The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  I’m crying, too, because I know Rick and Janine, Isabel’s god-grandparents, will take them both in, and offer George the goodwill I can’t.

  And yes, I’m crying because now, I’m going to be alone.

  I pull myself together and ride the Kennedy up to the Edens. Traffic is light, and fast. I exit Peterson and cut into the neighborhood where trees canopy the streets and yards are delineated by flower beds instead of fences.

  I turn onto Thorndale, a real memory lane. The Metzlers live two blocks up. As I approach, I get nervous: What if they don’t want me to see Isabel just now? What if they want to let her acclimate without confusion? I imagine their house, a combination of how it used to be and how I hope to see it: a Christmas-in-July—well, June—storybook scene in the front window, Metzler reading an actual storybook to Isabel while Janine is on her way into the room with a plate of sugar cookies.

  Let there be no confusion: I want that for Isabel. But I want to be there, too.

  Though the place is dark and there’s no scene at all in the window, I park curbside, get up the nerve, and go up to knock. No one answers, but since I got up the nerve, I may as well wait.

  I take the footpath that runs between two homes that’ve stood here since I was Isabel’s age, likely longer. When I get to the playground, I’m the only one; it is after six o’clock, though, and I’m in a place where supper is a certain time, and kids scramble home for it. Up the way, little leaguers play on the ball fields, their fans around the fences. When George was a kid, we’d watch those games. He never did want to play.

  I pick the swing at the end of the row. The equipment looks new and reminds me of Humboldt, its climbing arches and curvy slides. I know Isabel will love it here. It used to be my favorite spot, even when we were too old to play. It’s much different now, but enough the same. Kind of like me, I guess. George, too—though we never could have predicted the way we turned out. George was the one who wanted to be a cop. Military, like dad. But, like mom, he had a flat foot. When the recruiter said they wouldn’t take him, George picked a fight—a federal offense. Luckily, I guess, that the recruiter turned out to be a hotheaded asshole who deftly fought back with the butt of his service weapon. So George didn’t do time, but he sure shot himself in the flat foot.

  As for me, I just wanted to be in love. Married. Not like either of my parents at all.

  As it turns out, I also have a knack for self-sabotage.

  I lean back and kick my legs out to get the swing going. I get up there toward the treetops and I’m planning to swing well past suppertime when Kay’s mail slips out of my shirt pocket.

  Speaking of federal offense.

  I ease back down, swipe the envelope, and tear it open.

  The statement is from Kay’s checking account. It shows a balance of over $80,000—serious cash for a fluid account. I keep about two grand in mine, enough to cover monthly bills plus a small cushion. Either Kay’s got stiff bills, or a real fluffy cushion—she ain’t broke.

  Page one of the statement reports last month’s activity: everything in and out during May. There are two deposits. One, a social security payment for nearly $3,000; the other, a direct deposit from Champion Mortgage for $99,400.

  There are dozens of deductions: monthly debits are taken by Liberty Mutual Insurance, Blue Cross Blue Shield, and Complete Care, LLC—they took a flat $4,000. Individual charges include Sacred Heart Hospital four times, the amounts which total, on quick math, about $3,500. There are five debits for a hundred dollars each time listed as ATM POS; I assume that’s machine cash. And there is one big charge billed by the Cook County Treasurer for $7,927—most likely a property tax payment.

  I flip to the next page and find check photocopies. Every single hundred is made out to R. Leone, confirming what I saw on the carbon copies in the book. A check for $2,200 is also made out to cash; the other big one for $4,500 goes to someone named Christopher Heltman, Esq.

  All said, she spent over twenty-five grand; a lot of money for one old woman in a month’s time. Robin is right—it’s damn expensive to be old and sick.

  It must also be pretty lucrative for Robin, with nobody to stop her from snaking a hundred dollars here and there. Last month, here and there netted twelve hundred bucks.

  I look over the statement once more. What’s missing here isn’t money. It’s Johnny. Again.

  I snap phone photos of the statement, and I call Walter’s burner.

  “How’d the reunion go?”

  “Still pending.”

  “Sorry, Gina. I can’t do anything until he turns on the phone again—”

  “It’s okay. I think he’s okay.”

  “What about you? Are you okay?”

  “I’m preoccupied. Do you remember that case you and Delgado told me about? The hinky handyman?”

  “Sure.”

  “I think Kay St. Claire’s caregiver is working a similar scam.”

  “Wait. We’re back to work now?”

  “Crooks don’t work business hours.”

  “So what, St. Claire has a broken window?”

  “More like a broken memory. Currently, she thinks she gave all her money to her son.”

  “The schizo?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she wants it back?”

  “She doesn’t know what she wants, Walter. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”

  “Where does the caregiver come in?”

  “She’s skimming hundreds from St. Claire’s savings. Apart from that, I can’t figure what money is missing. I have her bank statement. You think you could take a look?”

  “Wait. Did St. Claire give you her bank statement?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I say. “It isn’t evidence. It’s information.”

  He sighs, the only counter to his own earlier argument. “I’ll look, but I won’t touch. We should meet.”

  “Where?”

  “You pick. I’ll be there.” He hangs up before I can name a place.

  * * *

  It’s nearly dark when I go back to my car. I’m disappointed, because Metzler’s house is still empty. It’s Isabel’s bedtime; I wonder where they are.

  I take surface streets and wind up in Wicker Park. It’s eight o’clock on a summer Sunday, and on a popular street: perfect for one last weekend cocktail on the patio, as evidenced by the hordes of twentysomethings knocking back drinks outside a string of old bars I recognize with new names I don’t. It’s been a while.

  I park on Division near St. Claire’s; I must have been mentally steering in her direction. It’s got to be odd, being old and living so close to the hipster world of Jager bombs and mini sliders, craft beers and locavore menus. Even I feel out of touch here.

  There is a bar that still sits around the corner on Damen, though, still and always. It’s been serving PBR since it fell in and out and in and out and now, cheaply, in favor again. No patio. No bombs. No food.

  I go.

  I order a gin and tonic. I hadn’t planned on drinking but I can’t think of a reason not to, which depresses me enough to drink it quickly.

  I call Walter; he doesn’t answer. I order another drink and get a booth. The place is dark and near empty but the bartender is playing James Brown and so it seems like there’s more going on.

  I’m just starting to feel the gin when Walter sits down across from me, his own drink.

  I sit back. “I’m impressed. Even though it’s creepy, just showing up—”

  “You shouldn’t be impressed. You should update your phone’s privacy settings.” He smiles. “You have the statement?”

  I get it from my bag and hand it to him.

  After he gives it a once-over he asks, “Did she refi?”

  I make an I-don’t-know face. “Why?”

  He turns the statement around, shows me, “This is a lot of money to get in cash at once. She either got a home equity loan, or took out a reverse mortgage.”

  “I’ve heard of that: you sell your house back to the bank a
nd use the cash?”

  “You buy back your equity with the property, basically. If you’re a senior and you need cash, and you’ve paid off the bulk of the loan, it makes sense. Assuming your heirs aren’t expecting to inherit the place.”

  “It’s through the government, though, isn’t it? So it has to be aboveboard.”

  “Unless it’s a jumbo loan. Private companies are starting those up again now that the economy is better.”

  “Either way, it doesn’t seem right for Kay. She does have bills—serious medical bills—but it’s clear, here, that she isn’t strapped for cash. If she doesn’t need the money, what’s the benefit?”

  “I don’t accept the premise of that question. Money is the benefit.” He looks at the numbers upside-down, points to the Champion Mortgage line. “There’s another thing: even if she got a loan? She took a lump sum.”

  “So what?”

  “The majority of people take monthly payments or incremental amounts for specific needs. There’s less tax that way. Better return. And seniors who do this often use the money to get by—to pay bills, like you said.”

  “What’s the minority use the money for?”

  “Investing. Buying a second property. Or home renovation, maybe.”

  “Kay’s got Alzheimer’s. I think she would very much prefer everything stay exactly as-is.”

  Walter sits back. “This has got to be on the up-and-up, then. For one thing, the money is there. For two, it’s froth.”

  “A hundred thousand dollars is froth?”

  “Nobody steals kind-of-a-lot anymore. Especially through a bank. The reward’s got to be worth the risk.”

  “What if the caregiver plans to siphon it, a hundred at a time?”

  “We’re talking about the woman who, like, helps St. Claire in the tub, and on the toilet?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she’s also the one who called the cops on Marble?”

  “Yes.”

  “And she gets, what, thirty-six divided by fifty-two minus the company’s take so maybe five hundred a week? To clean up all that mess?”

  “Maybe why she’s stealing.”

  “Still. That’s a lot of care for a slow little payoff.”

  I sip my drink. “You’re right.” I look at the statement again. “I don’t get it, though: Kay says she’s broke and this doesn’t show it. And when you have a disease like hers, and you believe bad things are happening, people don’t listen when you cry theft, or fraud, or abuse. They just call you paranoid.”

  “One question,” Walter says, and carefully. “Is it possible she is paranoid?”

  I think about Johnny, and Christina, and Robin. I know I misread one of them. But then I remember the mixed-up labels in Kay’s kitchen, and I have to say, “No.”

  “I’ll do some digging.” Walter picks up his sweating, untouched drink, tips it to mine, and takes it back in one easy swallow. “If I find anything, I’ll let you know.” He gets up and goes.

  * * *

  I finish my drink and drive home on a buzz, arriving with a hunger that’s only satiated with an entire frozen pizza covered in string cheese.

  After I eat I get into jammies, hit the couch, and put in one of Isabel’s movies. While the good guys win, I go over the bank statement again.

  First, I question the big cash—the hundred-grand payout. I find Champion Mortgage Company’s website and wind up lost in the complicated world of reverse mortgages. I’m virtually cornered in a theoretical refinance when I decide I should quit the money and start on the people.

  First person in question: Robin Leone. I Google. I get nothing. I put her name in quotes. I add caregiver and Complete Care LLC and I get a hit for the company on a website called Manta, a small business directory. The listing describes it as a privately held company located in Chicago, IL, categorized under Home Health Care Services. Records show it was established in 2012 and incorporated in Wyoming. Current estimates show an annual revenue of $500,000 to $1 million employing a staff of approximately 10 to 19. The address is on the north side, Albany Park.

  I’m looking for the company’s official website when my phone rings.

  It’s Walter. I’m hopeful. I answer, “Is it George?”

  “It’s St. Claire. You were right: she’s broke.”

  “What do you mean? The bank statement—”

  “Was from last month. Ninety-nine percent of that money was transferred out on the first of this month. It’s now in a private trust.”

  “Send me the new bank statement.”

  “I did. Look for the important message in your spam folder from Maria regarding your eligibility at Florida Tech. Drag the file to your desktop and delete the e-mail.”

  “Okay. What about the trust? Isn’t that something Kay would have to set up?”

  “She would. With an attorney.”

  “The attorney,” I say, finding his name on the paper statement—Christopher Heltman, Esq. “He cashed a check for forty-five hundred last month.” I highlight the search bar on my browser and plug in his name.

  “That was probably his service fee. It’s smart, really, to set up a trust for someone like St. Claire. So she knows her money is safe, and will be distributed how she wants it when the time comes.”

  The top hit in my search is a Chicago Tribune link to a Candid Candace event page. A society page seems irrelevant, and I wouldn’t click through, except the article’s headline grabs me: A Hospital Fundraiser Full of Heart. Underneath, search tags show up for Leone and caregiver and Heltman, and I realize I didn’t delete my previous search—I added to it.

  “I don’t know, Simonetti, I think it’s legit—”

  “Wait,” I say. I click the link and find a photo spread for last year’s Sacred Heart benefit. I scan the faces. Four photos down, I recognize Robin Leone. She wears a black sleeveless dress and a smile that dies in her eyes. And her arm is linked around James Novak, Sacred Heart’s CEO.

  “I think it’s bullshit,” I say. “Let me call you back.”

  I hang up and check the photo tags and confirm I’m looking at Robyn Leone and James Novak. So she spells her name with a y. Still, I think: Can’t mislabel this, bitch.

  I check the other tags for Christopher Heltman and find “Chris” at the bottom of the page, far left of a group of five men. The photo shows he’s nothing much to look at—a thin-haired white guy wearing a neckerchief and a tight smile, an aging version of the three men to his right—but together, the four stand in stark contrast to Dr. Kitasaki, posed on the other end.

  What. The.

  The accompanying article is fluff, a piece with plenty of wordplay on care and giving, not much detail about the well-to-dos who were there. Novak gets quoted, canned as ham: “Though we, as caregivers, invest our hearts, health care is not free, and so we are grateful to those donors who afford us the ability to continue saving lives.” Apparently, the gushing paid off: the event raised nearly a half million dollars.

  I look over the photos again. Most of the attendees wear buoyant picture smiles, riding the philanthropy buzz, there for a good cause.

  But Robyn. What’s her cause?

  And Heltman. What the fuck is he doing there?

  Well, okay, yes, he could be an ambulance chaser, which makes a hospital fundraiser more like a job fair. And yes, there were hundreds of people in attendance. And yes. There were three other men in the photo between Heltman and Kitasaki.

  And yes—yes, yes god dammit, I’m looking for a connection.

  But there is one. Got to be.

  For now, the attorney is mine.

  I go back to my browser and search for Christopher Heltman, Esq. I follow a link for a local lawyer directory and get a listing for the Offices of C. P. Heltman, Attorney and Counselor at Law. There’s a phone number and a business address on West Chicago Avenue, a few blocks from Kay’s.

  See? Connection. I’ll call first thing in the morning. But not on behalf of Kay. Not as police. No, I think I’m going
to seek him out for legal advice—

  A knock at the front door makes my not-so-charitable heart race from possibility to probability and back. It has to be George; who else would show up after ten?

  Who else knocks again.

  At the door I hesitate; I’m wearing pajamas and I’ve probably got old gin on my breath. I’m practically undressed, not to mention unarmed.

  But it has to be George. I open the door.

  It’s Maricarmen. She looks like she’s been crying. She says, “I came as soon as I could.”

  “What? What’s happened?”

  “The other night, I’m talking about. When Isabel got hurt.”

  “Oh, Mari.” I try to get her to come inside with me, but she won’t.

  She takes my hands and puts hers against it, prayerlike. She looks at me through tears. Says, “Mama. I am sorry. I can no longer care for Isabel.” Then she lets go, lowers her head, and turns to leave.

  “What? Mari, please don’t go—I’m the one who should apologize. I should have talked to you days ago. I was out of my head when Isabel got hurt. I know it was an accident—I shouldn’t have blamed you—you of all people, and now George has taken her, and, and—” And I’m following her down the street now, ready to tell her the whole thing, but she slows to a stop, and there’s Geraldo.

  He looks at her. “¿Qué le dijiste?”

  She turns to me, but doesn’t look up. She says, “They say I have diabetes. It has gone in my eyes. The sugar causes problems. The Pepsi, the sweets. I thought I would get new glasses. I was going to make an appointment. But that day, when Isabel fell, it was bad. I couldn’t wait. And that’s where I was, when you needed me. At the doctor. Even though I know in my soul that only God can save me.”

  I hear myself say, “They have medication,” and then I feel like an asshole because she isn’t asking for advice and she isn’t talking about diabetes. She knows there is medicine. She is talking about fear.

  I put my arms around her and I hug her and I say, “I’m with you,” because it’s all I know to say; it’s as personal as I know how to get.