Little Black Lies (21 page)

T
his is all we got,” the woman says, handing me a dark-green file folder. She is an overweight woman with big, gold hoop earrings and a shirt revealing impressive cleavage that's hard not to stare at, even as a heterosexual female. It makes me think back to a Get Your First Job seminar at college, where the PowerPoint bullet point admonished us to “play up your attributes!” Though it is doubtful this is what they had in mind.

“Thank you,” I say, signing a form and leaving her a credit card and driver's license for the privilege of taking the folder to a cubby five feet away. But I have waited over an hour in this overheated room that smells of new carpet, discussing my admittedly complex situation with the above-mentioned amply cleavaged woman, along with a manager and supervisor, before establishing that I should be allowed access to the folder. The clerk and manager were still refusing with polite bureaucratic rudeness when the supervisor actually remembered the case, got a human look in her eye, and made the decision to let me see it. At that point, I would have given my firstborn to have a glance at that thing.

I scoot out a gray plastic chair under the gray Formica table. Along with the gray walls and the new gray carpet, it seems the interior designer of the Syracuse City Court had hopes this room would just disappear. I take a deep breath and open the file.

A picture of my mom jumps out on the top of the pile, from the crime scene. She is a beautiful woman, more beautiful than I would have remembered, wearing a light pink dress with a mauve orchid design, now stained mostly red with blood. There is a lot of blood on the robin's-egg-blue wall, seeped into the oriental carpet. Her eyes are Sofia Vallano–blue and clouded over.

Underneath is a picture of Sofia, from the crime scene as well. Age fourteen, looking both scared and matricidal, pale, skinny, her hair dyed black, and black nail polish dotting her fingers. And then there is a picture of Jack, impossibly young, with his sandy red hair, freckles on his face dark as dirt, his eye already swollen shut. There is even a photo taken of me, little Tanya, my face red from crying. I could be straight out of central casting for Little Orphan Annie with my pudgy, freckled, round face and smeared cheeks.

Also included in the file is my real original birth certificate (not the reissue that I have from my parents after the name change), a picture of my mother, alive, from her passport photo. She wears a mysterious smile that reminds me of Sofia.

There are just those few items from the night of the murder. The supervisor explained that most of the information and evidence surrounding the crime is in a separate unit in Albany. So it will be a separate trip and a separate fight, a separate gray room with a separate gatekeeper, to get a glimpse of that file.

Most of the papers in the forest-green folder start with my post-Tanya life. I piece together the story from the faded copies.

My adoptive mother was a social worker at New Horizons, an agency that worked with Sofia Vallano on her drug addiction and truancy issues, though my mom was not the direct worker on the case. After the murder, a search for suitable family members to care for Jack and me was carried out, and it was established that my biological father, James Vallano, a homeless alcoholic, was not fit for this role. There were also no available grandparents, as James Vallano's mother was dead and father in prison and both of Annette Vallano's parents were deceased. Jack was sent into foster care, and my parents petitioned to be my foster parents. An application was made for formal adoption as soon as legally allowed, followed by a speedy name change. Then we moved to Buffalo, and the trail goes cold.

I flip through the file one more time to establish that I've seen it all, which I have, and I hand back the folder and am returned my ID and credit card.

“Can I make a copy of the paperwork?” I ask.

The supervisor overhears from her computer and answers without looking up. “You need a 104-app for that. Tayisha, go get her a 104-app, please.” Tayisha complies, but I can tell she's none too pleased at being bossed around by her, well, boss, and her days at the Syracuse City Court are numbered. I take the application, which is a good twenty pages and more complicated than my college calculus final.

“Okay, then, thank you,” I say, putting on my heavy wool coat and gathering my crutches. Time to leave the gray room. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” they answer in unison, neither looking up from her computer screen.

I find my car easily in the nearly empty parking lot. The Steri-Strips on my neck are itchy, peeling, and nearly off at this point. I drive the snowy, boring highway home with Karin for company, filled with sadness and relief.

It is over. No fire. No Beth Winters. No Beth Summers. Just Annette Vallano, James Vallano, and my brother and sister, Jack and Sofia. A do-good social worker turned mom: my real mother. And a new life for Zoe Goldman. The riddle is solved; there's nothing left to see here, folks.

Time to put my obsession away.

D
o you feel better now that you know the whole story?” Sam asks.

I am back on Sam's couch. Gone is the uncomfortable, stiff, brown one, however, and a cushiony blue couch is in its place. “I feel worse, actually.”

Sam nods. “Watch what you wish for.”

“Something like that. Can't argue with the truth, though,” I say, stretching out my legs on the new couch. “The truth will set you free.”

“So they say,” he says, brown eyes smiling. “Be patient with yourself, Zoe. It will take time.”

Right. Time to get over the fact that your patient was actually your sister, who killed your mother, and that your other mother has been lying to you for your entire life and is now slowly dying of dementia. Yes, I would say it will take time to process all of this.

“When are you planning on going back to work?”

“Monday,” I say.

Sam's eyebrows arch up. “Are you concerned that may be too soon?” If I'm not, obviously he is.

“Not really.” The truth is, I can't handle another minute cooped up at home plodding though this dreary month. I've read every psychiatry journal I can get my hands on, taken up cross-stitching, and my unrelenting presence is driving Scotty up the wall.

“I was afraid you might feel too raw to get back into it so soon.”

“Maybe,” I say. But really, I think nothing is as therapeutic as helping people who are more screwed up than I am. “I think I'll be okay. They've done all the investigation about the case that they need. They had me talk with the chairman to make sure I wasn't too bat-shit crazy to start seeing patients again.”

“And they decided?”

“No crazier than any other psychiatrist.”

Sam smiles politely, but I don't think he finds it funny. The sun glints off the glass on the diplomas above his desk. His new clock ticks loudly. I think it is actually louder than the pewter one. “You know, Zoe, you shouldn't try to hurry this. You're dealing with a lot. A lot to assimilate.”

“I know,” I say. I don't know how I'm supposed to feel. Angry maybe, or afraid. But I don't. All I feel, quite simply, is sad. Sad for everyone, for Sofia, Jack, my birth mother, even Tanya.

“There are support groups you might want to look into.”

“Support groups?”

“Yeah.”

“For people in my situation?” I can't imagine that is remotely possible. It would be a pretty lonely support group. Lots of coffee and stale cookies for everyone.

“Not precisely. For those who have been affected by a murder.”

“Oh.” Now that one seems overly vague. I find myself nitpicky these days, but I figure I'm allowed a degree of low-grade depression, all things considered.

“Any PTSD symptoms going on?”

“Probably. I jumped a foot in the air when Scotty grabbed my shoulder the other day.”

“He probably shouldn't approach you from behind.”

“Yeah, I think he's learned that.” I lift my leg onto Sam's coffee table. I am sporting a new metal Aircast, which has been a delightful change for my leg. My foot, pale and atrophic as it may be, can finally breathe. It is a walking cast, too, so my crutches have been happily relegated to the garage. But the damn thing still aches.

“And how's your mom doing?”

“Not great. Still declining.”

“Hmm,” Sam says. “Did you end up telling her about Sofia?”

“No. I didn't think it would help anything. Like you said, she was just trying to do the best she could. A made-up story about a fake mom and a fake fire was probably better, in her mind, than the real thing.”

“She gave you a new life.”

“Yes, she did. In Buffalo, where no one would even know the story.” A car revs out of the driveway, muffler on the fritz. The snow clumps in damp, melting gray patches on the pavement.

“Imagine how your life would have been different if you had known the truth.”

“Yeah,” I say. “That's true. Probably not in a good way either.”

“Hard to know.”

I nod, but I can't imagine too many positives there, starting off your life as damaged goods, ready-made excuses for failure in hand, and a chip on your shoulder as big as Montana. Would I have gone to Yale? Would I have become a doctor? Probably not. But then again, Sam is right: It's hard to know these things.

Sam leans back in his office chair, then glances at the clock, and pulls out his script pad. “Adderall dosing okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, though my thoughts have been zipping around like atoms lately, if atoms indeed zip around. “Or should be, anyway, once I'm back to work.”

“Xanax?”

“Don't think I need that right now.”

“No?” he says, surprised.

Knowing that both my parents were alcoholics, Sofia into PCP, and Jack heroin, I think it's time to cool it with the Xanax. Might just be hereditary. “Not for now,” I say. “We'll see how it goes.”

“Okay,” Sam says. “See you next week. Call me if you need to. I'd like to keep an eye on things pretty closely right now.”

Translation: I want to make sure you're not too bat-shit crazy to be seeing patients again.

I attempt to sneak late into Professor Rounds, having picked my first day back to oversleep. But it's hard to be inconspicuous when you are over six feet tall, limping, a ghastly wound on your neck, and with all assembled aware that your psychotic patient, who was actually your sister, tried to kill you.

The conversation in the room, needless to say, comes to a halt.

“Ah, Dr. Goldman,” says Dr. Grant. “Nice of you to join us.” He points to the chair next to him. “Have a seat.”

I sit next to Dr. A, who clasps my arm with a smile. Jason sticks his tongue out at me, and I wave to the gaggle of new medical students. So it's pretty much business as usual. I pull in my chair, knocking my metal cast against the leg of the table, which sends a jolt of pain down to my toes and gives the old desk another scratch to add to the collection.

This is not the first time I've seen my colleagues since my hospitalization. They came to visit me once during that hazy recovery time, and in one awkward moment, I sobbed a heartfelt (and possibly narcotic-induced) thank-you to Dr. A, who accepted this graciously in an “All in a day's work” kind of way, with Dr. Grant scratching his head and Jason observing, “Wow, I feel like we're in a soap opera.”

Dr. Grant's phone rings, and he walks out of the room talking. I take the moment to hug Dr. A, which he accepts with bemused embarrassment. “My hero,” I say lightly, but I mean it through and through.

“Pretty nasty scar there,” Jason says. “Looks like Dr. A's got to bone up on his stitching skills.” I expect Dr. A to whip out his notebook and add “bone up” to his look-up-later list, but he does not. “Did you hear?” Jason says. “Dr. A's going to be leaving us next month.”

“Really?” I ask with some shock. “Why? Where are you going?”

“Not far. A spot opened up in the neurovascular fellowship, and our Dr. A got it,” Jason answers proudly.

“Yes,” says Dr. A. “One of the fellows, unfortunately, developed an alcoholism problem.” He purses his lips, in recognition of this unfortunate circumstance. “So I applied for the position, and happily I was accepted.” Dr. A clasps his hands together, as if to rein in his delight. I wonder if stitching up someone's jugular in twenty seconds flat had anything to do with it.

“That's great, Dr. A,” I say, sad that our triumvirate will be breaking up, but happy that he will be where he belongs. “But what about the DSM V? Did you ever finish memorizing it?”

“Only half,” he admits.

“And what about all of your idioms?” I tease him.

“This is no longer a concern.” His face opens in a smile. “There are no idioms in anatomy.”

Dr. Grant returns to the room. “Okay, are we ready?” The medical students pull out their pens, like a synchronized swim team. Dr. Grant starts: “Forty-five-year-old woman with diabetes, hypertension, and a new onset of visual hallucinations. As per her son, she has been complaining of seeing dinosaurs in the backyard.”

A surge of contentment runs through me. Dinosaurs in the backyard.

My beloved, chosen field: psychiatry.

W
e huddle by the grave at Syracuse Forest Cemetery. The sky is gun-metal gray, churning out sleet. My coat is wet and heavy with it, my black leather boots soggy. Jack smokes a cigarette and the smell is heavy, but I wouldn't deny him this meager comfort right now.

My mother has a large gray tombstone, the same gray as the sky: “Annette Vallano. Much Loved, Much Misse
d
.”

Jack blows out a mouthful of smoke. “Sometimes I think about Sofia, and I wonder if sometimes God makes a mistake.”
He crushes his cigarette butt with his boot and then picks it up and holds it. Jack Vallano will not litter his mother's grave.

I find a small, smooth stone and put it on the top of the rough gravestone. “You know,” I say, “I feel like I owe you thanks. Thanks I never even knew to give you.”

“No, no,” he says quickly. Bits of sleet land on his eye patch, then melt into the fabric. “That's not necessary. You were my little sister. I just did my best to protect you. I wish I could have done more.”

I pull my hat tighter, the sleet hitting my ears.

He eyes me a second. “Dad was tall, too, you know. Supertall, like six-feet-six. Every one of them giants
on his side.”

“Oh,” I say. So that explains that. “Freckles?”

“Them, too,” Jack says with a smile. He wipes away some sleet that snuck under his eye patch. “This whole thing is pretty fucked-up, huh?”

“Yeah. That about sums it up.”

Jack stomps his feet, trying to get rid of the cold. “You ready to go? I think we've paid our respects.”

“Sure,” I say, happy to leave, and we start the trek back to our cars, the grass prickly under my boot. My metal cast is icy cold.

“Hey, you want to have a quick lunch? I know an old-fashioned diner not far from here, makes a good burger.”

“Okay,” I say, though I'm not hungry. But I would like to talk more with Jack, my new brother. Really talk, outside of the ragtag family conference room, outside of the gray of the graveyard and the sleet lining the stones. Maybe he can finally tell me about my mother. After a short ride, with me following his silver car down the highway, ignoring Karin and her chiding, we reach the diner.

The restaurant is warm, the aroma of hamburger grease filling the air. We peel off our coats, rubbing our hands. The glum atmosphere of the grave site seems to lift away as well, crowded out by the shiny black-and-white-checkered floors, pink-and-orange neon signs, and jangly music.
I love you, Peggy Sue, with a love so rare and true…

Soon we are digging into burgers and fries. I take a long sip of pop, the ice cubes clinking in my glass. “So what can you tell me about our mother?”

Jack lathers his fries with ketchup. “Unfortunately, I don't remember much. A lot of things around that time I just don't remember. Suppressed
the memories. Or so I read,” he says with a grin.

An imagined picture of Jack's apartment pops up in my mind. Small, dark but cozy, with a heterogeneous mix of books on every shelf. “All I can remember,” I say, “is going to a fair with her, winning a blue bear named Po-Po,” I say.

“Oh yeah,” he says, his face lighting up. “Dad won you that bear, actually, from the fair. A dart game I think it was. Man, that was a long time ago,” he says between chews. “He left a few months later, right after we started school.”

I will myself to remember something of my father, but I can't. I don't even remember him
leaving. “That must have been hard,” I say, hating how much I sound like a psychiatrist.

“It was.” Jack stares out into the parking lot. “It's funny. I remember that time frame in colors, if that makes any sense. More than actual memories, colors. Red and yellows right before Dad left. I had a bowling birthday party, and they let me keep a pin, and all the kids signed it. And one night I fell asleep on Dad's shoulder at a drive-in movie.” His voice fades. “Then it's gray and black. Dad leaves. Mom is pale, crying all the time, lying around on the couch. Sofia wearing all black. ‘Goth' they call it now. Black hair, black fingernails. And then it was just me and you, kid.”

“What do you mean?”

“I practically raised you, Zoe. I was a little kid myself, but I could see even then that no one was stepping up to the plate.”

I pop a french fry in my mouth. “It's funny. The way Sofia tells it,
she
was the one who took over parenting after our father left.”

He nods thoughtfully. “Well, I don't remember it that way. Doesn't mean it didn't happen, I guess.”

A man from the booth across from us wanders over to the old jukebox, lights running and flashing down the sides. He fishes in his back pocket for some money.

“So our mom basically checked out after Dad left?”

“Yeah, pretty much. But I remember her being kind. Teaching me to ride a bike, giving me Superman Band-Aids, you know, good stuff like that. But there were dark times, too, even before Dad left.” Jack raps his knuckles on the pale pink Formica table. “When I went to see Dad, you know what I remembered?”

“What?”

“First, let me tell you there were wine bottles everywhere, I mean, everywhere in that apartment. It stank to high heaven, and there were red circular stains all over, on the nice wooden floors, even on the furniture. Damn near ruined that apartment. Probably the cheapest stuff he could find.”

“Yeah.”

“And then it hit me all of the sudden, a memory from my childhood: vodka bottles, not wine bottles. Rows and rows of vodka bottles, little blue circles on the glass, all lined up like toy balls. But those were Mom's bottles, not Dad's. I remember them clinking around when Mom took out the garbage.” He pushes a french fry around the plate, not eating it. “She had her problems, Zoe. She wasn't a saint. Hell, nobody is. I still think about that shit every single day. If I didn't work the program, I'd be shooting up tomorrow.” We sit there in silence, Jack slurping the remains of his milk shake. When the waitress drops off the bill, he grabs it despite my reaching for it. “You'll pick it up next time.”

“Okay,” I say, though I'm not sure there will be a next time. There is no book of manners for this situation. What do we do now, start exchanging Christmas cards? I grab my coat, which smells like french fries, while Jack lays out some cash. “Do you think it was true, what Sofia said? About our father?”

Jack sighs, shaking his head. “Honestly, I don't think he ever laid a hand on her.”

“It's weird she would say that, though, out of nowhere.”

“Probably just angling a way to get out of the hospital.”

“Yeah maybe. But I've wondered about that. If that was really what she wanted, why would she try to kill me the
n
? If her ultimate goal was to get out, that doesn't seem like a very good way to go about it.”

“No, it's not,” Jack admits. “Maybe she changed her priorities on that one. Who knows? One thing about Sofia: She lies a lot. Always been that way, even as a kid. I think she just can't help it.”

Sofia's a liar; this is perhaps the kindest defense he can give her. It's hard to know, though, what Jack remembers, and what he thinks he remembers. Jack has his version, Sofia hers. And then there's mine: a blank slate dotted with broken memories. Maybe Sofia was right about our father. Maybe that's why our mother was so broken. Maybe she kicked him out after Sofia told her that he was raping her. And then our mother didn't have any life left in her to fight.

As we scoot out of the booth, the waitress wipes up the table behind us, the smell of Windex mixing with the grease. Outside, the day is still gray, the sleet dying down now.

Maybe the truth is this: There is no truth. I don't know what happened to Sofia, my mother, my father, or even Jack. And the harder truth is, I never will.

Jack climbs into his little silver car, heading back to Chicago, and I climb into mine, heading to Buffalo. I wonder if I'll ever see him again. A chirping text interrupts my thoughts.

Hey gimpy, how r u?
It's Mike.

Good, u?
I manage to type, without crashing the car.

Feel like coffee?

On this gray, sleety day, nothing sounds better.
Spot?

where else? what time?

I glance at the clock on the dashboard.
4?

C u there.

My heart does the smallest pirouette.

“Hey, look at that!” Mike says as he walks into the Coffee Spot, pointing to my new metal cast.

“Not bad, huh?” I say.

He goes to the counter to order. A bluesy guitar sounds in the background. I sip the heart-shaped foam, and Mike comes back with a coffee in hand and sits down. “So what's new?”

“Not much,” I answer. “How about you?”

This makes us titter, then full-out laugh, his rolling, bear laughter drawing stares.

“So how come you didn't come to visit me in the hospital?” I poke his arm.

He looks puzzled. “Really?”

“Yeah, really. I mean it's not a big deal or anything.”

“No, I
did
visit you. Multiple times.”

“You did?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did I say anything interesting?”

He takes a sip of coffee. “Actually, you weren't making a ton of sense.”

“Ah, yes. I had a few of those conversations.”

Mike stirs some creamer into his coffee. “I have a question for you, though.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“How did the patient find out about you? I mean, how did she even know you were in Buffalo?” he asks.

“It's pretty scary, actually.” I adjust my metal cast. “It was just a total coincidence. UMHC had a subscription to the
Buffalo News
, and one day she happened to see a picture of me in there.”

“What were you in the news for?”

“Oh, it was just in the local section.
Mary Poppins
, back in fourth grade.”

Mike lifts his eyebrows. “You were Mary Poppins?”

“Not exactly. I was a suffragette.” I still remember the picture vividly. It was on our refrigerator forever, newspaper edges turning brown. Standing tall with rouged cheeks, singing loudly and off-key with my Give Women the Vote sign. (My first and last foray into the theater; turns out there's not a huge demand for exceedingly tall women who can't act.)

“And she recognized you?”

“Not only did she recognize me, she got my new name from the caption.”

“Really?” Mike takes another sip of coffee. “They gave your name?”

I shrug. “I guess they weren't as careful back then. I mean, it wasn't exactly the
New York Times
.”

“I guess.” He shakes his head. “That is bizarre, though.”

“It is.”

We pause then, listening to the blues guitar, orders called out, snatches of other conversations. I adjust my brace again, and Mike surveys the room. Eddie is drawing hearts with arrows running through them on the frosted glass and his shirt rises up as he leans, revealing a new, dark-blue tattoo on his back, some Celtic-looking design. Scotty is manning the register. The silence builds to just past comfortable.

“I like you, Mike,” I say out of nowhere, maybe because my Adderall is about an hour from peak or maybe just because I mean it.

He tilts his head and looks at me, as if he's looking at a painting in a museum. “I like you, too, Zoe Goldman,” he answers.

I pick up my coffee cup, the heart dizzily spinning. “Maybe we can give dinner one more try. I promise not to get stabbed in the neck this time.”

Mike smiles, a broad smile. His gray sweater hugs his shoulders just right. I realize it's the same sweater he wore to our first coffee foray. “Okay. What are you doing this Saturday?” he asks.

“Why, what are you cooking?”

“I make a mean manicotti,” he says, his eyes twinkling.