What a Mother Knows (16 page)

Michelle squirmed and dropped the folder. The color prints landed face up on the floor. They both squatted down to gather them. Michelle was panicked. “Please don't tell anyone about these.”

He picked up the birthday picture and smiled. “Ah, your missing limb.”

“That's not funny,” Michelle said, stacking several on his desk.

“I wasn't joking. She's very beautiful, like her mother.”

Michelle blushed and showed him the self-portrait of Nikki looking so grown-up. “Don't you want children?”

“Sure,” he said. “But I think wanting the woman is more important. And after all the work my mother did, I couldn't waste time at singles bars. By the time I finished my residency, the good ones were all taken.”

The way he smiled made Michelle wonder if that included her. She rushed to fill the silence. “I can't imagine you'd have trouble now: a handsome doctor with a book?”

“You sound like my mother. But she still cooks dinner whenever I want, so what's the rush? It'll happen when it happens.” He set the first picture aside to look at the next one.

She reached to close the file, but he was on her right side and beat her to it. They both looked at the photo of Nikki and Noah kissing. Passion rose like a hologram from the glossy photo paper. Nikki looked straight at Michelle, her eyes glowing with innate knowledge. Noah looked blissed-out, with his neck stretched so that his lips reached hers, his black eyelashes curling from closed lids. Michelle turned to Dr. Palmer, who was mesmerized. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”

He looked up. “I believe in love at first smell. Pheromones are responsible.”

Michelle looked back at the picture. “So you think this could be real? Not a fling? They only met a few weeks before the accident. Could they have fallen in love that quickly?”

Dr. Palmer shrugged. “What do I know about love?”

“What does anyone know?” Michelle said softly.

Smooth jazz rose in the background. The mood relaxed as patients using the weight machines across the room began to murmur to each other. Dr. Palmer led Michelle to the padded bench at the table with the electrical box, then attached electrodes to her arm. “Ready?”

She nodded, opening the folder to distract herself with the vivid prints.

“Your daughter has quite an eye.”

“She took photography at school,” Michelle said, then her mood darkened. She hoped Nikki was still taking pictures, somewhere. Something burned. “Ouch!”

“Sorry.” Dr. Palmer turned the dial lower. He tipped his head at the picture of Noah on his Harley. “Bet his mother would like that. What's she like?”

“I have no idea. She looked like one of those sad women who lay in the dark all day watching reality TV.”

“You haven't spoken with her?” He felt her wrist for her pulse, then adjusted the electrodes.

“She's suing me.” She waited, but he didn't look up. “Her ex-husband called me a murderer. What would I say: I'm sorry?” She shut the folder. “I wonder if they even know about Nikki? What if she was just another notch on Noah Butler's guitar?”

He turned on the voltage again and started low. “You're judging a dead boy?”

“A dead man,” Michelle corrected. “He was nineteen, legally an adult.”

“What about your daughter?” He moved the motorcycle shot aside to the one framed around their kiss. “She looks confident there. As if this shot was proof.”

“Of what?”

He scowled as if she was playing dumb. “That he loved her.”

“Dr. Palmer—” Michelle started.

“Wes.”

“Wes. What could I possibly say that would make his mother feel better?”

“I didn't suggest apologizing for her sake,” he said quietly.

Michelle felt the tears coming. She reached for the voltage knob and cranked it higher. Let it burn. She liked this feeling. It distracted her from the heaviness in her heart. The sweet scent of burnt flesh tickled her nose.

Dr. Palmer switched off the power. “What are you afraid of?”

“Nothing,” she answered. “It's not about me.”

He yanked the electrodes from her arm. “You've been using that excuse for a long time, haven't you?”

Michelle held her singed arm protectively. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” He called the nurse over.

Michelle stood up. Her knee caught the power cord, and the electrical box crashed to the floor. He didn't help her retrieve it, which made her more furious. She couldn't expect him to understand. He didn't have children. She slammed the box on the table. “Must be nice to know everything.”

“I just want to help.”

Michelle held her arm out. He was supposed to help—he was her doctor. Bree ran up with the first aid kit and set it on the table. She took out a cool pack and reached for Michelle's arm, but Dr. Palmer waved her away. Michelle winced as he cooled the burn, then patted salve on it, but it was clear by Bree's surprised expression that Michelle was wrong. He didn't have to help this much.

She pointed to the memory card clipped to the file. “If you really want to help, could you keep that until the trial?”

He looked at her for a moment, then unclipped the blue disk and dropped it in his pocket. “Of course,” he said. “For your daughter's privacy.”

Michelle waited, but he said nothing more. He went back to dressing her wounds with bandages. They would blister soon, then burst—painful reminders that he was right. This was about her, whether she'd killed Noah Butler or not.

A puddle splashed the curb as Cathy pulled her minivan to the front of Holy Cross Hospital. Between swipes of the windshield wipers, Michelle could see the Virgin Mary statue beckoning her toward the entrance of the small building. “Thanks for the ride.”

“No problem,” Cathy said. “But who's this doctor? I don't blame you for switching if that other guy burned your arm, but we had a deal. No more medical bills until my husband gets paid.”

“It's just a consultation,” Michelle said. A station wagon honked, then passed and turned into the mall entrance across the street. Michelle could see toddlers strapped into car seats, tiny fingers smearing Cheerios against the rain-streaked windows. She missed those days.

Michelle peered at the concrete building rising up in the clouds and pushed up her hood.

“Are you going to be okay?” Cathy asked.

“Good question,” Michelle said. “See you in an hour?”

“Don't be late. I have a school committee after lunch.” She leaned across to open the passenger door. “Good luck.”

Holy Cross Hospital was as gray and dreary inside as the sky outside. Scarlet stained glass windows cast bloody shadows across the tile floors. Michelle stamped her wet shoes then submitted to the elderly volunteer in a wheelchair guarding the lobby with a pump of hand sanitizer. When the admitting nurse pointed to Dr. Braunstein's sign-in sheet, Michelle declined. “It's personal.”

The nurse sat up, immediately alert. “Are you the one who called?” A woman at the desk in back looked up from the computer. Michelle heard whispering behind her as two nurses in green surgery caps looked up from the coffee stand. A sitcom star breezed past, but the nurses didn't flinch. Infamy trumped fame. The nurse pointed down the hall. “Second door on the left.”

Michelle thanked her and started walking. Her heels echoed too loudly on the tile. She tried to keep the past separate from this moment, as if it hung on a lanyard around her neck, but with each step it tightened like a noose. She stopped at the door plaque that read: Laura Braunstein, MD. She felt faint. She had no idea how this woman felt.

Maybe she was being selfish, like Jack when he described his affair to his wife. The confession had made him feel better, but it broke Julie's heart. What if Michelle's presence made Noah's mother feel worse? She turned to leave.

A watercolor print next to the small office portrayed the sun shining on the ocean. Michelle studied the golden glow shimmering across the waves, and recognized it as a religious work symbolizing God's infinite power. She changed her mind. But the possibility of forgiveness wasn't the only thing that made her stay. The picture frame was the perfect size for the photograph of Noah. His good looks and high spirit would surely give his mother a moment of comfort. Michelle checked her reflection in the picture glass, counted to ten in French, and knocked.

Dr. Braunstein sat behind an enormous desk in the small, tidy room where she dictated patient notes into a tape recorder. Michelle stood in front of her, feigning interest in the diplomas from NYU and the plaque from the Women's Leadership Council hanging on the paneled wall behind her. She barely resembled the woman Michelle had seen sleepwalking out of the law office. Perhaps the other certificate, from the American Society of Anesthesiologists, explained it. Or maybe she was simply more at home here.

The woman had the kind of posture Michelle's mother would commend, and her broad shoulders filled her surgical scrubs with scalpel-sharp precision. Her graying ponytail was practical as opposed to lazy, and her face was as bare of makeup as it was of emotion when she finally looked up.

“Good morning. I'm Michelle—”

“I know who you are,” Dr. Braunstein interrupted. She sipped coffee from a mug branded J&J, a pharmaceutical logo. “What I don't know is why you're here.”

Michelle felt her pulse in her throat. “May I call you Laura?”

“No.”

Michelle was pinned by the doctor's gaze. She wanted to wash off her lipstick, to pull up her sleeve and show her bandages. Most of all, she wanted to sit down. A leather armchair faced the desk, but she didn't dare ask. “I brought you a gift.”

A nurse knocked and leaned in the open doorway. “Dr. Braunstein? You're due in the OR in five.” Michelle turned and spotted the small bulletin board on the wall behind her, directly across from the desk. It was empty except for a baby picture and a photograph of a mother and son making a sandcastle on the beach. Michelle turned back. Better not to speculate. The nurse shut the office door, trapping her like prey.

Michelle pulled the folder from her purse and set it on the desk like an offering. “I'm truly sorry about—” She forced herself to say the name, to make him real. “About Noah.” Dr. Braunstein said nothing, so Michelle rushed in to fill the silence. “I wish I could say something about how wonderful he was.” She tried to remember Noah beyond the baseball field. “He was certainly handsome.”

When Dr. Braunstein saw the photo of her son, her eyes softened. Her cheeks inflated slowly, melting her cool facade until her smile shone like the sun across the water in that seascape in the hall. She came out from behind the desk, then pinned his picture to the bulletin board. “Let me tell you about my son.”

Michelle burst into tears. Dr. Braunstein gave her a Kleenex, then gestured toward the armchair. Michelle collapsed into it. This was the punishment, she knew. To learn what she had cost this woman.

Dr. Braunstein leaned against the desk, smiling at her son's image as she spoke. “Noah was a surprise. His father and I had already broken up when…the term Noah would apply is ‘booty call.'” She chuckled.

Michelle sniffled. She liked this woman. In a different life they could have been friends. The thought squeezed her like an iron lung.

“I felt responsible for depriving him of a two-parent family, so I let him take his father's name. But they were never close—Guy Butler is a hard man to please. Do you remember him?”

Michelle nodded. If only she could forget his whisper.
Murderer.

Noah's mother continued to reminisce. “He was always too quiet for his father. Preferred writing songs to surfing. When he was small, he played Little League while I studied for my boards, but he wasn't very competitive. Later, he got in a little trouble—like most boys do—and had to perform community service. His father accepted no responsibility, naturally, so Noah served his hours helping the League and stayed with me most of the time. He didn't feel comfortable at his dad's beach house once the new girlfriend moved in, regardless. Guy called him a mama's boy. So what if he was?”

She looked closely at the photo then pointed at the shadow of a scar by the cleft in Noah's chin. “That's from carving turkeys on Thanksgiving. Every year we volunteered at the Dinner for the Homeless at the Santa Monica Civic. He loved handing out cookies to the children. But that last year he was old enough to work in the kitchen. My sweet vegetarian was assigned to carve turkeys and he didn't say boo. By the time we got home for our own dinner, all he wanted was Lucky Charms.”

Michelle perked up. She remembered the leprechaun T-shirt in Nikki's room. The two had marshmallow bits in common. That and the fact that they were both artistic—misfits to most kids their age. What did Tyler call his sister? A loser. Perhaps the video had changed that for both of them.

“He ate Lucky Charms for dinner when I worked nights, as well. I made him take a vitamin, but…” She tugged her stethoscope strap. “You just want their lives to be easier, you know?”

Michelle nodded. She knew very well.

“He wasn't serious about the band until his first semester at UCLA. I suppose I should thank you for making his dreams come true.”

Michelle couldn't bear it anymore. “Did he have many girlfriends?”

Dr. Braunstein smiled at some private joke. “His father thought he was gay. That's why he bought the damned motorcycle.”

“I'm sorry, I'm confused. I have a daughter named Nicole, who…I don't know what you've heard, but they knew each other. Did he ever mention a Nikki?”

“Nice girl,” Dr. Braunstein said.

Michelle looked up. “You met her?”

“They brought me coffee. Noah was no saint, don't get me wrong. He had plenty of girlfriends.” She looked directly at Michelle. “But I know what you're asking. Nikki was the only girl he ever brought here. He wanted me to like her. And I did.”

Michelle felt goose bumps. “You must hate me.”

“No. I feel sorry for you.”

Michelle tried to breathe. Anger would have been easier to deal with. “What about the lawsuit?”

“Peter Greenburg is my ex's half-brother. I plan to donate my share to a worthy cause. It took two Valiums to get through my deposition. Guy hired a publicist to cover the funeral. Can you imagine?”

Michelle was horrified, but not surprised. “Your son was very talented.”

“It was only a matter of time until he left home,” Dr. Braunstein mused. “The stack of apartment listings in his room was growing as high as the stack of songs he had written. If it wasn't your video, it would have been something else.” Dr. Braunstein looked at the acoustical tiles on the ceiling.

Michelle imagined all the words left unsaid and felt grateful for every one.

The phone buzzed. Michelle waited for a chance to make a polite exit while Dr. Braunstein spoke to the caller. “Water is fine, but no food after midnight.” When she looked up, her face was blank. She was done being Noah's mother for now. She had closed the door to her personal life and returned to the safe haven of work.

Michelle was envious, but only for a moment. “Thank you for seeing me.”

The nurse opened the door and stood waiting. Dr. Braunstein opened her drawer and rustled about before retrieving a notepad. She rose and put her hand on Michelle's arm on her way out. “I hope you find her.”

As Michelle watched her go, her eyes fell on the photograph of Noah pinned to the board. She called out. “Do you want Noah's motorcycle? It's still in my garage.”

Dr. Braunstein turned back, her face red with rage. “Keep it or junk it, I don't care. Just don't let Guy get his greedy hands on it. With all the gruesome injuries I see in the emergency room, I begged him not to buy it for Noah. I know you stopped him from riding in the rain. But if it weren't for that two-wheeled death trap, my son would still be alive.”

The nurse spoke up from the hall. “Dr. Braunstein?”

Noah's mother opened her mouth to say more, but only slapped her notepad against the doorframe. Then she disappeared from sight.

Michelle trembled. Now, every time Dr. Braunstein looked at her bulletin board, she would see that gleaming Harley and be reminded, not of how handsome her son was, but why he was in Michelle's car in the first place. She had to cut that part off. She scanned the desk for scissors. No luck. The side drawer was ajar, so she glanced at the empty hall outside the door, then went around and pulled it open. A postcard caught her eye.

Two sea turtles swam underwater across the glossy rectangle. They had emerald shells and enormous flippers, like the ones in Maui where Michelle bought the magnet that was on her refrigerator. She turned the card over. Sure enough, the print in the corner read: Turtle Town, Maui, Hawaii.

The postmark was smeared. Michelle's eyes automatically dropped to the handwritten message. It was written in purple ink, with small circles dotting the
i
's. Michelle's breath caught. Nikki had used purple ink ever since she had graduated from pencils. Once upon a time, she made happy faces in those circles, or flower petals outside. But these letters were tiny and unadorned, like whispers between the white space.

Forget the fakes from Australia; there was a real postcard after all. It just hadn't been sent to Michelle. She looked up. No one was coming just yet, but she couldn't risk taking the time to get out her glasses. She squinted to read the first lines:

We chased our pleasures here, dug our treasures there,

But can you still recall, the time we cried…

There was a rap on the doorframe. Michelle shut the drawer. She made a show of clutching her arm as the nurse bored down. “Can I help you?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“I hope so! Do you have scissors? The picture I brought for Dr. Braunstein has a motorcycle in it.” Michelle pointed at the bulletin board. “She hates motorcycles.”

“Most doctors do,” the nurse said, unpinning the photograph. “We have scissors at the nurse's station.”

Michelle followed the nurse out of the office, tempted to run back and read the rest. She was desperate to know when it had arrived.

She saw Dr. Braunstein turn the other corner. She ran after her to the operating room and peered through the small window. Doctors and nurses looked up. “Dr. Braunstein?” Michelle called. She felt a clamp on her arm. A security guard steered her back to the front, where the nurse who cut the photograph gave her the bottom half with the Harley on it. Michelle stuffed it in her purse as she was escorted to the elevator.

***

The rain had ebbed and the sky was bright when Michelle emerged from the hospital. Cathy's minivan was already parked in front. She pushed the door open for Michelle. “Howdy,” she said, her cheeks flushed with anger below her dark shades.

Michelle hesitated. “Has it been more than an hour?”

“No, but it's been plenty long enough to figure out that Dr. Braunstein is not offering a consultation. Not about your health, anyway.” She held up the Palmer Clinic card with Dr. Braunstein's name and address.

“Sorry, I must have dropped that.”

“Sorry you dropped it, or sorry you lied to me?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, it doesn't, thank you very much. Either way, you counted on me to be stupid, to forget Noah's mother is a doctor. And you were right: I am stupid. Stupid to have trusted you. You've changed, Michelle. You used to screw up the team snack, but you were never a liar.”