What a Mother Knows

by Leslie Lehr

  Noah emerged in the doorway, fully dressed. “Later, babe,” he called back.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” Michelle cried. She pitched him the chicken. Without thinking, he caught it. Bella jumped him and he dropped the keys. Michelle snatched them.

  Nikki shrieked from the bed. Michelle kicked Nikki’s stereo. It went silent, but so did Nikki. She hid under the sheet.

  “Nikki!” Michelle shouted, but there was no response, no movement at all. Michelle tore the sheet away. She didn’t want to see if there was blood on her daughter’s thigh or tracks on her arm—but she had to be sure she was breathing.

  When the front door slammed, Michelle looked up. Nikki grabbed the covers back. Michelle reached for her. Nikki twisted and batted her away, clawing through the air with both hands. Michelle kept trying to grasp the moving targets of fingers and hair. She felt a sharp scratch on her forehead as Nikki lunged and fell out of her bed. Michelle sat on the hysterical girl, wrapping the fallen quilt around her as she writhed on the floor.

  Noah appeared, dripping rain in the doorway. “Where’s my bike?”

  “Michelle!” Kenny’s sharp voice woke her up. She looked at him, then ran her fingers across the scar on her forehead. The medics had assumed it was from the accident, and in a way, that was true. She caught her breath and clasped her hands in her lap.

  Greenburg was still questioning Dr. Braunstein. “Can you describe for us, Laura, the last time you saw your son alive?”

  “I scolded him,” she said. “He left his bowl of Lucky Charms in the sink, and he’d only eaten the marshmallow bits.” Someone chuckled, so she looked up. “I gave him a multivitamin and offered him a ride to the field on my way to work. He said no, he was staying home to study.”

  Greenburg spoke gently. “What happened next?”

  “I received a call during a gall bladder operation. Just after ten.”

  “Do you remember the exact words?”

  “There’s been an accident,” she said.

  Necks swiveled in Michelle’s direction. The heat of a hundred eyes bored into her. Kenny slipped her his handkerchief and she cried right on cue.

  Noah’s mother continued. “My first thought was of that motorcycle his father gave him for his birthday. I wanted to get rid of that two-wheeled death trap, but he threatened to move out. He was already in college, so I didn’t have much time left with him…” Her voice trailed off.

  “No, you didn’t,” Greenburg agreed. “Were you aware of any relationship between your son and the defendant’s daughter?”

  “Objection!” Kenny called. “Hearsay.”

  “Overruled,” the judge said. “Answer the question, please.”

  Noah’s mother nodded. “Yes. They brought me coffee at work. They were friends.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “His lovers tended to be more voluptuous. Like Celeste, who tended bar where his band played. He was quite aware of the advantages of being a musician.”

  Greenburg ignored chuckles from the gallery and pressed on. “Are you aware that Nicole Mason ran away after the accident?”

  “Yes. Her father was in touch after the funeral. He offered condolences.”

  “Do you have any idea why she might have run off?” Greenburg asked.

  Kenny jumped up. “Objection! Calls for speculation.”

  “I’m going to allow it,” the judge said, waving at Noah’s mother to continue.

  She considered the question. “Her mother was gravely injured. I imagine she was confused and upset.”

  “Fair enough. But be honest: don’t you hold her mother accountable?”

  “For giving my son a ride in the rain?” Noah’s mother asked.

  “Let me rephrase,” Greenburg said. “When you visit your son’s grave, do you think about how he died?”

  “I don’t visit my son’s grave.” Gasps filled the room, but she continued. “He isn’t there. There wasn’t enough left of him to bury. Do you know what it’s like to have your child vanish into thin air?”

  Michelle looked up. Yes, she thought. Yes! Kenny saw Michelle tearing up and pointed at the pad in front of her. She picked up her pen and drew circles.

  Greenburg tipped his head at Dillenger. “Your witness.”

  Dillenger tucked his watch into the pocket of his pinstriped suit and strutted to the witness stand. “If I’m not mistaken, isn’t there an eight foot tall crucifix on the roadside where Mrs. Mason’s car drove off the cliff? A memorial?”

  Noah’s mother shrugged. “That has nothing to do with my son. Noah was Jewish. And he wasn’t a rock star when he was alive.”

  Dillenger was silent for a moment. Then he held his hand to his heart. “I know I speak for everyone, Dr. Braunstein, when I tell you how sorry I am for your terrible loss. It’s especially tragic in light of his success. You don’t get a penny. In fact, according to public record, disability payments provided by the state of California were your only source of income during your leave of absence. Isn’t it true, Dr. Braunstein, that financial concerns forced you to return to work, despite the fact that you were still being treated for depression due to grief over the death of your only son?”

  “I’ll be grieving forever,” she said. “But I missed my work.”

  “You’re under oath, Dr. Braunstein. Didn’t financial concerns play a part in your decision to return to work?”

  “A part,” Dr. Braunstein admitted.

  Judge Vaughan cut in. “Let’s get to the point, counselor. It’s no secret that this plaintiff does not profit from licenses and related copyright owned by Butler Music, Inc.”

  “Thank you, Your Honor,” Dillenger said. “Dr. Braunstein, are you aware that you can obtain damages from either Michelle Mason or the Orrin Motor Company, one or the other, or both?”

  “Yes,” Dr. Braunstein answered.

  “Then isn’t it true that you are also aware that you would benefit the most from the ample resources of a Detroit automotive manufacturer? Why, you could erect a shrine to your son and top it with a solid gold Star of David!”

  Appalled spectators gasped from all sections of the gallery.

  “Objection,” Greenburg called. “Badgering the witness.”

  The judge rapped her gavel. “Sustained. Shame on you, Mr. Dillenger. Dr. Braunstein is a respected member of the community and deserves to be treated as such.”

  Dillenger bowed his head. “My apologies. In fact, you strike me as the kind of woman who could never put a price on the relationship between mother and child. Wouldn’t you agree that no amount would be sufficient for the loss of your son?”

  “Yes, I would. That’s why I’ve set up the Noah Butler Trust for the children’s shelter.”

  “Even so. A verdict against Orrin Motors would provide a generous contribution.”

  Noah’s mother rose slowly, like a tank cresting the field of battle. She aimed and fired, every word charged with ammo. “You don’t have children, do you, Mr. Dillenger?”

  “Sadly, no,” he said. “That’s why I need you to explain why, if it isn’t for the money, you would defend the very woman who drove your son to his death.”

  “I’m not defending anyone. If you want to find out if Mrs. Mason is responsible for the accident in which my son died, then you’ll have to ask her. Frankly, I don’t care why that car crashed. My son is dead. And I blame myself. If I hadn’t let him keep that damn motorcycle…” Defeated, she sat down and looked at her son’s picture on the easel. “And if by some miracle, God gave me another chance…” Her voice faltered as she finally, and for the first time, looked at Michelle. She caught her eyes and didn’t let go, pronouncing each word like a pledge. “I would do anything to protect that child.”

  The room fell silent, except for the voice in Michelle’s head. She blinked and saw nothing but white.

  A thick swirl of white, like the blanket of fog in Topanga Canyon. The road blurred between each slash of the windshield wipers. Beyond the headl
ights, there was nothing but a black hole, an abyss. It looked as if she and Noah were alone in the world, tunneling through heaven, straight down to hell.

  Static raged from the radio until Michelle slapped it off. The kid kept shouting. Now he was quoting William Blake. His argument was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was removing him from her daughter’s life. Noah jammed his demo CD into the dashboard player. The old speakers strained under the beat. He sang along. She hated this song, this rain, this boy. Michelle leaned over the steering wheel to see through the mist.

  A truck horn shattered the quiet.

  Michelle stomped on the brake. The softball banner banged against her seat back. Noah was thrown forward. He thudded against the glove compartment.

  “Didn’t your mother teach you to wear a seat belt?” she asked.

  “Leave my mother out of this.”

  Michelle nodded, but if his mother had been home, they wouldn’t be on this godforsaken road to meet his father in Malibu. Headlights blinked, then faded past. The SUV jolted, then bounced over gravel.

  Noah laughed.

  A sign flashed out of the mist. Michelle swerved. The headlights streaked across the scrubby brush and lit the jagged mountain where it dropped off, crumbled from erosion above the canyon cut by glaciers. She slowed. They couldn’t be too far from the little downtown area, with all of its stores. If she could make it that far, she could pull over at the coffee shop and wait out the storm. Her knuckles were white as she peered blindly at the fog.

  The music kept blasting: “Eyes on the road, your hands upon the wheel…” Noah sang along to his recorded voice, then shrieked with laughter.

  Michelle did as the lyric suggested and stared straight ahead. Anything to avoid the sight of his mocking grin, his bloodshot eyes, his naked body slamming into her baby girl. He cranked the volume knob up until her head throbbed with the beat. “Just wait until I talk to your father.”

  He burst into laughter again. “You kidding? He thinks I’m gay. He’ll be thrilled.”

  “About statutory rape?”

  “Any publicity is good publicity.”

  “No, it’s not, you little shit. What did you give her?”

  He sang over her—“Going to the roadhouse. We’re gonna have a real good time.” He put his hand around his mouth like a megaphone to shout between choruses. He punctuated the beat with his pelvis and added an extra line to the lyric. “Let it roll, baby roll, in Ec-sta-sy.”

  Michelle glared at him. She saw his seat belt, still hanging loose, and reached over to his lap to try and fasten it herself.

  He batted her hand away. “Like mother, like daughter, eh?”

  “You stay the hell away from Nikki!” she shouted, as the tires caught the edge of the curve.

  “You can’t protect her forever,” he said, taunting her with those long lashes and that leering grin. He was writhing now, dancing, wouldn’t sit still.

  “I can try.”

  “Fuck you, I’m out of here,” he said, opening the car door. He leaned out and lifted his leg. Michelle lunged to reach him, to pull him back in.

  The steering wheel turned without traction. The tires crunched over gravel, the bumper bounced against dirt, branches scraped and pine needles sprayed rat-a-tat like shrapnel through the white cloud. The bass note beat to a whoosh of airborne bliss, like flying. Then the air whistled. Noah screamed in perfect pitch, the key of C to silence.

  “Michelle?” Kenny asked.

  She blinked and saw him standing in front of her. He glanced at the jurors a few yards away, their faces upturned and expectant. She was on the witness stand, her legs neatly crossed at the ankle. He had promised he wouldn’t make her testify unless it was absolutely necessary. So, how did she get there? What had she said?

  “Are you all right?” Kenny asked. “According to your medical records, you suffered a traumatic brain injury in the accident, resulting in memory loss. Is that true, Mrs. Mason?”

  She heard the name, but it wasn’t hers anymore. It was a person from a past life, a stranger. She shook her head.

  Kenny exchanged concerned looks with the judge. “The defendant is obviously in a state of confusion. We may need a recess.”

  “Are you able to continue, Mrs. Mason?” the judge asked. “Speak up for the record.”

  The record? Michelle nodded along to the music, that song in her head. “Yes.”

  Kenny raised his voice. “Fine. Can you tell us anything about the events on the morning of October 8? Anything at all?”

  Could she? Michelle could barely speak, she was so tongue-tied with the truth. Could she tell him that she’d killed Noah Butler? She knew now, without question, that it was true. He had done his part by taking his seat belt off, but she was angry and she couldn’t see through the rain and they argued and he opened the door and she panicked. She had let go of the wheel to grab him. Only for a moment, but a moment was all it took. She would be led away in handcuffs to await a criminal trial.

  Michelle cleared her fuzzy throat, struggling to free herself from this straitjacket of guilt. She was ready to accept punishment. She looked at the faces of others who would pay: Kenny, who had sacrificed so much time to help her; Cathy, who splurged on a celebration steak; Drew, the father of her children—and then she saw Tyler. Her son was the most innocent among them. He would suffer most.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  The door in the back of the gallery squeaked open. When Kenny turned to look, so did everyone else in the courtroom. But it wasn’t Nikki. It was Elyse.

  Kenny turned back to Michelle and spoke slowly, carefully, so that she understood every word. “Once again. Can you explain what happened the day that Noah Butler died?”

  “No,” Michelle said. “I can’t.”

  The courtroom was still for a moment, then there was a flash of light from the back. When darkness resumed, the door was closed and Michelle’s mother was gone.

  “Michelle Mason may be liable for many things,” Kenny said as he stood before the jury box and began his closing argument. “But negligence isn’t one of them.” He glanced back at her, then faced the jurors once more. “This is a confusing case; at least, it is to me. Did the car hit a puddle of oily rainwater that caused the fatal turn? Did the seat belt stop working, or had Noah Butler failed to fasten it in the first place? How long does the owner of an automobile have to repair a potential malfunction? Why did Nicole Mason run away? Who gets all the money that Noah Butler’s songs have earned? And yet, few of those questions have anything to do with Michelle Mason.

  “My esteemed adversaries want you to believe that Mrs. Mason is a typical Hollywood player who thinks she is above the law and who wanted this young man to stay away from her daughter at any cost. They have told you that she has a family history of depression and that her daughter is, in so many words, a runaway. A video slut. They have implied that Mrs. Mason neglected her children and drove her husband away, that she enjoyed working in an environment of casual drug use, and that the tabloids are correct to call her ‘Killer Mom.’ How crazy is that? These fancy lawyers deserve their high salaries. Mr. Greenburg is helping his own family find closure. And Mr. Dillenger is legendary for his success in protecting wealthy stockholders.

  “But neither one has provided evidence proving that Michelle Mason got in that vehicle with any conscious disregard for passenger safety, nor malice aforethought, nor a history of improper driving. We have only seen evidence that her daughter was a lucky kid who got to dress up on her birthday and be in a low-budget video—a project that her mom talked her boss into making as a favor to a teenager who helped out her son’s baseball team. Turns out that Noah Butler did have talent, the kind that comes with tattooed groupies and postmortem fame. But even if Noah Butler turned out not to be so typical, Michelle Mason surely is.

  “She is a typical working mom, trying to do all the right things. The evidence presented shows that she often raced straight from work during rush hour to her son Tyler’s base
ball practice, talking to her husband long-distance when he could only find work out of town, and knitting with her daughter on the sidelines while planning the evening meal. On the day of the accident, evidence shows that her son’s baseball game was called off due to rain. It shows that Noah Butler, the assistant pitching coach, rode his motorcycle to Tyler Mason’s house. It shows that Tyler’s mom was giving him a ride to his dad’s house while it was still raining. And it shows that she nearly died doing it.

  “By some miracle, Tyler’s mom is sitting before us today, scarred inside and out. She will never forget that a young man’s life ended when he was thrown out of her car. If anyone wants to profit off this tragic accident, or fight about the particulars, so be it. Make no mistake: this is a terrible tragedy. Nobody should ever lose a child. But it’s not my client’s fault!”

  Kenny took a deep breath to collect himself, then continued. “Michelle Mason is only responsible for being a typical mother who gave another mother’s child a ride home in the rain. This could have happened to any of us. Like it says in the Bible, ‘There but for the grace of God, go I.’”

  The courtroom was quiet as Kenny’s closing words filled the room. They echoed in Michelle’s head, and she recalled when Cathy had first spoken them to her. But when she glanced behind her, Cathy looked away. Maybe Cathy hadn’t meant that it was simply bad luck. Maybe she’d meant what she had said about strangling someone. Maybe that’s what Noah’s mother meant when she said she would do anything to protect her child. And maybe the knowledge that she would do anything to protect her child was the very thing that made Michelle so typical.

  Kenny patted her hand as he sat down, but he avoided her eyes, as if it was all for show. And at that moment she realized that Cathy hadn’t bothered him with extra details for a reason. Like she’d said at the ballpark, Kenny knew exactly what he was doing.

  33

  When the jury left to deliberate, spectators strolled to the lobby as if it were a theater intermission. Kenny made Michelle wait, restless with guilt, in her seat. Greenburg and Dillenger could be heard debating tee times for the Riviera Country Club as the aisle began to clear. Noah’s father ran up to catch Becca and Victor, who were adjourning to the hotel bar across the street. Finally, Kenny escorted Michelle out of the courtroom and past gossiping fans. Reporters looked up from their handheld devices, alert for the district attorney. Kenny didn’t stop until they reached the drinking fountain. Then he stood uncomfortably close, like a human handcuff.