What a Mother Knows (10 page)

The next morning, Michelle poked her head outside like a groundhog checking for spring. Her conversation with Drew last night hadn't gone well, but at least he promised to order her a phone. She used to handle all the house accounts—now her name wasn't even on them. After they hung up, she was so worn out that she got a decent night of sleep. All she wanted now was a little bit of fresh air while she figured out what to do next. She fastened the Velcro square of her hospital blouse, hooked Bella's leash on her collar, then opened the door wide. Before she could grab the leash again, Bella ran out.

“Tyler! Hurry!”

Her son bolted out of the bathroom, already dressed. “What?”

She pointed outside. Fortunately Bella was more interested in smelling every tree on the street than in stretching her furry legs. As the St. Bernard sniffed her way to the next yard, Michelle imagined how she must have suffered on the smoggy streets of New York City. Here, she could inhale information about the age and sex of every animal that had peed there in the past month. If only Nikki's trail was that clear.

“Will you please take her for a walk?”

Tyler ran out and grabbed the leash. “Can I do it later? I'm meeting friends for breakfast.”

“Fine. Put her in the yard, and I'll give you money. But I need you to pick up my alterations, okay?”

He pulled the dog back in the house. She watched him track dirt as he crossed the living room carpet, then caught her reflection in the glass of the French doors. When he returned, they went in the kitchen, where she gave him cash from the envelope she had wedged under the orchid vase. “Leave your phone.”

Tyler hesitated, then sent a quick text and handed it over. “This is not the part of having a mom that I missed.”

“Well, get used to it, honey.” She watched him go, then looked at the phone and sunk into a chair. She had no idea how to use it. She set the phone on the dinette and tapped in her old office number, one digit at a time.

A young woman answered. “Golden Hour.”

Michelle recognized the voice of her former assistant. “Asia. It's Michelle Mason.”

“No way! How are you?”

“Fine,” Michelle said. Lying was easier than explaining. “Thank you for the orchids. Victor's name is on them, but I know how things work over there.”

“You should,” Asia said. “You taught me everything I know.”

“True. So who's been running the place?”

“Me,” Asia said.

Michelle chuckled. “Good for you. Then you know what's up with Victor's crew. I'm trying to get in touch with Sasha. Is she working?”

“Not for us,” Asia said. “Last few times I tried to book her, she was unavailable.”

“Bummer. Is Victor around? Maybe he'll know.”

“He's shooting today. Shall I give him a message?”

“Please. Tell him thanks for the flowers. And can you give me the number for Paramount? I want to congratulate Becca on her production deal, but I can't find my address book.”

Michelle memorized the number Asia gave her, then tapped each digit quickly, before she lost her nerve. Her old film school friend had jumped a dozen professional rungs above her while she was asleep. After repeating herself to a gauntlet of studio assistants, Michelle was finally transferred to Becca's cell.

“Oh my god, Chelle!” Becca exclaimed. “I'm just leaving Malibu. Stay where you are—I'll head right over.”

Michelle hung up, pleased. Becca wouldn't care how awful she looked. She was one of the people Michelle remembered most from visiting hours at the hospital.

***

Forty minutes later, a black limo pulled up in front of the house. By the time Michelle shuffled to the foyer, Becca's snakeskin boots were already tapping a dance on the tile. When she saw Michelle, she hugged her with such ferocity that Michelle almost fell over. “Look at you!”

Michelle didn't want to cry, so she laughed. “What about you—gorgeous as ever in those leather pants.”

“Sorry, it's just so good to see you home,” Becca said. “Home, hell. Alive!”

“Then why did you miss my party?”

“I was in Vancouver. I called your cell, but a plumber has that number now. You got the champagne, right?”

“Yes, thanks,” Michelle said, walking her to the kitchen. “Kudos on your three-picture deal, by the way. I can't believe you didn't mention it. Now I have to hate you.”

“Why do you think I didn't mention it? You weren't in a position to compete. Not that you ever were.”

“Hey, I was always the better producer. I rarely went over budget.”

“Oh, Chelle. That's because you played it safe. I fought for this deal. You never had the balls. And I mean that in the nicest way.”

Michelle laughed. “Well, I hate you in the nicest way.”

Becca pulled a bag of Famous Amos cookies from her purse. “Will this make up for it? I would have brought fresh ones, but the shop by your office is long gone.” She ripped open the bag and poured the cookies right on the dinette. They dove in.

“Yum,” Michelle said, “but I still hate you. And there's a better way for you to make up for it. Get me a good hair stylist—I haven't been able to reach Sasha.”

“Of course not,” Becca said.

“What do you mean?'

Becca almost choked on her cookie. “I mean, last I heard, she was working back east. And there are better stylists who charge less.”

“Victor's girlfriends always get top dollar,” Michelle said, “until he dumps them. But I like Sasha. And she taught me to knit.”

Becca got up and foraged the refrigerator. “That's not as trendy as it used to be. A lot has changed. Must be scary.”

“It's scary just to look in the mirror. Know anyone who will do my hair for free?”

“You mean someone who wants to kiss my ass now that I've got studio backing?”

Michelle nodded. “Exactly. You still owe me for sleeping on my couch in film school.”

“No way. That futon gave me so many back problems that my chiropractor bought a Mercedes. You're out of milk, by the way. Is that slice of cake from your party?”

Michelle got up and put the cake she'd saved for Nikki in the freezer. “What about when I got pregnant and gave you my job on the film in Turkey that ended up winning Sundance?”

“See what I mean about being a softie?” Becca said. “I'd send you to Lorenzo, but he only does red.” She fluffed her short hair.

“I just want to go back to a nice, polished brown.”

Becca poured a glass of tap water, then appraised Michelle. “Why? That was fine for a ‘suit,' but you're not going back to work, are you?”

“Not until I find Nikki.” Michelle sat back down at the table. She didn't have the strength to explain while standing up. “She's missing. She's not an exchange student, she's a runaway. Drew lied.”

Becca looked at her water, as if she couldn't find the right words.

Michelle had rarely seen her friend so quiet, and the loss hit anew. She couldn't blink back the tears, so she wiped her face with her sleeve and closed her eyes, waiting for the lump in her throat to dissolve. She felt Becca's embrace.

“I'm so sorry, Chelle. What horrible news to come home to. Do you have any idea where she might be?”

Michelle opened her eyes. “No. But I'm going to find her.”

Becca nodded and smoothed Michelle's hair from her face. “How?”

“I don't know. There are lawyers involved.”

“I hate lawyers.” Becca tilted her head to think and spotted something beneath the dinette. She reached down and scooped up a lipstick.

Relieved for the momentary distraction, Michelle pointed at the black-and-white Chanel logo. “My mother's. She thinks I should go blond.”

Becca smiled. “How is Her Majesty? Or shall I ask her myself?”

“You missed her by a day,” Michelle said. She laughed as Becca held the back of her hand to her forehead, imitating Elyse's dramatic way of expressing concern. “You always did have good timing.”

Becca opened the tube. “I bet she left this on purpose. She's been trying to get you to go pale for as long as I've known you.” Becca sat down again. “Honestly, I wasn't sure you'd make it. And in the rehab center, you were really struggling. There were a lot of tears.” She closed the lipstick. “You didn't recognize me until I started bringing cookies.”

Michelle sniffed a cookie and teased her friend. “Hard to forget this smell. But I appreciate you hanging in there, Becca. It means a lot.”

“I was happy just to flirt with your hot doctor. Told him I could get him on that
Doctors
TV show, but he wasn't interested. Nice change from the egotists I work with. Once I realized he was there twice a week, I had my assistant put it on my schedule.” She chuckled, then heard her iPhone buzz. She pulled it from her pocket and clicked to read the message. “Speaking of which, I have to head back to the studio soon, so let's get down to work. You can get laser treatments for the scarring and an airbrush tan, but—blond? Sex appeal is not going to help you find Nikki.”

“I just want to cover the gray.”

“Oh, Chelle, you'll need to do more than that. You'll need to look the part.”

“Is that your secret?”

“One of them,” Becca admitted. She put her phone away. “So, tell me. If this were a movie, who would you be?”

Michelle toyed with her cookie. It had been a long time since they played this game. Now Becca did it for a living and Michelle was playing for real. “Sleeping Beauty?”

Becca scoffed. “All that princess did was wake up. She didn't have to reclaim the kingdom.” She looked at Michelle. “And this is no fairy tale.”

“Maybe not, but I could definitely use a fairy godmother.”

They were both quiet as they thought of all the stylists they had ever known. Then Becca smiled. “I know who you need: the Wizard!”

Michelle pushed the cookies away. The woman known as the Wizard was a Hollywood legend behind the scenes. Not only could she turn a plain Jane extra into a red carpet femme fatale overnight, but she was famous for the glamorous return of a certain alcoholic has-been who went on to win an Oscar. “Is she still working?”

“Not officially—she must be eighty by now. But I bet I can find her.”

“I bet she charges a fortune.”

“This one's on me. The truth is, you're right—I do owe you. And I can't imagine how horrible it must be to come home to all this.” They both rose and hugged good-bye. Silence filled the kitchen, as comforting as any words could possibly be.

“Okay, then,” Michelle said, walking her out. “Off to see the Wizard.”

Becca gave her an air kiss and hurried to her waiting limo. The uniformed driver closed the door behind her.

Michelle climbed out of the Volvo, then held the medical release form above her head to protect her new hairstyle from the drizzle. Cody came to the rescue from the back seat, his black umbrella already opened. “Thanks.”

“Keep it,” he said. “I only took it to school to get my mom off my back.”

“Then tell Cathy thanks. I'll be out in ten minutes.” She tiptoed around the puddles to protect the new boots the Wizard had chosen, then realized she'd forgotten the umbrella. When she glanced back, Cody was still there, shadowed by the high-rise across the street.

“Stop gawking and get in before I puke, dude,” Tyler called from behind the wheel.

“Not my fault your old lady is smoking hot,” Cody mumbled.

Michelle pretended not to have heard him and turned back toward the Palmer Clinic. She reminded herself to thank Becca as well. It had taken an entire day, but there was no doubt that the legendary stylist still had a magic touch. Michelle took a deep breath, raised her chin, and strutted past the mud-splattered luxury cars and the silver Prius with a
Star Trek
bumper sticker.

She had been afraid to do this, to get Dr. Palmer's signature and say good-bye for good. But as soon as he was formally dismissed, Drew could pay Kenny, Kenny would clean up the legal mess, and Michelle could focus on what really mattered: finding her daughter.

Michelle stomped her high heels on the sodden doormat, then hit the buzzer with her elbow. The door opened automatically, of course. It was designed to accommodate handicapped patients.

Inside the waiting room, a Jamaican nurse brushed her braids behind her shoulder and applauded as a muscular man signed in with his fiberglass arm. Once he disappeared behind the swinging door, she logged Michelle in, eyed her outfit, then set a starfish-printed patient gown on the counter. “I'm Bree,” she said with a lilt. “Dressing rooms are down to the right. Need help?”

“No thanks, I won't be changing.”

Bree pursed her plump lips. “Then I'll let Dr. Palmer know you're here.” They heard a man humming to a jazz instrumental just inside the double doors. Bree laughed and pointed behind her. “He's eager to see you.”

“Me?” Michelle asked.

“You're kind of famous around here.”

Michelle scanned the magazines strewn on the table by the couch. “Not from the tabloids, I hope.”

“No, from the
Medical
Association
Journal
. We hear of coma patients who make a full recovery from time to time, but it's always worthy of a case study.” Bree removed Michelle's wet raincoat just as Dr. Palmer peeked over the swinging doors.

“Did she call?” he asked.

“She's here,” Bree said.

Dr. Palmer looked around Michelle at the empty waiting room. Bree pointed at Michelle. His eyes widened and he cleared his throat. “Nice to see you again, Mrs. Mason. I didn't recognize you.”

Bree laughed.

“Could you please turn the music down?” he asked Bree, while holding the door open for Michelle. In heels, she was almost as tall as he was, so she avoided his gaze by admiring the Lakers tie he wore under his lab coat.

Inside the cavernous treatment room, the clanging of weights echoed as the music dropped to a background buzz. Michelle looked past a row of exam tables and padded benches to the tall machines where a dozen patients struggled with steel plates and pulleys. She caught the eye of the burly man with a prosthetic arm who had dropped his stack of weights. One by one, all the men slowed their movements to look up.

“You all right, Sam?” Dr. Palmer called. The man grumbled something and turned back to his task. Dr. Palmer turned to Michelle. “Sorry about that.”

“About what?”

“About—at the risk of ruining our doctor-patient relationship, Mrs. Mason, you do look quite nice.”

Michelle studied her reflection in the mirrored wall by the weights. She tucked a chestnut-colored lock behind one ear to reveal her gold earring, and her red lips spread into a smile. Yes, she'd finally come back to life. If only Drew could see her. But Dr. Palmer was the one who was looking at her now, in a way that made her conscious of how close he stood.

“You've never seen me dressed,” she said. Then she realized how that sounded. And worse, that it was true. He'd seen her, scars and all. Alarmed, she stepped away. “I mean, except for the hospital gown. But those days are over.”

“Speaking of which, mind if I check your progress?”

Michelle shrugged. A final checkup seemed like a good way to officially close the case. She smoothed her clinging wrap dress over her hip and tried to convince herself it had nothing to do with the chiseled cut of his cheekbones. She followed him to a makeshift office at the back of the room, where he laid her coat across a door resting on cement blocks. When he plucked a clipboard from a plastic crate filled with files, Michelle shook her head. “This doesn't look much like a doctor's office.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience,” Dr. Palmer said. “But it's mostly a physical therapy facility, so I spend money where it counts. If my grant comes through I'll get a real desk, but I spend half my time at the hospital anyway.”

The desk phone rang. He hesitated.

“Go ahead.” Michelle wandered toward a pale blue wall lined with light boxes, then stopped at several display cases. Beneath the glass was an unusual display of hardware. She looked up as Dr. Palmer hung up and joined her.

Michelle pointed at the middle case. “I understand the medical equipment, but what makes this rusty hook more important than a real desk? Reminds me of my son's Captain Hook costume from Halloween.”

Dr. Palmer chuckled. “It's crude, but it was popular a few centuries ago. Worked better than this.” He pointed to a plastic baby doll arm attached to a sling.

“That reminds me of a horror movie,” she said. She pointed at the shiny white tube of wires in the next case. “What's this?”

“That's a prototype of the prosthetic worn by the gentleman who dropped his weights.”

Michelle looked across the room. “Robocop?”

“He is a cop, actually. Or was, before the shooting. The Utah 3 was an option for you as well, had we amputated.”

Michelle hugged her arm. “Interesting work.”

Dr. Palmer scowled. “I'm just a glorified mechanic—that's what pays the bills. But, want to see something really neat?”

“Neat?” she scoffed. He didn't wait for an answer, so she followed him, weaving between the examination tables to the gurgling aquariums against the back wall. Michelle studied the mounted posters above the tanks. She recognized Aron Ralston, the mountain climber who'd cut off his arm to save his life, and a faded photo of Bethany Hamilton surfing sometime after the shark ate her arm in Hawaii. Michelle had read about them in
People
, but she was too uncomfortable to see their movies. She certainly never imagined having anything in common. At least she still had her arm; for that she was grateful.

As she rounded a padded table, she stubbed the toe of her boots on a heavy box. A picture of Dr. Palmer graced the cover of the books stacked inside. The photograph didn't do his short hair and coffee-colored skin justice. She almost asked for his autograph, then remembered that she needed it elsewhere. She opened her purse for the release. It was stuck to the get well card she always carried.

“Mrs. Mason?” Dr. Palmer beckoned her to the first tank, labeled
Starfish Enterprise
.

Michelle didn't see anything moving inside the misty glass, but the algae smelled like Tyler's socks after a baseball game. When Dr. Palmer pointed inside, she scanned the seaweed for signs of life. Finally, she spotted a coral starfish with a missing arm. Then she spotted the stub growing from the scarred joint of the starfish. Equal parts fascinating and creepy. No, more creepy, she decided, following Dr. Palmer to the next tank. She spotted the salamander right away. There was something stuck to its side. She studied the growth until she recognized the shape: toes. She felt faint.

Dr. Palmer's thick forearm caught her waist just as her knees gave out. “Easy now. Little soon for high heels, isn't it?”

“No, but now I see why Lexi called you Dr. Frankenstein.”

He chuckled. “More like the Reanimator. These sea creatures are just a hobby. But regeneration research is big business. Burn centers are experimenting with spray-on liquid skin cells. And the Pentagon is funding projects to benefit veterans—prosthetic arms with synthetic impulses propelled by rocket fuel.”

“Sounds like science fiction.”

“So does being put in a coma to save your life. Look it up—a lot of money has been spent on ‘pixie dust' made of genetic material.”

“From stem cells?”

“From pigs, actually.”

“Pigs?” Michelle smelled the clean scent of soap on his arm as he helped her to a bench.

“It works like a cellular scaffold—a hammock for fresh growth.” He picked up her limp arm and twisted it slowly in each direction.

“Ouch. I don't understand.”

“Neither do scientists, that's why it's such a compelling subject. I applied for a research grant to study it. That's why I wrote the book. I thought the publicity might help win funding.”

“No, I meant what does pixie dust have to do with me?” Michelle asked.

He looked from her hair down to her stylish boots. “It does look a bit like someone waved a magic wand over you.”

Michelle blushed. “Wish it could have fixed this useless arm.”

“You think it's useless?”

“You're the one who said it's tricky. That's why I'm here—to get you to sign off. I'm one of those people who actually does the exercises on my own.”

“Great. But tricky doesn't mean hopeless. We could try some alternative therapies.” Dr. Palmer reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of chocolate Kisses. “You like chocolate, right? My mama sent me these. Thirty-six Kisses for my thirty-sixth birthday.”

“Happy birthday,” Michelle said, swooning at the scent.

He unwrapped a Kiss and popped it in his mouth, closed his eyes, then swallowed. “Would you like one?” He unwrapped another and held it out to her limp right hand. “Oops, sorry.”

Michelle slapped the release down on the table and snatched it with her left hand. “I think you like torturing people. Honestly, I don't know why they didn't just cut the damn thing off.”

“As I recall, there was already one DOA in that crash. Maybe it was too risky.” Dr. Palmer walked over to the fish tanks. He opened a vial of fish food.

After unwrapping the Kiss with one hand, Michelle savored the chocolate, feeling better already. “Since you have your own clinic, why aren't you treating professional athletes? If you signed on with a football team, you could be making millions.” She followed him as he fed each creature.

“Hard to care about football players. As soon as you fix them up they rush back out to get hurt again.” He looked across the room then lowered his voice. “Rehabilitation only goes so far. I'm more interested in regeneration. But without the research grant, I'm limited to these cold-blooded experiments.”

Michelle looked back at the starfish. She didn't notice his hand on her shoulder until she flinched. “You want me to be one of your experiments?”

“The referral was to reinforce the progress you made in the hospital. But you are a viable prospect.”

“How?”

“Your arm was a peripheral injury to the brain trauma. No connection at all. Do you think you might have reached across to the passenger side?”

“Maybe,” Michelle said, straining to remember. “Don't all mothers reach out to protect the passenger?”

“No idea,” Dr. Palmer answered. “My mama took us on the bus. But your arm is a separate injury, probably from reaching out and getting hurt during impact. Recovery might still be possible. When I touched your shoulder, you flinched.”

“Of course I did, it's freezing cold in here,” Michelle snapped.

Dr. Palmer went to the next tank, but Michelle didn't follow. He sat on the bench and tied the lace on his wingtip. Then he grasped her useless hand before she could stop him, so she had no choice but to sit down. When he kneaded her wrist, she cried out.

“So what if I flinched?”

“It was a muscle contraction. The nerves are atrophied, but they could regenerate.” He showed her a small electrical meter with wires connecting to a switch that resembled a medieval torture device. “The idea is to wake up your nerves. To jumpstart the natural process of rebuilding muscle.”

“Is that one of those ab stimulators that actors use to avoid sit-ups?” Michelle asked.

“Similar,” Dr. Palmer said. “Insurance companies don't cover those either. It's like cognitive therapy: we know talk can rebuild neurological pathways, but it takes years. Why not take a pill and feel better right away?”

Michelle smiled. “Do you have a pill that will do that?”

“No.” He poured alcohol on a swab. “Give it a test run. My treat.”

The air filters gurgled, and the raindrops pinged against the roof. Michelle took a deep breath. She felt more comfortable here than she had anywhere else since she'd woken up. No one here knew what she'd been like before the accident. No one here cared how it happened. No one here was judging her. She felt a cocoon-like comfort just leaning against the table beside him.

“If it works, will I be able to knit again?”

“Doesn't knitting require lateral supination?” He moved his hands to feign knitting, but it looked like he was dancing the Pony. He shook his head. “Probably not. But you might be able to crochet.”

His cell phone rang, and Michelle recognized the
Star
Trek
theme. “May the Force be with you,” she teased.