows something about Nikki.”
Tyler sat back down. “Celeste, that’s so chill that Noah was your boyfriend.”
“Don’t bullshit me, kid. Your old lady wants the matches back.”
Michelle shrugged. “I don’t believe you. Why keep it a secret?”
“No secret. I told that dude from Rolling Stone, but he just wanted to fuck me. I gave him a phony name, and he cut me from the article. Prick.”
Michelle ignored Tyler’s look. “He probably didn’t believe you, either.”
“I do,” Tyler argued.
“Oh, honey, you’ll see. People lie all the time. Even under oath.”
“Fuck you,” Celeste said. “I’m no liar.”
“She has a tattoo, Mom. What more proof do you need?”
“Anyone can get a tattoo.” Michelle pushed the glass forward for another shot of Kahlua. When Celeste refilled it, she snatched the matches back. “How do you know this is his writing?”
Her eyes flashed. “I told you—we had a thing. He wrote me a note.”
“Heard it before, Celeste.”
Celeste hesitated, then crouched down behind the bar. After a moment, she stood up and set a macramé purse on the counter. She dug inside and pulled out a rumpled cocktail napkin. She spread it out to reveal the faded handwriting. Sure enough, it matched the lyric inside the matches. But it wasn’t a love note, it was a playlist.
“Not exactly proof.” Michelle spied the small blue rectangle that had fallen from the napkin. “What’s that?”
“Just trash that fell out of his pocket when he took off his Levis.”
Tyler blushed and looked at his mother, but she was thinking about the camera she’d bought for Nikki’s birthday. She’d gift-wrapped the case with a 2 GB memory card. But the camera itself came with a test card. And that little blue piece of plastic could be it. Why would Noah have it? This was a long shot, but so was finding Celeste. “That reporter was a jerk not to believe you.”
“Crazy, right? Like I wasn’t good enough for him? Noah wasn’t one of those dudes that slept with every chick who tossed her thong on the stage.”
“Glad to hear it,” Michelle said, smiling at Tyler. “That reporter will regret it when someone pays a ton of money for your story.”
“Who would believe me?”
“Everyone, if you testify. Other reporters will be there, too. Just show up at the trial in June with that sleeve bared and tell the truth about you and Noah.”
“You could even blog about it,” Tyler said.
Celeste turned to the bar mirror. “Everybody on the Roadhouse fan site says they slept with him. Like friggin’ Jesse James. But it’s not true.”
“You have evidence,” Michelle agreed. “I’ll tell my lawyer about the napkin. But I’ll need to take the disk now.”
“No way. It’s sentimental.”
Tyler interrupted. “Give her money, Mom.”
Michelle was feeling woozy from her first alcohol in years. “Do you have any? I’m out. I’m sorry, I can’t even pay for my drinks.”
Celeste gave her the once over. “I’ll trade for your shoes.”
Horrified, Michelle looked down at her beloved black Louboutins. The memory card could turn out to be blank. But what if it wasn’t? She sat on the sticky barstool and slipped off her shoes, one by one. “Deal.”
Celeste came around the bar and offered her tattered boots in trade. Michelle shook her head. Celeste lifted her ragged jean hem and jammed her feet into the stilettos. She rose, not just in stature, but attitude. “How do they look?”
“Sick,” Michelle said, watching her beloved shoes disappear around the bar.
The straw pricked her feet and poked runs in her pantyhose that rose quickly, as if trying to escape. It was time for Michelle’s escape as well. She led Tyler out. Halfway across the room, Noah’s voice began crooning from the speakers.
Celeste shouted from behind the beer tap. “Hey, Killer Mom! Am I going to be famous?”
Michelle looked back. “I hope so!”
17
Number one hundred forty-five,” the tinny voice blared across the Department of Motor Vehicles. Michelle kneaded her pounding temple as she slouched in the second row of plastic chairs bolted to the bare cement. The good news was that her license was still valid. All she needed was a new picture and they’d replace the one that disintegrated in the accident. And despite the packed waiting areas circling the hub of clerks’ windows, the system was impressively efficient. If only the police department was as efficient with their missing person files.
Tyler bopped his head to an unknown beat over in the main waiting area. Earbuds in place, he smiled as he texted who knows what to who knows whom on his phone. Michelle wished she’d brought the book Dr. Palmer gave her at her last appointment, but she’d only grabbed the mail before rushing out. For the last hour, she had ignored her mother’s letter burning a hole in her purse by practicing her left-handed signature and programming her new phone.
There wasn’t much left to do to break the boredom. Michelle was dying to listen to Nikki’s get well card again but the voice recording was too soft to be heard over the hubbub. Michelle stood to find the ladies’ room, then saw a preppy woman from the PTA standing nearby. Michelle sat back down quickly, slumping behind the man in front of her. The last thing she wanted was to catch up with one of those moms whose kids were always on the honor roll.
“Number one hund
red seventy-six,” the Orwellian voice droned. The number on her application was 181. Michelle stretched her neck until she felt that familiar flicker of pain in her shoulder. There were no more excuses for stalling. She reached into her purse and pulled out her mother’s missive. She’d expected a long letter documenting every misspoken word, every hurt feeling, every detail of how Michelle had gone wrong years before that argument. But this envelope felt mysteriously thin. Michelle was tempted by the trash can nearby, but the suspense was unbearable. The envelope was a time bomb ticking to explode.
Michelle counted to ten in French to calm her nerves. Then she unfurled the string closure that Elyse had so thoughtfully provided, and pulled out two pages of monogrammed stationery. She studied the elegant arcs of her mother’s handwriting until the words leapt off the poisoned page.
Ma chérie,
It pains me to have left in your time of need. Mais alors, I had no choice. Perhaps if you come here to rest, I can help you through this unfortunate situation. You are not the only one who has suffered.
Mother
A round-trip e-ticket from LAX to CMH was printed on the second page. Michelle looked up toward the heavens. Recover? The only way for Michelle to recover was to get her family home. The very idea of being back at her mother’s house in Ohio and being lectured twenty-four hours a day made her more nauseous than any hangover.
“Number one hundred eighty-one,” the loudspeaker droned.
Michelle marched to the line behind the window where her number was displayed. As she waited for her paperwork, she was distracted by the ticket stuffed back in her purse. How should she respond? If only “no, thank you” would suffice. Michelle got the form and filled each box with careful marks, as if it was tangible proof that she was a person of good character, not an ungrateful daughter or bad mother or—God forbid—a murderer. Her lawyer would be pleased.
That was it! Kenny was the perfect excuse to reject her mother’s invitation. Michelle dug her phone out of her purse. It was three hours later in Ohio, so her mother would be in the studio teaching pointe to her advanced students. She found the number and hit Send. She took a deep breath while it rang, then Elyse’s voice spoke over classical music. Michelle knew exactly what to say after the beep.