by Leslie Lehr
Michelle nodded. If only she could forget his whisper. Murderer.
Noah’s mother continued to reminisce. “He was always too quiet for his father. Preferred writing songs to surfing. When he was small, he played Little League while I studied for my boards, but he wasn’t very competitive. Later, he got in a little trouble—like most boys do—and had to perform community service. His father accepted no responsibility, naturally, so Noah served his hours helping the League and stayed with me most of the time. He didn’t feel comfortable at his dad’s beach house once the new girlfriend moved in, regardless. Guy called him a mama’s boy. So what if he was?”
She looked closely at the photo then pointed at the shadow of a scar by the cleft in Noah’s chin. “That’s from carving turkeys on Thanksgiving. Every year we volunteered at the Dinner for the Homeless at the Santa Monica Civic. He loved handing out cookies to the children. But that last year he was old enough to work in the kitchen. My sweet vegetarian was assigned to carve turkeys and he didn’t say boo. By the time we got home for our own dinner, all he wanted was Lucky Charms.”
Michelle perked up. She remembered the leprechaun T-shirt in Nikki’s room. The two had marshmallow bits in common. That and the fact that they were both artistic—misfits to most kids their age. What did Tyler call his sister? A loser. Perhaps the video had changed that for both of them.
“He ate Lucky Charms for dinner when I worked nights, as well. I made him take a vitamin, but…” She tugged her stethoscope strap. “You just want their lives to be easier, you know?”
Michelle nodded. She knew very well.
“He wasn’t serious about the band until his first semester at UCLA. I suppose I should thank you for making his dreams come true.”
Michelle couldn’t bear it anymore. “Did he have many girlfriends?”
Dr. Braunstein smiled at some private joke. “His father thought he was gay. That’s why he bought the damned motorcycle.”
“I’m sorry, I’m confused. I have a daughter named Nicole, who…I don’t know what you’ve heard, but they knew each other. Did he ever mention a Nikki?”
“Nice girl,” Dr. Braunstein said.
Michelle looked up. “You met her?”
“They brought me coffee. Noah was no saint, don’t get me wrong. He had plenty of girlfriends.” She looked directly at Michelle. “But I know what you’re asking. Nikki was the only girl he ever brought here. He wanted me to like her. And I did.”
Michelle felt goose bumps. “You must hate me.”
“No. I feel sorry for you.”
Michelle tried to breathe. Anger would have been easier to deal with. “What about the lawsuit?”
“Peter Greenburg is my ex’s half-brother. I plan to donate my share to a worthy cause. It took two Valiums to get through my deposition. Guy hired a publicist to cover the funeral. Can you imagine?”
Michelle was horrified, but not surprised. “Your son was very talented.”
“It was only a matter of time until he left home,” Dr. Braunstein mused. “The stack of apartment listings in his room was growing as high as the stack of songs he had written. If it wasn’t your video, it would have been something else.” Dr. Braunstein looked at the acoustical tiles on the ceiling.
Michelle imagined all the words left unsaid and felt grateful for every one.
The phone buzzed. Michelle waited for a chance to make a polite exit while Dr. Braunstein spoke to the caller. “Water is fine, but no food after midnight.” When she looked up, her face was blank. She was done being Noah’s mother for now. She had closed the door to her personal life and returned to the safe haven of work.
Michelle was envious, but only for a moment. “Thank you for seeing me.”
The nurse opened the door and stood waiting. Dr. Braunstein opened her drawer and rustled about before retrieving a notepad. She rose and put her hand on Michelle’s arm on her way out. “I hope you find her.”
As Michelle watched her go, her eyes fell on the photograph of Noah pinned to the board. She called out. “Do you want Noah’s motorcycle? It’s still in my garage.”
Dr. Braunstein turned back, her face red with rage. “Keep it or junk it, I don’t care. Just don’t let Guy get his greedy hands on it. With all the gruesome injuries I see in the emergency room, I begged him not to buy it for Noah. I know you stopped him from riding in the rain. But if it weren’t for that two-wheeled death trap, my son would still be alive.”
The nurse spoke up from the hall. “Dr. Braunstein?”
Noah’s mother opened her mouth to say more, but only slapped her notepad against the doorframe. Then she disappeared from sight.
Michelle trembled. Now, every time Dr. Braunstein looked at her bulletin board, she would see that gleaming Harley and be reminded, not of how handsome her son was, but why he was in Michelle’s car in the first place. She had to cut that part off. She scanned the desk for scissors. No luck. The side drawer was ajar, so she glanced at the empty hall outside the door, then went around and pulled it open. A postcard caught her eye.
Two sea turtles swam underwater across the glossy rectangle. They had emerald shells and enormous flippers, like the ones in Maui where Michelle bought the magnet that was on her refrigerator. She turned the card over. Sure enough, the print in the corner read: Turtle Town, Maui, Hawaii.
The postmark was smeared. Michelle’s eyes automatically dropped to the handwritten message. It was written in purple ink, with small circles dotting the i’s. Michelle’s breath caught. Nikki had used purple ink ever since she had graduated from pencils. Once upon a time, she made happy faces in those circles, or flower petals outside. But these letters were tiny and unadorned, like whispers between the white space.
Forget the fakes from Australia; there was a real postcard after all. It just hadn’t been sent to Michelle. She looked up. No one was coming just yet, but she couldn’t risk taking the time to get out her glasses. She squinted to read the first lines:
We chased our pleasures here, dug our treasures there,
But can you still recall, the time we cried…
There was a rap on the doorframe. Michelle shut the drawer. She made a show of clutching her arm as the nurse bored down. “Can I help you?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“I hope so! Do you have scissors? The picture I brought for Dr. Braunstein has a motorcycle in it.” Michelle pointed at the bulletin board. “She hates motorcycles.”
“Most doctors do,” the nurse said, unpinning the photograph. “We have scissors at the nurse’s station.”
Michelle followed the nurse out of the office, tempted to run back and read the rest. She was desperate to know when it had arrived.
She saw Dr. Braunstein turn the other corner. She ran after her to the operating room and peered through the small window. Doctors and nurses looked up. “Dr. Braunstein?” Michelle called. She felt a clamp on her arm. A security guard steered her back to the front, where the nurse who cut the photograph gave her the bottom half with the Harley on it. Michelle stuffed it in her purse as she was escorted to the elevator.
***
The rain had ebbed and the sky was bright when Michelle emerged from the hospital. Cathy’s minivan was already parked in front. She pushed the door open for Michelle. “Howdy,” she said, her cheeks flushed with anger below her dark shades.
Michelle hesitated. “Has it been more than an hour?”
“No, but it’s been plenty long enough to figure out that Dr. Braunstein is not offering a consultation. Not about your health, anyway.” She held up the Palmer Clinic card with Dr. Braunstein’s name and address.
“Sorry, I must have dropped that.”
“Sorry you dropped it, or sorry you lied to me?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, it doesn’t, thank you very much. Either way, you counted on me to be stupid, to forget Noah’s mother is a doctor. And you were right: I am stupid. Stupid to have trusted you. You’ve changed, Michelle. You used to screw up the team
snack, but you were never a liar.”
Michelle rubbed her bad arm. It had become a habit whenever she felt uncomfortable. “Please don’t tell Kenny.”
“I don’t keep secrets from my husband.” A shaft of errant sun through the skylight struck the sparkling F on the temple of Cathy’s new sunglasses.
“So you’ll tell him what you paid for the Fendi sunglasses?”
“They’re knock-offs,” Cathy said, avoiding her gaze.
“I may be a bit fuzzy, my friend, but I remember the difference between Swarovski crystal and glass beads. At least three hundred dollars.”
Cathy shifted the minivan into gear and headed home. “Like the fine for taking a minor to a bar. A dive bar, no less.”
Michelle looked at Cathy. “How do you know about that?”
“Boys will be boys, Michelle. Tyler bragged to Cody about playing detective, and now Cody thinks you’re a cool mom. If Kenny finds out the case is compromised, he’ll be livid. And it won’t help you to be hanging around with that tacky divorcée neighbor of yours who struts around with her tits hanging out. Your reputation matters.”
Michelle had to let the attack on Julie slide. “Why do you think I asked you for a ride? I didn’t want to involve Tyler any more than I needed to.”
“Michelle, it’s common sense to avoid talking to someone who is suing you.”
“That’s her ex’s doing.”
“I don’t care. She could use this little visit as proof that you feel responsible!”
“Cathy, if Cody died in my car, wouldn’t you want to know that I was truly, eternally sorry?”
“Sure,” Cathy said. “Then I’d strangle you.”
Michelle shivered and let it go. She tried to recall the rest of the lyrics to that song on the postcard. Cathy interrupted. “So what did Noah’s mother say?”
Michelle tried to push the postcard out of her mind for a moment. “She told me about her son. She did say he helped the baseball team for community service. Do you know anything about that?”
“I meant what did she say about the case?”
“Not much.”
“Good,” Cathy said. “Because I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to tell my husband about this.”
“I thought you didn’t keep secrets.”
“These aren’t secrets, Michelle, just extra details he doesn’t need to worry about. He’s got enough on his plate. And I don’t mean Hamburger Helper. We’ll just keep this little trip—and the price of my sunglasses—between us.” She pulled the glasses off her head and shook them at Michelle. “But do not make contact with Noah’s mother again unless your lawyer is present. Do you understand?”
Michelle didn’t answer. She needed to ask Dr. Braunstein about the postcard.
“I’m serious. Promise you won’t breathe word of this to anyone, ever! You could have a mistrial. I won’t let Kenny start over. And since you’re as broke as we are, you’ll get some court-appointed attorney, some green kid who crammed for the bar exam listening to Roadhouse on his iPod. So, if anyone asks, we were out grocery shopping today—which we are, because I need some Chardonnay. Promise?”
Michelle nodded. Cathy had a point. Besides, Michelle could only make things worse by telling Dr. Braunstein she’d seen the postcard while searching through her drawer. Michelle raised her right hand, a tiny bit. The effort burned. “I promise.”
Cathy eyed her arm. “Crap. I was going to ask you to stop physical therapy, too, but it looks like you’ve had a breakthrough.”
Something clicked in Michelle’s mind. “Break on Through,” that was the song. Doors lyrics. Noah expressed himself in Doors lyrics and Nikki had picked up the habit. Michelle closed her eyes to remember the words.
At the next light, Cathy called in an excuse for missing the school meeting.
Michelle got out her new phone and turned toward the passenger window to try the voice command feature. She whispered the song title.
“Excuse me?” Cathy asked.
“Nothing,” Michelle said, reading the rest of the lyrics on the screen.
Tried to run, tried to hide.
Break on through to the other side.
Everybody loves my baby.
The “other side” surely meant death, Michelle surmised. If this was meant as a condolence card, the song was a good choice. Wings of panic fluttered in Michelle’s chest. Nikki didn’t know about Elyse’s history, but she’d studied Romeo and Juliet in English class, and Juliet was only thirteen when she’d killed herself.
Michelle read the lyrics again and relaxed at the last line. Everybody did love Dr. Braunstein’s baby; according to Tyler, Noah had fans around the world. Why else would Victor be making a documentary? Nikki sent the card to Noah’s mother, confessing that she loved him, too. That would mean more to Noah’s mother than adulation from strangers. And it explained why Dr. Braunstein saved the postcard.
Michelle looked at the traffic. So many people! She was grateful that Nikki wasn’t famous, that not everybody loved her baby. Drew and Tyler and Elyse did. But no one loved Nikki as much as Michelle. Every cell in her body ached with it. She didn’t need to ask Dr. Braunstein about the postcard. The important thing was that it was written by her daughter. And at some point in the last eighteen months, Nikki had been in Maui.
Cathy hung up the phone and drove toward the grocery store.
“They really are stunning glasses,” Michelle said.
“So we have a deal?” Cathy asked.
“Of course,” Michelle said warmly. Cathy had given her the perfect alibi. Michelle would cooperate fully. She would smile and shop and go home.
Then she would go to Hawaii.
21
A landscaper’s truck was parked at the curb when Cathy dropped Michelle off at home. She tightened her grip on the grocery bag and tiptoed around the muddy clumps of weeds splattered on the driveway next to the fresh-tilled soil. But something else was different. By the time she smelled the fertilizer around the pruned roses lining the porch, she knew: the picket fence was gone.
Pounding noise came from around back. Michelle headed around the side of the house, where the faint marks of graffiti could still be seen beneath a coat of fresh paint. She held her breath past the trash cans and Bella’s travel crate, then circled around back. Across the muddy yard, workmen were tearing down the rickety trellis. Someone coughed. Michelle saw Tyler’s open window. “Tyler? You getting sick?”
She shrugged off the silence and congratulated herself for splurging on the chicken soup cans with easy pull-off tabs, then headed back to the front porch. The door had been sanded in stripes. She balanced the bag on her knee, turned the knob, and nudged the door open with her hip. It swung open so quickly that her heel caught on the threshold. Michelle lost her balance and fell, her groceries spilling across plastic sheeting on the floor.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway, then Tyler appeared, his laptop still open in his arms. He helped her up. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Nice to see we’re getting the house in shape.”
“Painters, too. There were six men until an hour ago—and the guys outside only stopped for a few minutes when it rained.”
“You were home all day? But I left you the car to go to the pier.”
“I couldn’t find the keys and Cody’s truck is in the shop.” He spotted the keys on the floor by an apple.
“Oops,” Michelle said. “Guess they were in my purse when I left. Sorry.”
“It’s cool, the Internet guy finally came.”
Michelle picked up a soup can and carried it to the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes from Tyler’s day at home. Before she could complain, he picked up a small blue plastic plate decorated with a baseball and large D. “Look, I found my Dodgers plate,” he said.
Michelle smiled, remembering. “You used to refuse to eat from anything else.”
“Crazy, huh?” He pulled his inhaler from his back pocket, shook it and pressed it to his lips.
Tyler put up his palm for her to wait. When he exhaled, his words came out in a rush. “I could stay at Cody’s. His mom’s making lasagna.”
“His mother has already been generous today. I was thinking of a hotel.”
“Cool. I heard the Hilton Courtyard across from the Commons has Wi-Fi and a breakfast buffet. All you can eat,” he added, picking up another can.
“Sounds yummy, but I was thinking of somewhere more special. Like Hawaii.”
“Yeah, right.” Tyler laughed and crossed the hall to retrieve a cereal box. “What’s with the Lucky Charms? You used to only buy whole grain.”
“Couldn’t resist,” Michelle said. “Why don’t you put the rest of these things in the kitchen while I talk to your dad? Can I use your phone to call him?”
“To invite him to Hawaii? Don’t bother.”
“Why not?” Michelle asked. “I bet he could use a vacation.”
Tyler shook his head. A pained look crossed his face.
“What’s wrong, Tyler?”
He shrugged. “Nothing.”
“Look, if your father can’t get away, we’ll go without him. Phone, please?”
“Is your battery dead?” he asked.
“No, but he doesn’t always pick up for me.”
Tyler stood still for a moment. “I don’t want to get in the middle of this.”
“It’s not a fight, honey. Your father is probably just sick of bad news. But this is good news, I promise.”
Tyler reluctantly handed over his phone. Michelle kissed his cheek, took the phone to her bedroom, and kicked off her heels.
“Yo, dude,” Drew said. Horns honked in the background.
“Mama dude here,” Michelle said. “I have a question.”
“Can it wait?”
“It’s not about our argument when I was at the DMV.” She heard him shush the people around him. A crowd of people. “Are you shooting?”
“No, just wrapped. Want to say hello? You remember my assistant, Travis?”
