The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  But Tom, gone.

  And Lidia, here.

  And Johnny Marble, god knows where.

  What am I going to tell George?

  I feel his hand on my shoulder. “It’s nice to see you, G.”

  Of course I invite him to dinner.

  * * *

  In the kitchen, Lidia is telling Maricarmen, “I hated using the electronic health records. Not because I didn’t understand the technology, but because the technology turned patients into problems.” She pulls out a chair for me, keeps talking. “I wasn’t treating the person anymore, I was doling out drugs based on a diagnostic code.”

  Mari looks at me like she’s heard it all for the third time.

  Behind me, George asks, “What’s for dinner?”

  Glad he can get comfortable.

  “Albondigas,” Mari says.

  “What is Allbondeegas?” Lidia asks, white as her crisp-collared shirt.

  “Mexican meatballs,” Mari says.

  “Meatball?” Isabel asks.

  I put her down. “Why don’t you go find him?” I sit and Isabel forces herself between my legs instead.

  “Mama,” she whines.

  “George,” I whine.

  “Bell,” he says, something nobody has ever called her. “You want to play outside?”

  She looks at me, then goes into hiding under the table.

  Part of me is glad she isn’t warming up to him, but I don’t want her to see me plugged in, so I drag her out from under me and say, “Your daddy wants to play,” giving George the go-ahead.

  “Come on,” he says, “let’s go outside and look for bugs.” He picks her up and cradle carries her like you would an infant. She’s too surprised to cry.

  Maricarmen shoots me a look. “Food’s ready.” She puts down her spoon. “I’ve got to get back. My cousin.” It’s a bullshit excuse; she’s following George.

  “Thank you,” I say, because of that.

  “I’ll call you,” she says, and heads out.

  Once she’s gone, too, the silence is noticeable. While Lidia takes my blood pressure, I try to think of something to say, but everything I come up with feels too much like work. Eventually, I decide a question is better—and one involving her seemingly favorite subject—her work. “Were you at a city hospital? Before this?”

  “I was. Northwestern. It’s an exceptional place, though as I was telling Maricarmen, I couldn’t get on board with the shift to cyber management. I started to feel like the bottom line was compromising my ability to care for people. I was supposed to follow an electronic protocol instead of my gut.”

  “I guess it’s all streamlining these days.”

  “Saving time saves money…”

  “Does it save lives, though?”

  “Listen, you wind up in the hospital? The only guarantee is that somebody’s got to pay for it.”

  “It shouldn’t be about money.”

  “Oh, it’s always been. Now, though, it seems like the money goes to the wrong people.” Lidia removes the catheter. “All done here. You’re over halfway through and you seem like you’re doing well. But how you seem is not the same as how you feel. So tell me, are you experiencing side effects? Nausea, irritability, sleeplessness, increased urination, muscle weakness, pain?”

  Yes to most of those things, but so what. “I’ve just got one pain, at the moment. He’s outside with Isabel.”

  “Go on, then,” Lidia says, and gets her briefcase. “I’ll pack up, quick as I can.”

  * * *

  I find George and Isabel on the sidewalk playing catch with a rock. It’s a good thing Isabel can’t catch.

  I take the rock. Isabel frowns. I ask George, “How are you still alive?”

  “I get by on my looks.”

  I’ll give him that. “Are you ready for dinner?”

  “Macaroni!” Isabel takes off running toes-first, trips, falls face-first, gets back up and takes off again.

  “Graceful,” George says.

  “She gets it from you.”

  Lidia is on her way down the steps as Isabel starts to climb them herself so Lidia frees a hand to help. She says, “Careful, now,” and what I hear is indirect criticism. I hear judgment without context. I hear her questioning my parenting, which pisses me off, because the actual parent is right behind me and somehow, he gets a pass.

  Lidia says, “I’ve seen too many things.”

  “Let me worry,” I say. I scoop up Isabel and climb the rest of the steps.

  “She’s always been a worrier,” George says to Lidia. He doesn’t get the context, either; he never has.

  I skip the goodbye and take Isabel inside and assume he’ll follow.

  I dish soup and as we sit down, I realize the last time George ate with Isabel she didn’t have teeth, or the ability to hold a spoon. I expect him to marvel at her, or to at least make a comment, but he just sits down and digs in.

  Then I realize that for George, the last time he ate is probably an equally distant memory.

  We eat just like we used to with our folks, nobody saying much.

  After dinner, I get Isabel a popsicle and situate her in front of a cartoon about a girl and her talking stuffed bunny. When the cheery soundtrack kicks in, I see George’s shoulders square and tense, so I say, “What. You’ve finally outgrown fantasies?”

  “Can we talk?”

  “We can try.”

  He follows me back into the kitchen and I get myself a beer. I don’t offer him one, and he doesn’t ask.

  “How’s Soleil?” I ask, on offense now.

  “We split,” George says. “She didn’t want to get sober.”

  “And you did?”

  “I am.”

  “Define sober.”

  “I didn’t come here to fight, Gina.”

  “Why did you come?”

  “I need a favor.”

  I twist the cap off the beer. The fact that Soleil is out of my brother’s picture means she might be back in Weiss’s. But that’s a separate issue, and with George, I can only ride him about one thing at a time.

  So. First. “You get a message that I’m injured, and in the hospital, and you don’t know where your daughter is, and you come here three days later for a favor?”

  “It’s actually Tom I need to talk to.”

  “He’s not here.” I take a sip of beer so I don’t have to expand on that fact.

  George crushes a fist of black curls on top of his head. “I can see he’s not here. Do you think he’d mind, though, if I borrowed one of his shirts? I have an interview tomorrow.”

  I nearly choke. I put down the beer. “Where?”

  “I met this guy. A builder. The market is coming around, and he’s got a bunch of projects on the west side. He needs another Rolloff driver. I know there are other guys in the running, so I thought if I dressed up a little, showed him I’m serious—”

  “You think a nice shirt is going to cancel out the drug test?”

  “I’m clean, G.”

  “What about your CDL?”

  “Reinstated.”

  “What about your back?”

  “My back is fine.”

  What can I say to that? He sounds exactly like me.

  But. “Why now?”

  “Procrastination isn’t paying the bills.”

  “What bills? Aren’t you staying at Soleil’s?”

  “I’m going to get a place. I just need to save a couple weeks’ pay.”

  I want to ask why they split. I want to ask if he’s heartbroken. I really want to ask about Weiss. But. “What does this mean for Isabel? You’re about as real to her as that talking bunny. Daddy. I’m sorry. You’re a story.”

  He looks hurt. “I know that. I know I’m not much of a dad. And you and Tom have things set.”

  “I’m the one who has things set.”

  “You always do.”

  He smiles at me like he’s proud of me, which is one reason I’m not going to tell him about Tom just yet.
The other reason is that George could take off tonight and disappear again for six months. I’m not about to open the emotional floodgates with the one person who gets the privilege of being worse than anybody and always being guaranteed another chance. Always. Family. It’s fucked.

  “I’d just like to see her more,” he says. “You know, more often. Like, take her places.”

  “I’m not going to keep her from you, but I’m not going to let you take her, either. Not until you can prove you’re as real about this as you say. Real, and real clean. If you want to see her, you are welcome to be here. Here, until I’m certain you’ll come back.”

  “I’ll do whatever you want.”

  “Start by coming for dinner again tomorrow night.”

  “I’d love to.” He comes over to give me a hug. I don’t stop him.

  He says, “You know when I got the call, about you? It shook me. I mean, I never thought anything bad would happen—”

  “I told you: I’m fine. The IV treatment is protocol so I can get cleared to work. As for the case, there’s nothing to worry about: every cop in the city is looking for the guy who—” I stop talking because I realize George is waiting for me to stop talking. “What?”

  “Honestly, G? It was Isabel that got me here. I started thinking, what if she needs me, someday? I can be a decent person. I want to be a decent person.”

  After another sip of beer I say, “Of course you can borrow a shirt.”

  * * *

  I wait until I’m sure George won’t return before I set the alarm. I don’t take Isabel out to the dove’s nest; I don’t tell her I’m worried about our safety, either. Instead, I tell her it’s a different kind of night, a special night where she can watch one more episode. She doesn’t know the word, but she’s happy when the bunny gets back on TV.

  I spend the twenty-two minutes doing pushups and squats. I shoot for alternating sets, ten of twenty-five, but I can’t stay focused on the count, so I do one exercise until I can’t do any more, then switch. And then I do them again. It’s good to be responsible for the burn. It’s good to be physically exhausted for a reason.

  I can’t stop thinking about Weiss. Back when Soleil first got together with George, Weiss was always on standby. When she wanted to get high, it was George. When she wanted to get sober, it was Weiss. When she wanted attention, she knew which one would give it.

  But George getting sober? George leaving? That can’t be okay. She’ll need someone to rescue her. She’ll need Weiss to rescue her. And to ruin George.

  I have to wonder if that’s what Weiss was driving at when he came by with the soup. Saying he wanted to help, except really saying there was no help. Looking for Marble, but not looking very hard. Maybe what he’s looking for is a way to ruin me. To make it so George would be stuck with Isabel, and Soleil would be inclined to stick with him.

  It sounds crazy. But Soleil makes men crazy. I know it. I’ve seen it.

  My arms are nearly as useless as my hands when I carry Isabel to my bed. It’s impossible for me to put her down gently and when I do she stirs, so I stay for a minute. I’d stay all night, if I could just fucking relax.

  As I lie there, I look out at the dove’s nest, and I think about what kind of story I’d have told tonight. So far, all of Jezebel Pickle’s adventures have been based on making myself out to be a hero.

  The thing is? In real life, I’m no hero. In real life, I’m fucking terrified there’s nothing I can do except watch everything fall apart.

  9

  I wake up thinking about Johnny Marble.

  Probably because I went to bed thinking about him. Didn’t help that I spent some late-night time researching what I found at his place. One of the more disturbing things was Risperdal, the prescription drug for Kay I found in Marble’s coat—it’s an antipsychotic that’s usually used for schizophrenics; there is mixed opinion about using it for Alzheimer’s patients. In all populations, it has potential side effects like aggressive behavior, agitation, and anxiety—and those are just the a’s.

  I don’t know why Marble would want the stuff—it doesn’t cause a high—but he certainly wouldn’t be the first person to pop a pill, just to see. Imagining various drug-induced scenarios where Johnny Marble was high anyway, and high enough to think he should come after me, I quickly developed some anxiety myself: some real middle-of-the-night bogeyman stuff. By the time I shut off my computer I was convinced he’d snuck in through the basement unit and was just sitting there on Tom’s old couch, racking the slide of my service weapon real slow. Waiting for me to fall asleep.

  After that I started thinking about Sanchez, and why she wouldn’t press charges. How she got spooked. Same with St. Claire, who may well be haunted by him. Backing down could have been out of allegiance to her son; it also could have been because of a threat. Fear is a powerful decision maker, even if it’s irrational.

  The whole thing made a cohesive case for me to be the one to testify. Yes, I’d have to lie, but wouldn’t that be justified by telling the truth on behalf of his other victims? Wouldn’t I be doing my job—serving and protecting the people who needed me?

  This morning, in the plain-white light, I’m not so sure. Marble wasn’t after me. I chased him. I started the fight. And that doesn’t sound like serving or protecting. That just sounds nuts.

  When I get out of bed I decide to do normal things. Like laundry. Which wasn’t normal, for me, before Isabel came along—I never did my own. I took it to a one-armed guy up on Granville: I’d unload six weeks’ worth of dirty clothes from my trunk, and two days later he’d give it back to me folded so tight it all fit in a single kitchen trash bag. He’d hand it to me with his only hand and smile as though he was happy to do it. I’d leave him a substantial tip and walk out picturing him folding shirts with his teeth.

  I guess the new normal is me, numb-fingered, folding footie pajamas. And I guess I am happy to do it.

  “Mama?” I hear Isabel calling as I switch a load of whites to the dryer.

  When I open her door, she’s standing in her crib with one hand on the rail, Meatball clutched in the other, both of them waiting patiently.

  “Good morning, Spaghetti!”

  “Work?” she asks.

  “I was thinking snuggle.” Isabel curls against me as I carry her and the bear to my bed.

  We get under the covers. I brush her hair from her face, tuck the longer strands behind her ears. She fingers Meatball’s eyeball and hums a tune I don’t recognize.

  “What are you singing?”

  She hums the notes again. I can’t place it.

  “It’s pretty.” I tell myself it’s some banda song she heard at Maricarmen’s. Or some new sing-along from daycare. It could be a melody she made up, all on her own. I tell myself I’m wound up about a lot of things, but this shouldn’t be one of them. I’m not a cop today. I’m taking time.

  And I can’t help it. “Where did you hear that song?”

  “Dada.”

  Then I know the Aerosmith song. And then I’m annoyed. “Let’s get breakfast.”

  In the kitchen we share blueberries while I cook waffles. I turn on the radio to get that damn song out of my head, and George, too. I stir M&Ms into my coffee, and use them to make Isabel chocolate milk. And to teach her about colors.

  After breakfast, we play the laundry game: I fold, she unfolds. Disperses. Hides. She’s got a good strategy; I’ll find socks among her toys days from now. But I work quickly and she gets distracted, so when the basket is empty, we both win.

  At seven thirty the phone rings; it’s Iverson. “I got you a desk. Eleventh District, second floor. See Delgado.”

  I try not to sound panicked when I ask, “Frank Delgado, Internal Affairs?”

  “Financial crimes, now.”

  I’m still in my pajamas, drawstrings hanging. I’d planned to take time. To stay home with Isabel. To hide.

  But even if Delgado still worked IAD I couldn’t say no.

  “I’m on m
y way.”

  * * *

  Between my reluctance to get dressed and Isabel’s refusal to do the same, it takes us nearly an hour to get out of the house. I forget nearly everything I need and Isabel’s bag, too, and I drop her off at West Town Day Care wearing a dirty diaper. I give Gabby twenty bucks and apologize for a last-minute addition to her overcrowded roster. She looks at me like I’m the one with the hangover.

  I get to Eleven—a ten-minute local route that makes my office at Area Central seem as far away as Central America—and ask for Delgado. We’ve never met, though I heard plenty about him when he took fire after covering for an off-duty cop who beat up a bartender. I think what happened was somebody had to admit to keeping the off-duty cop out of jail so there’d be enough blame to go around to actually keep the off-duty cop out of jail, and that somebody was Delgado.

  I assume Financial Crimes was a quiet lateral move, though any move out of IAD is really a demotion. Those guys might work in a vacuum, but when they’re sucked back out of it, they’re no more the police than the dirt they tried to sweep.

  I climb the stairs and find Delgado sitting in front of a computer, elbows on the desk, eyes watering while he stifles a yawn.

  “Delgado?” I ask, even though it says so on his nameplate and, as far as I can tell, he’s the only one on the floor. I guess I expected him to be older.

  “Yeah.” As soon as he opens his mouth, he can’t fight the yawn.

  “Gina Simonetti. Iverson sent me.”

  “Right.” He wipes his eyes, pushes back from his desk. “Welcome to the exciting future of police work.” He grins like there’s a punch line. “This way.”

  He leads me along a bank of empty computers. “We have a few guys in court this week. Or, you know, a lot of them, they telecommute.”

  “No need to show up to a cyberchase,” says a kid at the last desk in the room. He doesn’t look up from his monitor. He doesn’t remove his earbuds and he never quits typing.

  “That’s Welter,” Delgado tells me.

  “Walter,” the kid corrects.

  “Welter,” Delgado says again, some kind of tease. He points to the other side of the computer bank. “We also share the floor with Fugitive Apprehension. They’re never here.”