The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  “Or, you know, getting Johnny jail time would make her the only one who can take control.”

  “That means the caregiver is in on it. It fits—she’s the one who called us on Johnny. And she’s been skimming cash from Kay, which Christina tried blaming on Johnny.”

  “Poor old Johnny,” Weiss says.

  “Unless,” I say. I sit up. “Someone’s been standing in for Johnny.”

  “Who could pull that off?”

  “Listen. The man who did this to me? He made it clear that unless I quit this case, he can get to me again. To me, or to Isabel. And I believe him, because he got to me here. In the hospital. During my MRI—”

  Weiss double-takes. Twice. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “The man spoke to me. Over the intercom. When I was in the tube—”

  “How is that possible?”

  “I think he either bypassed the intercom system or bribed the radiologist.”

  “There’s no way. Either way.”

  “Oh, come on: think about the liberties we take on the Job. The favors we call in, the things we let each other get away with—”

  “But we deal with bad guys.”

  “Who is it you think I’m dealing with?”

  Weiss sits back. “This is crazier than Johnny fucking Marble.”

  “He told me he could be anywhere. Said he could be anybody. He’s got to be connected. He’s got to have some control. When I started screaming, the radiologist acted like I had a panic attack. They sedated me. Does that sound like normal procedure for claustrophobia? For someone who isn’t claustrophobic?”

  “It sounds crazy.”

  “Exactly how it’s supposed to sound. I’m crazy: sedate me, shut me up—”

  Weiss eyes the door. “Does that mean you’re in danger here?”

  “No—not here. This is right where he wants me. That’s why I called you.”

  Weiss looks at me. Considers. Maybe considers me crazy. But asks, “What do you want me to do?”

  I want him to find Isabel. I want him to get the fugitives team together, blaze a trail, find her—and George—get them some place safe.

  But if I send someone, he will know. He’ll know I’m still in the fight, and then what? I’ve got no leverage. Unless …

  “I want you to go to my place,” I say. “Make like you’re from Fourteen. Pretend you’re poking around. Get my laptop. Find St. Claire’s bank statements—they’re hidden in my spam from someone named Maria in Florida. Then see if you can get to somebody at the bank, or the mortgage company, or the attorney’s office. Someone who might be able to point to Christina for this.”

  “I will,” Weiss says, “but I can’t leave you alone.” He reaches around the back of his waistband and pulls out a .40 S&W.

  My service weapon.

  “You? How?”

  “Marble gave it to me when I found him.”

  “And you just kept it?”

  “I didn’t know if you were trouble, or in trouble, remember?”

  He tucks it under the daybed’s seat cushion; I guess he finally trusts me, too.

  He says, “Now you’re not alone.” He gets up.

  “Thank you, Weiss,” I say, thinking I should’ve called him Ray.

  Just before he’s out the door he says, “Don’t go anywhere.”

  Who, me?

  25

  I’m still waiting for the attending when Metzler shows up. I assume Andy called him; I also assume I’m going to have to explain why I’m in the hospital again.

  “Regina,” he says, a rare tinge of worry in his voice.

  “George has Isabel.” I say has instead of took and I try not to sound desperate about it.

  “Yes,” Metzler says, without indication that he has any feelings one way or the other. He comes over and takes my hand. “How are you?”

  “I’m alive.”

  He looks down, my legs. “And kicking?”

  “More like limping.” I know this from a failed trip to the bathroom, when putting weight on my right leg was about like getting stabbed again. “I’m a little sore.”

  He goes to the nurses’ computer, clicks around.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Trying to determine which medication has made you so forthcoming.”

  I try to laugh because he’s trying to be funny.

  When he’s through he comes back and checks my vitals. “I see you’ve eaten,” he says, to the empty Sam’s Red Hots bag on the empty dinner tray.

  “I didn’t get stuck in the gut.”

  He takes my wrist, a gentle hold. “You’re tough, like your mother.”

  “What—” the fuck does she have to do with anything? I wonder if he feels my pulse spike. I clear my throat. “I’m sorry, I didn’t expect a lecture.”

  “Yes you did. You just expected that it’d be about your behavior. Your obstinance.”

  I can’t argue. He’s right.

  “Your mother was tough; you know she was, even in her last breath.”

  “Well, I heard.”

  “I wish you could let go of the guilt you feel for not being there.” He steps back, puts his hands in his pockets. “You don’t know this but you were there, the first time. When she had cancer. You wouldn’t remember. You were so young. And, well, she didn’t tell you—”

  “How young?”

  “You’d just started grade school, I think—”

  “I remember.” I remember prancing into my parents’ bedroom one afternoon, my dad wrapping a bandage around her recent mastectomy. “Breast cancer.” I didn’t know what it was called at the time, but I was never so light on my feet after that moment.

  “She didn’t want you to be afraid.”

  I remember the constant strain in their voices. How I’d perform for them—literally a whole song and dance; how I’d try to make them laugh. How I’d ask to pour the wine at dinner, filling their glasses, sensing the way the stuff eased the mood. How I’d play second mom to George. I was good at scolding.

  And I remember how I’d sneak into the hall after bedtime to listen to them, barely able to hear the words, praying for laughter.

  Yes, praying. And to God, who I pictured as a backlit man with feathered hair, a dimpled chin, and a mug-shot appearance. He wore a black suit with a T-shirt, a toothy smile and horn-rimmed glasses. He was one part David Bowie from the cover of All Saints, another part John Travolta, and also our elderly neighbor Mr. Zins, all men my mother seemed to favor.

  He rarely answered my prayers.

  I say, “I was afraid anyway.”

  Metzler says, “So was she.”

  He goes to the daybed and sits right on top of the gun. He crosses his legs. I try not to look concerned but I must, because he elaborates: “She thought she could protect you from the cruelty of the world. She went to great lengths—do you remember your folks’ trip to Puerto Vallarta? It was over Thanksgiving—you and George stayed with us.”

  “It was third grade,” I remember.

  “It was actually her surgery. She billed the so-called souvenir she brought you as the little Mexican mermaid, even though it was just a Disney doll from the hospital gift shop. You were so pleased you didn’t question the gift, though you did wonder why they didn’t have suntans. Rain, she said. And when you asked about vacation pictures, she told you—”

  “Dad tried to take the camera scuba diving.”

  “You do remember.”

  “So?” I try to shrug, but it hurts. “The turkey was always overcooked anyway.”

  Metzler looks at me. No judgment. Which makes me feel like a jerk. After all these years, who hangs on to a detail like dry turkey?

  Still. “Now you’re going to feed me her line,” I say. “She was only doing what she thought was best.”

  “No. Now I’m going to tell you you’re doing the same exact thing.”

  “I thought you said this wasn’t about me.”

  “To be sure, it’s about much more. I see you
being tough. I see you doing what you think best. And I see you going to great lengths to protect the people you care about. But you don’t see how your decisions affect those people. You don’t see that trying to protect Isabel from the fear and insecurity you felt when you were a child is going to cause her to develop the same negative attitude you had—still have—toward your mother. And, Regina, I’m afraid you don’t see that at the breakneck rate you’re going, Isabel may never know you at all.”

  That last bit makes my face hot. Son of a bitch: he’s absolutely right. But. “You think George is doing any better than I am? I’m sure he didn’t tell you he was popped when he and Soleil showed up to take Isabel. Or that he’s still shacking at her place—or should I say her help-yourself pharmacy—”

  “Stop, Regina.” Metzler gets up. “I’ve never asked you or George to tell me each other’s problems, or secrets. Come to think of it, I’ve never asked either of you for anything.” He comes around, bedside, hands on the rail. “Now, though? I’m asking you both to stop this—this emotional-distance competition. You need to be together—to band together—for Isabel. You need to quit taking risks and quit making excuses.” His expression remains even, though his fingers are curled tight around the rail. “You need to straighten up and sober up and god damn it, grow up.”

  “You’re right,” I say, out loud this time. “Did George agree, too?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “What?” My blood goes cold. “You haven’t seen him? Or Isabel?”

  “No.”

  “But he called you, yesterday.”

  “We were at the theater.”

  I raise the bed up as high as it’ll go. “May I use your phone?”

  Metzler reaches into his pocket, pauses. “Why?” He’s got the phone in his hand, anticipating my answer, but then a new nurse shows up, over his shoulder—

  “Ms. Simonetti? I’m Cerita, I’ll be taking over for Jemelle.”

  “Hi,” I say, though I don’t remember Jemelle, or the nurses who came before her.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” she says to Metzler, who steps out of the way. She puts a plastic shot-glass-size cup of pills on my tray and pulls a set of rubber gloves from the receptacle on the wall. “Can you tell me your level of pain?” she asks, checking the monitors, going through the protocol that seems perfunctory with a seasoned doctor twiddling mental thumbs behind her.

  “Two,” I say, and then I remember what Metzler just said. “Plus three. So five.”

  “Okay,” she says, adding that number to the equation that includes whatever the monitors tell her. She unwraps a set of plastic-wrapped tools and sets them on my bedside tray. “I’m going to need you to sit up.” She helps me.

  She removes the dressing, examines the wound on my back. While she’s at it I look over at the tools and I notice the scalpels and I remember: the detective told Andy the knife the attacker used was short and thin bladed—a lock or a sheaf—a tool more than a weapon. A tool. A surgical tool.

  Andy also said there were latent handprints at my place. That happens with gloves. That could happen with surgical gloves.

  I’m sure my face plainly registers the wild realization, though I hope the timing coincides with what would be an uncomfortable move, my spine bearing weight. I play it that way. “Sonofa,” I say to Cerita, “make that a seven.”

  “I’ll speak to the doctor,” she says. “He may want to adjust your medication. It’s a little tricky, with you just coming off prednisone—”

  “Please do speak to him,” I agree. I don’t want to wind up taking something that’s going to prevent me from getting the fuck out of here.

  Cerita passes me the cup of pills. “This should help in the meantime.” She pours water and stands over me while I take the pills and I swear Metzler watches to make sure I swallow.

  “Thanks,” I say, and as she retreats to log my latest particulars into the computer, I smile at Metzler. I hope it doesn’t look as put on as it feels. “As I was saying, I’d like to call my brother.”

  “That’s great, Regina.” Metzler hands me his phone. I don’t think he suspects a thing, though it’s not George I’m calling now. I mean, what the fuck. I’ve got visions of a hostage situation, and I’m in no position to negotiate.

  “Will you give me a minute?”

  “Of course.” As soon as Metzler clears the door I get my own phone, still wedged in the incline of my bed. I look up the number for Walter’s burner and dial it from Metzler’s.

  Walter doesn’t answer, probably because he doesn’t recognize the number.

  I leave a message: “Dialup. I’m in the hospital. St. Elizabeth’s. I need you to come. And bring an extra phone. And if anyone asks, you’re not you and you’re here to see your sister who is not me.” I’m looking at Cerita because I know she’ll sneak a glance at me for that one—when she does I say, to both of them, “Actually, it’s nobody’s business why you’re here. Tell them to blow.” Cerita looks back at her screen.

  I hang up, delete the call in the phone’s log, and think about calling Weiss to tell him about the knife, and the gloves; I should trust him.

  But this is Isabel. I won’t risk her life on should.

  I dial George: straight to voice mail. My knee-jerk is to hang up, but that’s because I don’t know if George has turned away from me, or been turned.

  So after the beep I simply say, to whoever might get the message, “George. I’m trying you from Rick’s phone. I just want you to know that I’d never do anything to put you or Isabel in danger. Please believe that, and please, come home and let me prove she is my only priority. I love you, and I love your little girl. Will you tell her so? Because really, that’s all that matters.”

  Then I hang up and begin to plan my escape.

  26

  It’s after dinner by the time Walter shows up and I’m starving because I didn’t eat dinner, because they brought chicken, and I couldn’t get the picture of Iverson’s carcass mop out of my head. Even the fruit cup, foil-sealed and syrup-soaked, was unappealing.

  Walter pulls off his beanie and says, “Hey, sis.” He doesn’t look at all shocked by my appearance so I figure word spread through the ranks, or else he used his tech savvy and currently knows more about what happened to me than the misguided mooyacks at Fourteen, who have probably put the finishing touches on their all-points bulletin and gone home to watch Monday night baseball. Not a criticism; I gave them the go-ahead and the go home. Because the less they work, the longer I’ve got.

  I say, “Walter: I’m closing in on the bad guy.”

  “Not the guy who’s got Fourteen all aflutter.”

  “No. And I’m not talking about a thief after froth, either. This is somebody connected to St. Claire. Somebody who knew how to find me at my home, and in this hospital, and who has enough pull to trap me here by threatening me, and Isabel—”

  “Wait. Who’s Isabel?”

  I shut up. I never told Walter about her. I also never told anyone at Sacred Heart about her. And she’s a child, and she’s not mine, so how could anyone know?

  Lidia, that’s how. Lidia, Robyn Leone’s Complete Care coworker. Lidia has been in my home. She was there, in fact, when Isabel got hurt. There to help.

  Just like Robyn, there to help.

  “Gina? Are you okay?”

  “I’ve got to get out of here. I need you to spring me.”

  Walter laughs. Then he stops. Because, “You’re serious.”

  “I also need to make it look like I’m still here.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “I don’t know, you’re the tech guy. Can’t you loop my heartbeat? Dispense the IV bag into a bucket? Hook this pulse thing to some program on my phone?”

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about. You think I can fake a human being?”

  “If my human-beingness is being monitored by devices, yes.”

  “What about the nurses?”

  “Th
ere was a shift change at seven. The new nurse said they’d give me meds again at nine and then I’m not scheduled for anything else until six A.M.”

  “But they’ll check on you, won’t they? Don’t they?”

  I point to the monitors. “These machines are part of the hospital’s network. They can read them from the nurse’s station, and if everything’s fine, there’s no need to come in here—” I stop talking, because he’s looking at me like I’m speaking in a code he doesn’t understand. “I’m surprised I have to explain this to you.”

  “I understand the hardware, Simonetti. It’s faking you that I don’t think I can do.” He opens the standing closet next to the window and sticks his head inside. It’s empty, except for three hangers. “Somebody is going to come in. And if you aren’t in bed—”

  “Then I’m in the bathroom,” I say. “Please. I just need tonight. I’ll be back before sunrise.”

  He closes the closet door, tries the cabinet above the computer monitors. “I wonder if there isn’t a better plan.”

  “The best plan would have been doing this on my own. But I can’t. I need you. Your brain.”

  “Brain,” he says, “huh.”

  “Huh?”

  He smiles, closes the cabinet, gets a phone from his pocket, and hands it to me. “As requested,” he says. “I’ll be back at nine-oh-five. Use TextSecure if you need to reach me. I’m the only contact there, and the only one you can message safely. I mean, you can use this phone, but the less, the better.”

  “Okay.”

  “See you in a bit.”

  I try to wait patiently for nine-oh-five.

  At eight fifty-five I dial Weiss. I tell myself I’m simply calling so I can truthfully say I’m at the hospital, and also make sure he’s not coming back to visit, but when it rings on the other end, I anticipate hearing his voice.

  “This is Weiss.”

  “It’s Gina. I’m on a friend’s phone.”

  “I was just on my way to you. I—”

  “No,” I say, same as fuck. “I mean, you can’t. Visiting hours are over in about five minutes and I still don’t know who’s watching me. You showing up here might trip a wire—”