The Perfect Mother (4 page)

After the usual pleasantries, he said, “I’m afraid I have bad news.”

Jennifer’s stomach tightened as she waited for the rest. “The police have informed me that they will be picking up Emma again for questioning. Apparently they are confused by some elements of her story and need further clarification. I believe their questions will concern the murder weapon, which they claim they have found. It would be best for you to prepare Emma. Call me as soon as they arrive.”

J
ennifer was surprised and distressed when the police showed up at 7:30 the next evening. She would never get accustomed to Spanish time. They didn’t seem to respect day and night the way Americans did. She placed a hasty phone call to José, who said he and Raul would meet them at the police station. It worried Jennifer that both lawyers were coming. Emma too seemed very nervous. Of course, she would be—who wouldn’t after what she’d been through? And then these relentless questions made everything worse. She reminded Emma not to say anything until José or Raul was at her side.

When they arrived, an officer once again showed Jennifer into the waiting room, and then he led Emma away. Emma looked over her shoulder as she left, almost reproachfully, as if she believed Jennifer was letting her down somehow, as if her world was broken and she expected her mother to be able to fix it. Jennifer’s eyes followed her helplessly until she disappeared. There was nothing to do now but wait.

She picked up a local newspaper someone had left on a chair and was appalled to see a front-page photo of Emma. She couldn’t understand the headline, but she saw the words
buen samaritano
and assumed they were sounding the call again for the Algerian to turn himself in. She stared at the photo. It was the same picture Emma had used on her Seville application. Jennifer looked sadly at her beloved daughter, this beautiful brunette in a floral dress smiling proudly at a dinner following her nineteenth birthday. They had gone shopping together for that dress. It had cost much more than she had wanted to spend, but Emma had begged her. She had loved it so much and looked so lovely in it, Jennifer couldn’t resist. She well remembered that dinner—how happy they had been—and her heart lurched.

She continued to wait, her mind wandering. It seemed that motherhood for her had always entailed a lot of waiting. She was good at it by now. If you added it up, she must have waited hundreds of hours for Emma over the years—ballet lessons, piano, Model United Nations, soccer, tennis—and when she was in high school, waited past her 1:00
A.M.
curfew, sometimes long past, sick with worry, until Emma walked in with some excuse or other. She had begged her to at least call to let her know when she’d be late so she wouldn’t worry so much, but Emma never seemed able to remember. “Call on my cell; just leave a number,” Jennifer would say, and each time Emma was late, Jennifer would check her cell phone for a message, but it was never there. She’d doze, then wake up automatically around 1:30 and peek into Emma’s bedroom. When she hadn’t come home, there was no going back to sleep. She’d wake Mark and he’d mumble that she’d be fine and tell her to go back to sleep before he turned over himself, but of course she couldn’t until, finally, she’d hear the key in the lock and the door open and her anxiety would subside, replaced first by relief and then by anger.

There was a litany of fears about her children that sometimes tormented her, from the normal ups and downs of life—heartbreak, failure, disappointment, rejection—to the more serious dangers: illness, car crash, mugging, rape, even murder. She had read stories about crazy students who barged into dorm rooms and shot anyone in sight, and the thought that this might happen to one of her children terrified her for days after. But she never imagined her daughter would be suspected of being the person who caused another mother that kind of pain. And she knew with the kind of certainty that is unshakable that Emma didn’t do this thing.

Mark would arrive tomorrow morning, and she felt it was important that she make some personal headway with Emma before he came. She had avoided confronting her daughter, hoping that she would open up to her in her own time, but that hadn’t happened and it was time to bring things to a head. Emma would understand. Their family tradition was never to go to bed angry, without working things out. When Emma returned, she resolved, they would go out for dinner, order some wine, and talk to each other.

Finally, Emma appeared, looking pale and shaken. José, Raul, and Fernando, the same detective they’d met the first day Jennifer arrived, followed. Fernando shook hands with Jennifer and told her that Emma could leave, but should not travel out of Seville.

They found a restaurant near the police station and chose a table on the patio. It was nearly 11:00
P.M.,
and true to Spanish custom, the restaurant was just filling up. Jennifer started to question Emma even before they were seated.

“What happened? What did they ask you? What did you say?”

“They just kept repeating the same questions over and over.”

“What questions?”

“What happened? When? What order? Stuff like that.”

“But can you think of anything specific they asked? Was there any particular question they kept going back to?

Emma shook her head slowly. “I don’t know, Mom. I’m tired. I got confused.”

“Try, Emma. It’s important.” Jennifer put her hand on Emma’s arm.

Emma pursed her lips and drew away. “Please, Mom, stop interrogating me. Give me some space, okay?”

They followed the hostess to a table and took their seats. Jennifer ordered a bottle of rioja to be brought over right away, then held herself in check as Emma translated from the menu. Emma decided on shrimp in garlic sauce and a Spanish omelet and Jennifer chose ham for the first course followed by the sole. “Gambas al ajillo y tortilla española aquí,” Emma said, “y jamón serrano y filete de lenguado para mi madre.” Jennifer was impressed once again with both her fluency and her self-confidence. She couldn’t help but marvel that this crisis, from which Jennifer had rushed over to save her, was the first time Emma seemed in charge and independent.

“Your Spanish has gotten good,” Jennifer said.

“Not really. But I’m getting better.”

Silence again.

“Look at how crowded this place is,” Jennifer said. “It’s eleven o’clock. When do these people sleep?”

“They’re used to it,” Emma said.

“But don’t they have to go to work in the morning? I mean, it’s not healthy to go to sleep on a full stomach.”

Emma’s face registered annoyance. “Mom, you’re so
American
.”

“Yeah, I guess I am. . . .” Jennifer sipped at her wine. She picked at the ham, but realized she wasn’t very hungry after all. They sat in awkward silence until the waitress brought the main course, clearing Jennifer’s full plate and asking with a pained look if senora didn’t like the food. Jennifer didn’t understand, but once again Emma translated, saying that her mother loved it but just wasn’t feeling well. Finally, as the waitress retreated in disappointment, Jennifer leaned across the table.

“Emma, what’s the matter? I came all the way here the moment you called. I came to help you, but I can’t if you don’t talk to me. Are you mad at me for something? What am I missing?”

Emma sighed. She sounded very tired. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you’re here. I said thank you for coming. It was the first thing I said.”

“I know you said it. But you are acting as if something is wrong.”

“Something
is
wrong, Mom.” Emma’s temper flared. “A guy almost raped me. He was killed in front of me in my apartment. The police don’t believe me. Can you imagine how that feels? And on top of that, they seem to think I did it, or something. I don’t know what I should do or say or feel.” She paused and then continued quietly, as if talking to herself. “I’m kind of numb, I guess. I don’t want to have to talk. I just want to
be
for a bit. You always think everything can be fixed by talking, but maybe some things get better if you just leave them alone.”

“But we can’t just leave this alone. You’re involved in a murder. You could go to jail. We have to get you out of here. Then we can find someone to help you deal with all this when we get home.”

“I don’t need that kind of help. I don’t think my reaction is abnormal.”

“No, of course not. But you need comfort, and you aren’t allowing it to come from me. You stiffen when I go to hug you. It’s as if you blame me in some way.”

Emma sighed again and shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t blame you, Mom. I’m sorry if I stiffened.” She was clearly exhausted. “Can’t you understand that this isn’t about you? I can’t worry about your feelings now. It’s all I can do to keep myself together. If you want to help me, let me do that.”

“I want to do whatever helps you, but that means legally as well as emotionally. We need to help the lawyers prepare your case.”

Emma averted her eyes. When she looked back, her expression was softer. “Look, you were the first person I thought of when this happened. I thought, I just want my mother. But then you came and I realized how upset and ashamed you are. You’ll say you’re not, but I know you so well. I could see it in your face, your body language, in everything you said and did. And that doesn’t help me. It makes it worse.”

Jennifer was shocked. “I’m not ashamed. There’s nothing to be ashamed about. If you’re ashamed, you shouldn’t be. You’re innocent. Why does shame come into this?”

Emma shook her head slowly. “You can’t let it go, can you?” Speaking earnestly, she leaned across the table so only Jennifer would hear. “I just don’t think you will understand, Mom. You’ve lived your whole life in this privileged cocoon. So did I—you provided that, I know, and you thought you were doing the right thing—but when I came here I realized how spoiled we are, how many people are suffering, and how we have a moral obligation to help. You know what the unemployment rate is here? It’s twenty-five percent. None of the young people I know, people my age, have any hope of finding jobs if they stay in their country, and most of them have parents who are out of work and who they have to help support. And what about the immigrants? Especially the North Africans whose families sacrificed so much to send them here and now they can’t find work and there is terrible prejudice against them.”

It sounded so young, so naive, so
adolescent
, this ranting about the hardships of the poor without reference to or realization of the very real danger she might be in. It was all Jennifer could do to control her irritation.

“I know,” she said in what she hoped was a sympathetic tone. “That’s awful. But what has that got to do with your situation? You can’t help anybody if you spend the next twenty-five years in a Spanish jail, and unless that Algerian guy turns himself in or they find your boyfriend, there’s a chance you may do that.”

Emma shook her head in exasperation. “You see what you do? You refer to him as ‘that Algerian guy’—he’s a decent human being who saved me from being raped. Of course he won’t turn himself in. They’d deport him and his family would starve.”

“I thought the police said they would help him stay.”

“We already talked about that. And I tried to explain that there’s no way that would happen. How can you be so naive?”

When Jennifer didn’t reply, Emma continued. “And why mention Paco? He had nothing to do with any of this. It won’t matter if he comes back or not.”

Jennifer’s frustration overcame her caution. “I don’t know why you think that, Emma. What did they ask you when they questioned you? I don’t think they’re interested in your opinion on poverty or injustice.”

“Thanks, Mom. Sarcasm is just what I need right now.”

“You have no idea what you need, apparently, but I will tell you that you have some decisions to make and you need to make them fast. Daddy is coming in the morning. We’re meeting him at José’s office. If you want our help—and that’s all we want is to help you—you have to cooperate with us and stop preaching and let us in.”

Emma didn’t respond. She finished her glass of wine and poured herself another and drank that. “It’s just that I feel like a different person from the one you know.”

Jennifer sighed. “Emma, you’ve only been here for eight months.”

“I know that.” Her voice expressed her irritation. “If you want me to talk to you, don’t dismiss what I say, okay?”

“Okay. You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Emma leaned forward, speaking earnestly. “I’ve learned so much. You were shocked at my apartment.”

Jennifer started to object.

“Don’t deny it. I saw your face. You asked me why I didn’t live in the Residencia. Well, that apartment is better than what lots of people have to live in for their whole lives. How could I live in some fancy, exploitive upper-class Residencia for rich foreigners when I know how all the others have to live, when I am in love with someone who came from the kind of poverty I’m talking about? I used that money to help him and he used it to help others—people in his village without jobs, without money for food. I’m not ashamed of it, but I knew you would condemn me for doing that. I’m going to devote my life to helping people who can’t fight for themselves. And I know I can’t do that from jail, but this whole case seems so crazy to me that I can’t believe that’s going to happen. I’m the victim, not the criminal.”

Jennifer forced herself to sound calm. “Darling, I know you are. That’s what I’m here to help you prove.” She paused; her voice found the intimate tone she’d used in the past for their private conversations. “Do you really think you’re in love with this man?”

“I don’t
think
I am, Mom. I am.”

Jennifer sighed. She knew she had to tread lightly. “Well, maybe later, you can tell me all about him.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

“But, you know, you shouldn’t be so quick to think you know what I would condemn.”

Emma started to interrupt, but Jennifer brushed her objection aside.

“Anyway, that’s not important. My only concern now is to stop you from behavior that will make you spend the best years of your life in jail, whatever you did or didn’t do. At the very least, you are the only witness to a murder and, as the police must have told you, there is still no sign of your Good Samaritan. Without him, it’s hard to verify your story. José said they found the murder weapon. What was that about? What did they want from you?”

“That’s all they questioned me about. Over and over and over. Was I sure that that Spanish kid had a knife? Did I see it? What did it look like? They don’t believe me; I can tell. But if they have no evidence to verify my story, they also have no evidence to disprove it. It doesn’t matter what they believe; they need evidence. Paco knows all about the police.”