The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  “Ooh,” Cassie says, like I’ve just presented the best idea in the world. “We love juice!”

  Naturally I’m annoyed when she says we. None of this happened to us.

  Cassie rounds the bed to check the monitors. “Isabel, what’s your favorite kind of juice?”

  Isabel hides behind Meatball.

  “I like moon juice the best,” Cassie says, winking at me as she punches keys that make one of the machines beep and spit paper tape.

  Isabel peeks at me like we’re onto something.

  “Moon juice,” I confirm, though it feels awkward, having a stranger join our game.

  “I’ll page Dr. Davidson and he’ll come in and go over everything,” Cassie says, her voice making it sound fun, like we’ll be bouncing beach balls.

  I say, “I’d like to speak with him as soon as possible.”

  “You got it.” She leans over to tell Isabel: “I’ll go find some moon juice.”

  Isabel is thrilled.

  I am not. I hate waiting.

  * * *

  I think Isabel is feeling better because she rejects the moon juice and throws a little tantrum about breakfast. I can’t blame her; both arrive covered in Saran Wrap, the moon juice is definitely orange-flavored, and the scrambled eggs on the doctor-recommended soft-food plate may have come from another planet.

  If we weren’t in the hospital, I would argue that she needs to eat real food. I’d peel the foil tops from the yogurt and the applesauce; I would tell her to eat what’s on her plate.

  Instead, I wipe her tears, put the tray aside, and tell her, “I’ll be back before you can spell milkshake.”

  “I not,” she says, but she knows the key word. It lights her up.

  I take the elevator up to the eleventh floor and step off into an indoor garden where bamboo trees grow in modern, bright-colored stands that border the path to the Sky Café. Behind the trees, floor-to-way-high-ceiling windows offer a mid-level view of the cityscape, a bland backdrop.

  At the café they make me a vanilla shake with bananas even though it’s not on the menu.

  When I deliver the shake to Isabel, a cherry on top, her wide-eyed delight makes me feel proud, and then stupid. Who would ever brag about anything in a hospital?

  Still, I’m glad to see her enjoy the shake and I’m also glad to finish her breakfast—the eggs in three bites.

  When the doctor comes by, Isabel ditches the shake and climbs onto my lap to hide.

  “Good morning,” Dr. Davidson says. He is the same doctor who examined her when we arrived. This time, he’s with a dark-skinned woman who has light green eyes and a head of wild, curly black hair. Her smile is perfect and her teeth are so white they’re blue. She is gorgeous, the type who’d make a man attempt to write poetry.

  In the daylight, Davidson looks more tired and less happy, but after he checks Isabel’s head right where she hides, he is happy to tell me, “I’ve read the radiology report, and I believe the hematoma—the big bump on her head—is merely a cosmetic issue.”

  I could fall off the bed. “Thank you.” I close my eyes and hug Isabel. The relief is overwhelming. And fleeting. Because it will never trump the guilt.

  Davidson stands aside. “This is Dr. Chavda, one of our pediatric dentists.” He turns to her. “I’ll order the discharge paperwork, if you’ll take it from here?”

  “Thank you, yes.” Dr. Chavda lifts the surgical mask from around her neck to cover her eyes. “Isabel,” she says, and peeks. “Boo.”

  Isabel peeks back, reticent.

  Dr. Chavda fashions the mask into a hair tie that makes her wild curls look like a bouquet on top of her head and says, “Whatever you do, Isabel, don’t smile.”

  The smile is imminent. And crooked, now.

  “And please, no giggling. I can’t have you giggling.”

  Cue giggling.

  “Isabel! My goodness, you’re listening backwards.” She works a surgical glove over her hand and sits on the bed with us. “Now please listen, because there’s one thing I don’t want you to ever, ever do, and that’s to bite this weird rubbery glove. Don’t do it, okay? Please?”

  Isabel bites.

  As I watch Chavda do her exam, I’m amazed by her bedside manner. Everyone in this place has been so patient, and so kind. It gets me thinking: Why aren’t all sick people treated with similar regard? Why is it cute when Isabel is scared, but a problem when someone like Kay St. Claire feels the same way? And outside this place, why are so many of us soft with children, and hard on our elders? It’s amusing when a child can’t remember a word; it’s pitiful when an old person forgets.

  “Looks good,” Chavda says, snapping off the glove. “The X-ray shows a crown root fracture, but there doesn’t appear to be any pulp involvement, and it isn’t bothering her on palpitation. That means that so long as what’s left of the tooth is stable, and without infection, it can stay. Since it’s a front tooth, the concern, just like with the hematoma, is ninety-nine percent aesthetic. If you’re worried about her smile—”

  “I don’t care what she looks like. What’s the other one percent?”

  “Well, some parents worry about compromised front teeth causing problems with language development. But I think her tongue will get used to her mouth this way, and pretty soon, she’ll be telling you exactly what she thinks. She won’t be misunderstood; of that I’m a hundred percent certain.”

  Isabel looks worried, and it’s because she’s taking cues from me, so I put on a smile. “You’re going to be fine,” I tell her. When she smiles back—gashed and gap-toothed—I think I could kill my brother.

  “Just to be safe,” Chavda says, “I’d like to see her next week. In the meantime, I’ll write a prescription for the antibiotic we’ve started her on here—five milliliters twice a day until it’s gone. And Dr. Davidson has her on a steady dose of ibuprofen—for the inflammation, but also in case she has any pain. Keep her on the scheduled doses—whatever the bottles say—for forty-eight hours, and then see how she does.” She takes out a scrip pad. “I’ll write this down for you.”

  I guess I must look confused, or overwhelmed, or both, because her parting shot is to take my hand and say, “She will be fine.”

  * * *

  Checkout takes forever, and I spend the entire time avoiding eye contact with other adults who catch sight of Isabel—a happy, healthy kid butterflying around the common area—nothing apparently wrong. Nothing, certainly, compared to the hundred-plus really sick kids and twice as many real parents here who are negotiating, or praying. And not for a baby tooth. For a day.

  I have never been religious. Yes, I recognize a need for rules, but I’ve seen too much terrible shit to believe some One made them up. Now, though, I can’t get a grip on this good fortune; the science of it doesn’t come up even. There are Isabel’s natural parents: one who never wanted her and another who still doesn’t know what he wants. And then there’s me, her stand-in nurturer, the one who can’t stand steady.

  And then there’s Isabel. The reason to believe in something.

  * * *

  Just after two P.M. and sixteen hours after Isabel was admitted to Lurie Children’s, we turn onto our street. In the hospital, time seemed abridged. Now that we’re approaching home, it feels like we’ve been gone for a week.

  “Isabel,” I say softly, when I park. “We’re home.” I get out and unbuckle her and wrap her in the blanket she kicked off during the ride. It’s cloudy, and cooler than it has been in a while; probably not blanket weather, but once she’s in my arms, she takes to it like she used to when she was a baby-baby. I carry her in a ball, the rest of our stuff hanging in bags from hooked fingers.

  “I tried calling,” George says. He’s sitting on the steps.

  “A little help, here?” I ask, since he’s just sitting on the steps.

  He doesn’t get up. His eyes are slits when he smiles. He wipes the white corners of his mouth. “I left messages.” He is calm; he is controlled. He is high.<
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  “My phone died in the middle of the night,” I say. “As you can see, Isabel did not.”

  “Of course not. Not with you there.”

  “I can’t believe you.” I’m talking about the high.

  “You were mad already.”

  My front door opens, and there’s Soleil. She is dressed in ankle boots, high-waisted short shorts, and a ropy mesh army-green shirt that advertises her bralette. Her hair hangs over her shoulders in two loose bow-tied ponytails and her big, beautiful wide-set eyes are hidden behind oversize sunglasses—an essential accessory since the hardest thing for a girl like Soleil to cover up is the fact she doesn’t give a shit.

  Most women would look ridiculous dressed as she is, even if they could claim fashion. Soleil wears whatever she wants and it’s like skin. It’s not the fit so much as fitting the part. She could be a model. Except that she’s really just a skinny, strung-out fuckup.

  She comes down the steps, a red satchel sliding to the crook of her arm. She says, “We are leaving.”

  I see seven of the 101 Dalmatians on the satchel and then I know what she means by we.

  I take a step back. “What the fuck?”

  “Nice,” Soleil says. “In front of the kid.”

  George says, “I got real upset, Gina, when I couldn’t reach you? I felt so bad, about what happened. It was an accident. But I knew you’d blame me. I knew you’d want me to leave.”

  “So he called me,” Soleil says. “He feels better now.”

  I cradle Isabel’s head and cover her ears. “Did you take pills, George? Or did she crush them up for you, help you get there quicker?”

  Soleil says, “I told him to use one of your syringes—”

  “Just a minute.” George holds up a hand. “I am high, Gina. Pretty fucking high. But at least I’m not going to lie about it. I’m not a liar. Not like you.”

  I want to ask him what he’s talking about, but we all know. When he called Soleil to get high, she was happy to oblige, since her best high comes from getting control of people. And once she got him high, she went looking for a way to get control of me.

  She went through my home. Looking for pills. For money. For leverage.

  She found the syringes. The Avonex.

  “I’m not a liar,” I say. Not a good one, anyway.

  George stands up. “I always told you the truth, Gina. No matter if I knew you’d think I was wrong, or stupid, or pathetic. It wasn’t easy, you know? When I was a kid, or when—even when my ideas were good—like last year, when I told you I was going to go to church. You said I was avoiding my problems.”

  “You said you were going there to pray for a job.”

  “So what? People pray for all sorts of things. And I know you don’t believe it, but asking for help is not actually a sign of weakness.”

  He’s got me there.

  “The church—they have confession there. I have to say it’s a lot easier than telling you about stuff. Because there, when you tell the truth, you clear your conscious. You don’t get a big bong hit of guilt with it.”

  I resist telling him the word is conscience but I do have to ask: “Did God ever get you that job?”

  “I know you think faith is some big joke. But the priest—when I told him how I hurt my back, and how I got high all the time, and that I needed help? He told me that when the righteous cry for help, the Lord hears and delivers them out of all their troubles. I was confused, you know? When he said that? Because I always thought you were the righteous one. Then I realized he was telling me I needed to be righteous. So I’ve been trying—I really have.”

  “I know you have,” I say, “though prescription drug abuse doesn’t really fit that scenario—”

  “Don’t talk down to me,” he says. “I’m up here.”

  “I’m sorry, George, I just don’t understand what this has to do with Isabel’s well-being.”

  “I don’t want her brought up by a liar.”

  “I’m not a liar,” I say again, though I’m not sure I even convince myself.

  “You are sick, and you are lying about it. You are single and you lie about it. You have a dangerous job; you lie about it. You only tell the truth when it makes you look good, Gina. You are not righteous; you just want to be right.”

  “I only want to keep Isabel safe.”

  George gets up, comes down the steps. “I’m taking her.”

  “George, please,” I say, clutching her in the blanket. “You aren’t seeing reality, here. You can take her—sure—she’s your daughter. But don’t do it now. Not while you’re high.”

  Soleil comes down, stands with George. “I’m sober, and I can see reality just fine. You know what I see? I see that you don’t want George to get what he wants. Ever. And now that he’s standing up for himself, and he’s making a choice, you’re trying to act like an authority. You’re pretending to be his mom, just like you are with the kid.”

  “Maybe that’s how it looks through Percocet-colored glasses.”

  “Gina,” George says. “Give her to me.”

  I don’t. I back away. “I’m sorry for the way I’ve acted. You’re right, I need help. But so do you. Don’t take her now. You’re unfit.”

  Soleil finds her phone. “You want me to call DCFS?”

  “You wouldn’t do that,” I say to George, because fuck Soleil.

  “Sure I would,” Soleil says. “I’ll tell them everything I know, and then we’ll see which one of you is unfit.”

  “You’d break our family apart,” I say. “They’d take her to foster care—”

  “I would never let that happen,” George says, fighting both of us, now. He reaches for Isabel, takes her from me. I can’t stop him.

  “Mama?” Isabel asks, roused by his clumsy handling.

  She sees she’s no longer with me and starts to struggle, her whole little body lurching, reaching for me; I open my arms, I’ll take her—“Spaghetti—”

  “Aww, listen to that,” Soleil says, swinging Isabel’s satchel over her shoulder. “So cute. So motherly.”

  “Mama?” She’s stressing now, resisting, but she’s trapped in the blanket—

  “Please,” I say to George. “She’s all I’ve got.”

  “No,” George says, “she’s not.” He holds her tight and carries her off.

  “Mama!”

  I try to follow, but Soleil cuts in front of me. She takes off her glasses, proving she is sober. Which makes this just a little better, and so much worse.

  “Isabel’s medication—” I say, finding the bottles in my bag. “Will you take it? I don’t mean take it. I mean give it to her—”

  She takes the bottles, reads the labels.

  “An antibiotic and an anti-inflammatory,” I say. “They can’t get you high.”

  “Mama!” Isabel wails, now, which only makes George more determined as he stalks toward Soleil’s car.

  Soleil tucks the bottles into the satchel, looks over her shoulder at them. “I know DCFS isn’t much of a threat, being who you are. Plus, there’s lag time with that group. Just ask my foster mom; I told them she beat the shit out of me and she’s still got a nine-year-old living with her.” She puts her glasses back on. “I do have another call I can make. Our mutual friend, Ray? We’ve been talking lately. I don’t bring it up in front of George—kind of a sore spot—but you know how it is. Anyway. I’m pretty sure Ray would love to hear the truth about your little situation. I’ll bet that’s a threat. Being who you are.”

  “Just go.”

  “Been trying,” she says, and saunters off, one boot crossing in front of the other.

  I grab on to the fence and find the ground beneath my feet and I can’t fucking believe what’s happening. I can’t do anything. Legally, I can’t do anything. This informal arrangement worked perfectly when George wanted it to.

  As I watch Soleil’s crappy Buick drive off, I realize the world I’ve created for Isabel is nothing more than an elaborate game of pretend.


  But with good reason. Because this world—the real one? It fucking sucks.

  15

  About twenty seconds goes by before I’m headed to Soleil’s. Fuck her, and fuck Weiss. Fuck DCFS; fuck MS. Nobody sane could look at this situation and think George should be Isabel’s caretaker. I mean, he’s got a disease, too, and he isn’t seeking treatment—he’s abusing it. And while neither of us has been forthcoming about our health, I don’t actively attempt to destroy myself. Or drag around baggage like that manipulative bitch.

  Before I leave I do a sweep of the house—mostly to see what I’ll have to take back from them besides Isabel—but they didn’t pack one thing for her. Not diapers, not wipes; not pacifiers, not pajamas. Not snacks, not a single fucking toy. What the hell did Soleil put in the satchel?

  I never figure out what the hell, because I’m back out the door when I realize they drove off without a car seat.

  It should take me fifteen minutes to get there; Friday afternoon traffic makes it forty-five. I try George’s phone on the way. I get his voice mail. “This is George Simonetti.” His voice sounds fake, trying for official. “Please leave a message.”

  I should apologize. I should explain. But when I hear the beep, all I say is, “George. It’s Regina. Please call.”

  I park on Elston around the corner from Soleil’s. She lives on an angled block in Avondale in one of the only houses that doesn’t display a union support sign. She’s got what’s nicely referred to as a garden apartment—a basement unit with a view of the upstairs neighbors’ hanging plants. Her entrance is off an alley that’s shared with the parking lot of an auto repair shop. Avondale is pretty nice these days; her place is not.

  Soleil’s ground-level windows are open, though the cheap aluminum miniblinds are pulled closed. Her tabby cat, Boudelaire—yes, I looked up the name and no, there’s no way Soleil has a clue about French poetry—has spent enough time sleeping against one of the screens to bow it outward, a little hole worn through. Enough time spent right there, I think, to make it feasible that it could rip, and someone could get inside.