What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

  Michelle wandered through a tunnel of confusion into the sunlight. Back when she was a rebellious teenager, her therapist had said that getting high was an escape, a distraction from counting Elyse’s sleeping pills and checking that she was breathing. Michelle didn’t let herself off that easily; she had been lucky nothing bad happened. And apparently, she’d lost enough brain cells to believe she could make her children happy. Now it seemed she was no better of a mother than Elyse had been.

  A cold sensation startled Michelle awake. She saw bits of pink floating before her eyes and recognized her own polished toes, dangling in the dark water. She smelled coconut oil and ganja.

  “All set?” Kimo asked, kneeling beside her at the ladder to buckle a banana float around her waist. The parrot squawked. Michelle glanced up to see the captain surveying his domain. He reminded her of Dean Valentine. Maybe Nikki was selling pills. Michelle pushed the thought away and pulled her flipper on like a prophylactic. Kimo turned to calm a man who had slept through the snorkel video.

  “No worries,” Kimo said, taking a bite of a muffin. “You can still order online. Leilani takes pictures of everyone, just in case.” He turned back to help Michelle with the other flipper.

  “How can she take pictures of everyone?” Michelle asked.

  “Everyone looks the same in a snorkel mask, yah?” He winked as he stuffed the rest of the muffin in the sleeve of her bad arm. “You want a good picture? Toss this in the water when Leilani comes close.” As more snorkelers crowded the ladder, Kimo pushed her in.

  ***

  The Pacific was clammy, so Michelle peed to warm up. Other snorkelers were a kazoo hum of voices beneath the surface, with the occasional toot as they converged on each glorious anchovy. Michelle kicked slowly over the mile-wide crater of igneous rock. A draft of warm water reminded Michelle of the lava vents below. She wondered whether this volcano was dormant or dead, how close she was to hell.

  Above the surface, someone cranked the stereo until the tinkling ukulele tune gave way to Jimmy Buffet. Floating on her back, she could see Kimo’s brawny arm pointing at another pirate to prep the galley for lunch. A loud splash interrupted the chorus of “Margaritaville.” When Leilani floated her camera around from the other side of the boat, a dozen pairs of flippers turned and kicked like a school of barracudas. Those treading water adjusted their masks.

  Leilani dove down deep to begin photographing the snorkelers. The white stripes glowing from the sides of her uniform wetsuit made her easy to track. The light attached to her camera shined a deep dusty path, like a searchlight exploring the Titanic. Twenty yards away, at the crusty lip of the crater, Leilani waved for paying customers to paddle by. Bubbles escaping from her ventilator rose directly above the red beam of the Record light.

  Michelle kicked in circles above the others until her gums were sore from biting the mouthpiece. Far below, between the rocks, a long gray shadow rippled in the sand. Michelle didn’t care if it was a shark or an eel or an octopus. She dove under, to the end of the picture parade. She was determined to make this special, not only to get it on the website, but also enough for Nikki to notice. Didn’t all artists look in on their work? Michelle liked thinking of Nikki as an artist. It was so much nicer than thinking of her as a drug dealer.

  Michelle kicked to stay upright and ripped off her mask. Then she pulled the sodden muffin from her right sleeve. An angelfish flitted across the expanse, then a flurry of fish surrounded her in a cloud of silver scales. A bright light glowed. Michelle held her clenched hand up like the Statue of Liberty with her torch. She kept kicking and opened her eyes. The strobe light flashed.

  All was golden.

  After a moment, Leilani kicked a cloud of bubbles between them. Michelle unclenched her hand. The fish turned and swished past, slicing the flesh of her wrist. Wisps of blood trailed as she swam up to the surface.

  She floated in the amniotic sea, drifting over the depths. The sound of her breath eased until it matched the rhythm of her chest: up and down and easy. She felt Nikki’s presence, lurking like the fish so many fathoms below.

  When the whistle blew, a snorkeler burst through the surface nearby. Another joined him and paddled past. Michelle flipped over and treaded water long enough to catch her breath. She heard music playing and smelled burgers grilling, as if it were just another day in paradise. She took one more look around, then kicked slowly toward the boat, her salty tears mixing with the sting of seawater.

  Michelle didn’t care what Nikki had done. She would do anything to let her daughter know she was here, that she would always be here, that she would never stop looking.

  24

  The airport shuttle driver shouted Michelle’s name as they jostled over the speed bumps on her street. The red-eye flight from Hawaii had been just as rough, so she hadn’t slept much. The morning sun was so harsh that the houses looked like paper cutouts, with colors just as flat. They reminded Michelle of a movie she’d worked on when they shot “night for day.” The location was only available after dark, so they blasted it with arc lights to make it look as if the sun were shining. Michelle peered out of the van window at her own house with the same sense of unreality.

  “Is this it?” the driver asked, as he pulled to the curb. The new grass was lush and the flowerbeds were lined with pink impatiens, as if Victor’s set decorator had been there. It looked so picture perfect that Michelle imagined walking up the cobblestone path, opening the freshly painted door, and finding nothing but sawdust behind it. When she realized that the old picket fence had been replaced with a perfect border of lacey white alyssum, she regretted her doubts about Drew.

  Then she saw the For Sale sign.

  Michelle shook her head to wake up. She knew she wasn’t dreaming from the way her skin itched, from her sunburned shoulders down to the bandage wrapping her badly cut wrist. She rose stiffly after the long shuttle ride and lugged her carry-on down the stairs. Then she noticed that the porch mailbox had been scrubbed clean—not only of cobwebs, but also of the gold letters that spelled out Mason. A thick realtor’s padlock hung from the door handle.

  The other remaining shuttle passengers stared out the window at the realtor’s sign; their questions filled the air. “How much are you asking?” called one. “How’s the market?” asked another. “When are you moving?”

  Michelle dug out her phone and pressed the On button, but it didn’t light up. She pressed it again. Nothing. She moaned. “You okay, lady?” the driver called out.

  “Jet lag,” she said. The driver pulled the crank and the door squeaked shut. Michelle turned and watched the van drive out of sight. Then she left her suitcase and ran across the street down to Julie’s house. She rushed past the BMW in the driveway and pounded on the door until her arm hurt. Then she kicked it. “Julie!”

  Just as Michelle was about to give up, the door opened a few inches. Julie peeked out and took one look at Michelle’s face. “Oh my god. You didn’t know?”

  “How could I know?” Michelle exclaimed. “My husband never answers the phone!” Then she remembered that she had turned her ringer off to avoid him. “Can I borrow your phone? I think my battery is dead.”

  Julie tied her silk bathrobe and ushered Michelle inside, where Sade’s sultry voice wafted from the stereo. Michelle put her phone down on the whitewashed front table. “Can you believe this? All that landscaping was for curb appeal.”

  “Honey?” a man’s voice called.

  “Be right there!” Julie called, looking around for her purse. Michelle took it all in now: the seduction music on the stereo, Julie’s tapered nails tying the sash of her silken robe, the mascara smeared beneath her blowsy eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know you had company. Wait, isn’t it ten o’clock in the morning here?”

  Julie whispered. “Exactly. The kids are in school—it’s perfect.” She hurried down the hall to the bedroom door and opened it. Michelle heard a man’s murmur. Then Julie reappeared with her cell phone in hand.

 
Michelle took the phone and stared at it. “I’m blanking on Drew’s number.”

  Julie took the phone. “I have it for emergencies.” She found it, clicked Send, and handed the phone back. “Want coffee? Let me get rid of my…”

  “Friend?” Michelle asked. “Coffee would be great, but I don’t want to intrude.” Michelle waited for the call to go through. She prayed for a live voice to answer, then, miracle of miracles, one did.

  “Hello?” The music couldn’t hide the high pitch of a woman.

  Michelle pressed the phone to her chest, as if to stall a heart attack. She looked at Julie as she returned. “A woman answered!”

  Julie cringed.

  Michelle put the phone back up to her ear. “Good morning,” she said in a voice so sharp it cut through any pleasantry. There was a scuffling on the other end, then she heard Drew swearing. “Drew? Who was that? And what the—”

  “Calm down, honey,” Drew said.

  Michelle stepped outside, away from the stereo. “Calm down? There’s a For Sale sign in my yard! Who was that bimbo answering your phone? The realtor?” She marched past the BMW in the driveway, down the shady sidewalk and across the street, where she was momentarily blinded by the sun’s glare. A car horn honked, then tires squealed around her on the asphalt. A jogger stopped on the sidewalk. Michelle was too intent to notice.

  “The sign isn’t supposed to be up yet. I tried to reach you yesterday to talk about it.”

  “About what, exactly? The house or the bimbo?”

  “She’s not a—you, of all people, used to bitch about how more women should get hired for production jobs. I finally hire a woman and—would you rather get my voice mail? She was doing me a favor. We’ve got enough problems as it is, Michelle; let’s not start making up new ones.”

  “Fine,” Michelle said, walking up the path through the front yard. “Let’s start with the house. How can you sell it without my approval? Is that even legal?”

  “Yes. I still have your power of attorney. And if you insist on staying in LA after the trial, we’ll get you a smaller place.”

  “You’re missing the point. How can Nikki come home if there’s no home to come to?”

  “She’s not coming home,” Drew said. “Stop talking crazy.”

  “Crazy? You have me mixed up with my mother.” She was about to tell him that she’d found Nikki, then she realized she hadn’t. She’d found a cold trail, littered with trouble. She took a breath and changed the subject.

  “How is Tyler doing with midterms?”

  “Not as well as he should be,” Drew said. “He’ll call you after basketball practice. The key to the lockbox is under the mat. I need you to find the home improvement records. The real estate agent needs to know when we put in the copper plumbing before the open house. And get some rest, will you?”

  Michelle hung up. She dragged her rolling bag up to the door, then stooped to lift up the new welcome mat. Welcome, indeed. She was still struggling with the lockbox when Julie arrived with a steaming UCLA mug. A voice trilled from the pocket of her warm-up jacket. “Bonjour.”

  Julie pulled Michelle’s phone out. “Your battery was locked.”

  “Michelle, is that you?” Elyse’s voice called out from the speakerphone. Julie clicked the speaker off and gave her the phone before opening the door.

  “Yes, Mother, it’s me.” Michelle walked inside and looked through the French doors. Sure enough, the backyard had been beautified as well, with fresh sod and flowering bougainvillea climbing every fence.

  “Comment tu vas?” Elyse asked on the phone.

  “Ça vas mal, Mother. Drew put the house up for sale. Not only that, but when I called him, a woman answered!”

  Elyse sighed. “Je tel l’ai dit.”

  Michelle hung up and glared at the phone. She should have known not to confide in her mother.

  Julie rolled Michelle’s suitcase inside. “What did she say?”

  “She said ‘I told you so.’ In French.”

  “About Drew, you mean?” She handed Michelle the coffee. “That’s her own history talking. I know things weren’t all rosy between you before the accident—we’d shared enough Chardonnay to be honest. But Drew’s not the kind of guy who sleeps around.”

  “How do you know?” Michelle looked at her friend, with her makeup smeared, her honey-colored hair a mess, and her obvious lack of a brassiere.

  Julie zipped her warm-up jacket higher. “I married that kind. Don’t give up on your marriage. Divorce sucks.”

  Michelle pointed at the bruise on Julie’s neck. “I can see that. Tyler had a hickey like that before he left for New York. Are you reliving your teenage years?”

  “Me? I spent prom night at a Jane Austen convention,” Julie said. She pushed Michelle’s hand away, noting the bandage. “You didn’t try anything stupid, did you?”

  “I didn’t slit my wrist, if that’s what you mean.” She looked at the wall of shelves, full of books and photo albums and audiotape boxes. She spotted the row of files and figured she might as well find the records Drew wanted and be done with it. She set her coffee on the shelf and pulled out a file of old tax receipts. She couldn’t stuff it back into the narrow space, so she pulled it all the way out. Since there was no longer a couch nearby or even a coffee table, she simply dropped it to the floor. She pulled out another file, far enough to read the word Furniture, then dropped that one too.

  Concerned, Julie took the coffee over to the dining room table. “What are you looking for? Can I help?”

  “No, I’ve got it,” Michelle said. Then she pulled out the next one and the next one and the next one, flinging them behind her until papers wafted through the air like giant snowflakes.

  Julie watched, horrified.

  Michelle turned and saw the mounds of tax forms and receipts and warranties. Her laugh was pinched. “On the bright side, I could leave it this way for the open house.”

  Julie tried to pick up a few papers and gave up. “I think you’d better cancel the open house. Maybe you should sit down. Can I get you something?”

  Michelle’s heart felt like it was going to escape from her chest. She clutched it and began to hyperventilate. She sunk to the floor.

  Julie put her hand on Michelle’s shoulder. “Breathe, okay? I think you’re having a panic attack. I’m going to call Lexi. Do you have her number?”

  Michelle nodded and pointed at her phone that had landed on the far side of the pile. Julie tiptoed between shiny strips of plastic running like worms across the mess, and looked up with a puzzled expression.

  “Go ahead and step on it,” Michelle said. “It’s just old audiotape.”

  “Okay. Stay there and try to relax.” Julie took the phone to the kitchen to make the call.

  Michelle pulled a ribbon of audiotape from the spool that had fallen from a flat box labeled Cricketsong. She wondered if Drew needed this collection, whether she should rewind the tape and put the reels away. Michelle was afraid to call him to ask. If a woman answered, even a work associate, Michelle would feel like an idiot. It was sad how far they had drifted apart. He used to rig microphones under the eaves of the back porch to record the loud calling sounds, followed by quiet courting sounds of wings rubbing together. On warm nights, they would sit outside and share a bottle of wine until the concert began. Those days were but a distant memory now. She tossed the spool on the pile.

  Julie returned and took the UCLA coffee cup.

  “Hey!” Michelle said.

  “Lexi said no coffee. She’s busy today but wants to meet you in the morning. You can have coffee then. Right now, she suggested that you switch to water and get some sleep.” She helped Michelle up.

  “Fine, but it would be nice to make a little headway here. A lot of this is trash.”

  “I can help for a bit.” She studied Michelle with concern. “You look a little better. Or that could be the suntan.”

  Michelle shrugged. “Did I mention that a man was following me in Maui?�
��

  “No, but I’m not surprised. Were you wearing a bikini?”

  Michelle couldn’t help but laugh. “Thanks. You’re a good friend.”

  “Seriously, if a pro was following you, he wouldn’t have let you see him, right? Did you tell Drew about being followed?”

  “No, he already wants me to stay with my mother. For a guy who wants to sell the house right out from under me, he’s a bit overprotective.”

  “Maybe you do need protection.”

  Michelle felt a wave of jet lag as she surveyed the mess. “What I need is a shower.”

  ***

  Under the streaming hot water, Michelle relaxed. She grabbed the support bar and leaned against the tile. She closed her eyes. For a moment, she let it all wash over her as if she were back in her liquid coma dreams. That was tempting, a bit too tempting. She could fall asleep standing up if she wasn’t careful. She cranked the spigot to cold.

  When Michelle stepped out of the shower, the cuts on her wrist resembled a bright pink bracelet of broken skin. She pinned her towel with an elbow and yanked open a drawer in search of ointment. The whole drawer came out and crashed to the floor. It was empty, except for toothpaste and sunblock. She picked up the drawer, but couldn’t quite fit it back into the opening with one hand, so she swung it up to the counter. A scrap of tin foil flashed from the corner joint. Michelle felt a wave of déjà vu as she stood there dripping wet, just as she had on another day, the day she first found that folded square of foil, like the kind that held cocaine.

  Michelle shook the foil in Nikki’s face. “Why do you have this?”

  “It’s pretty. Can I go now? I have homework.”

  Michelle wanted to believe her daughter, but Nikki had already lied about her algebra grade and her eyes were bloodshot. Maybe she was just tired, like Michelle. Tyler’s game had gone an extra inning and there were pork chops to bake. Michelle’s head pounded, so she reached for the Tylenol in the cabinet. “Go ahead.”