The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  “Well, let me tell you real quick, then: Heltman made up the lie. About Marble. He fed her the assault story—they both knew him from the hot-dog place—a real romantic place to pick up a date, right?—May I take your order? I’d like a sausage, would you like a sausage—”

  “Heltman conned her,” I say, hoping this story moves a little faster than the train.

  “She agreed to lie because she didn’t want to lose him. Or the nice view, maybe. I don’t know if you call that a con—”

  “So we’ve got Heltman on assault?” I ask, my finger over the END button. The track buzzes above me. I’ve got about ten seconds.

  “More than that. Sanchez also pointed to Heltman for the St. Claire assault.”

  “Heltman was Johnny Marble?”

  “Makes the term trust seem revocable, doesn’t it?”

  “Will Sanchez testify?”

  “I don’t know yet—”

  “Oh,” I say without the kay and I hang up. And then I switch off the phone so my battery story seems true; if he calls back, he’ll think he’s calling a dead line.

  The L grinds along the track overhead and I toss the phone on the seat. Now I’m really going in without backup.

  Still, I’m optimistic: if Weiss gets to Sanchez, we can get to Heltman—and that gets me one gimp step closer to tearing the whole thing down.

  But, first.

  I get my gun and then I shuffle toward Kitasaki’s. Shuffle, yes, because I’m wearing Walter’s girlfriend’s shoes without socks, and also it hurts like a motherfucker to actually lift my leg. I look ridiculous, I’m sure, but I’m not exactly looking to make a good impression on the not-good-at-all doctor.

  The gates that surround the patches of grass in front of the apartments are thigh-high, installed for aesthetics instead of actual use, which is funny since this part of Lake Street isn’t all that nice and the lack of security may as well be a sign that says FREE STUFF! for anybody who comes poking around from the industrial corridor that lies north of here, or from the ghetto to the west.

  When I get to Kitasaki’s cute little gate I act like I know where I’m going and that I expect it to be open. It isn’t, which is what I actually expected, so I hike my good leg over the fence and stifle the cry that accompanies drawing the other leg over.

  Kitasaki’s unit is ground floor with a green fiberglass front door. The two front windows beside the door are covered by miniblinds, so I can’t tell if he’s home or awake or what. I just hope he’s alone.

  I knock.

  I knock again.

  I start to get worried he isn’t home, or he knows it’s me and he’s forming his own last-ditch plan about how this is going to go down.

  But then he opens the door, and I’m there pointing my gun at his face.

  He’s surprised to see us both.

  He starts to turn and slam the door but I angle in and stop it with my shoulder. It fucking hurts but it works, because he doesn’t get the door shut before he runs off.

  When I get in, my back to the door, I see him duck into another room on the right.

  Fuck! That’s what I was afraid of.

  But I’m not afraid. I’m here for Isabel.

  I do a visual sweep of the room: it’s clean, clutterless. An empty couch sits before a flat screen, the centerpiece. Just inside the door, on the floor: two pairs of shoes. A backpack. And on the coat hook to my right, there’s a black jacket and a black cadet hat. It’s the delivery driver’s cap Mari thought she saw. It has to be.

  “Doctor,” I say. “Come out or don’t, I’ll still shoot you dead.” I train the gun on the door he disappeared through, surroundings falling out of focus as I approach.

  Kitasaki doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t give a shit. I feel nothing—no pain, no fear. I say, “You should know this gun is my service revolver. Which actually makes it the perfect weapon because as far as anyone knows, Johnny Marble has it. Makes sense that it’d be Johnny Marble who’d come in here and shoot you dead. Revenge for what you did to his mother.”

  Kitasaki still doesn’t say anything.

  I don’t give a shit. I stop just outside the door and get my back against the wall; from here I can see a corner of white tile. It must be the bathroom.

  I say, “I guess we put a lot on poor old Johnny Marble. Maybe we could let him off the hook for this. I mean, he could have sold the gun. Or ditched it somewhere. Or maybe he gave it to his sister, and she shot you dead.”

  Kitasaki says, “You’re crazy.”

  “Well, doc, crazy works out pretty well for me. Crazy is what got me an extra night in the hospital, isn’t it? In fact, I’m there right now. So it wasn’t me who shot you.”

  “They’ll know it was you.”

  “They—you mean the police? My police? That works out okay for me, too. Because I actually don’t give a shit and they won’t, either. You’re the bad guy. Fuck you.”

  “I’m talking about Legacy—” he starts to say but I wasn’t kidding, I don’t give a shit, so I cut around the corner and enter the room, my gun at close guard. I find him standing there holding a toilet plunger like a bat, so I plow into him—shoulder leading—and I take him down.

  Then I’m on top of him, and I’ve got my gun in his eye. He drops the plunger.

  “Is this the part where you con me? Where you tell me this is bigger than you and you had to come after me, too?”

  He looks at me, his one eye. “You kill me and that’s as far as it goes. They’ve done this over and over—dozens of patients—but you’ll never get them. They set it up that way—they set me up.”

  I move the gun to his chest. “What do they have on you?”

  “A surgery that went bad,” he says, raising his rashed hands in surrender.

  “How bad?”

  “It was for spinal stenosis. A fusion. I don’t know how but the patient woke up paralyzed. He said he would sue. They protected me, but that meant I could no longer move, either.”

  “Why didn’t you just quit?”

  “And then what? My student loans were—are—in the hundreds of thousands. And my father, he would never understand. It’s honorable, this work. I want to be a doctor—I’m a good doctor. I do the best I can. I think you, of all people, should understand that.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I know more than you think.”

  I slide back at the same time I move the gun from his heart to his balls. “You know where to find my brother and his child.”

  Kitasaki squirms, though it’s purely defensive because I’m shoving the gun hard into his testicles, and it’s natural for him to want to go fetal. Or shit on the floor.

  I say, “My brother. His child.”

  “I don’t know,” he manages, heaving. “George disappeared … after the drug test. Which was the … point—to get him out of pocket. Away from you.”

  I don’t believe it. “What about his daughter? What about Isabel?”

  “That was Lidia’s idea.”

  “You threatened her life. When I was in the MRI tube.”

  “It was all supposed to be a threat to you.”

  “Tell me where she is.”

  “I don’t know—I swear to God—” I’m losing him, so I let off a little. I give him a sec.

  Then I jam the gun in his balls and I say, “I want you to know that I can also be anywhere, anytime. And if you’re lying to me about my family, I will be back, and I will shoot you dead. If you’re lying about Legacy, I will be back, and I will shoot you dead. And believe me when I say I am not afraid. I will kill you and I will go down for it before you ever practice medicine again. You’re done, doctor. You can pack up your knives, snap off your gloves, and say goodbye to your stake in this game.”

  “I can’t—” he starts.

  Then I cock the gun. “It’s your duty to do no harm,” I say. “Not mine.”

  Kitasaki vomits.

  I get off of him; he curls up, tries to breathe.

>   Before I go, I say, “Be well.”

  At the front door, I take the cadet hat. I pull it on, a survival souvenir.

  30

  I call Walter on my way back to the hospital.

  “Use the main entrance on Claremont,” he says. “I’ll be by the security desk. Ask to use the public bathroom. I’ll take it from there.”

  “Okay, but I’m kind of a mess.”

  “Are we talking hot mess, or burn-victim mess?”

  “Closer to burn victim.”

  “Strike that plan, then. You can’t get admitted twice. Go past the main entrance instead. You’ll see a set of doors between there and the annex. I’ll be there to let you in. But this way might be a little more … intimate than you’d like.”

  “I’ll snuggle with you if it gets me back to my room. See you in ten.”

  When I get there Walter cracks the door and I slip inside what turns out to be a vestibule outside a bank of administrative offices, none of which appears occupied at this time of night, despite the hospital’s perpetual daytime lighting.

  The lighting must really show off my best features, because when Walter gets a look at me he looks like he could use medical attention.

  I hand him his car keys and tell him, “I’m okay.” I still feel no fear. Pain is making its way back, and big-time, but, “I’m good, actually.”

  “I’ve heard extreme blood loss can lead to feelings of euphoria.”

  “Maybe that’s what it is. But I’m onto them, Walter. The lot of them.”

  “There’s a lot of them?”

  “A lot of people getting conned, yes.”

  “So, everything is going according to no plan.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “Well, I’m happy to look the other way.”

  “What’s the plan here?” I ask about the vestibule.

  “That’s actually the plan,” he says, holding up a hospital gown. “For me to look the other way.”

  “This what you meant by intimate?”

  “Should I have said awkward?”

  “It’s okay, Walter. I want you to get me into bed.”

  He grins, and holds the gown up like a curtain.

  I lose the shoes, peel off the jeans. When I take off the shirt, I can smell death.

  “I hope your girlfriend doesn’t want this stuff back.”

  “Bloodstains are easy. Meat tenderizer and toothpaste.”

  “Death is impossible. It doesn’t wash out.”

  “Death,” he repeats, but not like he wants to know the details.

  I take the gown from him and slip it over my arms. “Snap me?”

  When he’s through he balls up his girlfriend’s clothes, pitches them in a trashcan, and says, “Now that you think I’m a respectful gentleman…” Then he picks me up, a fireman’s carry, and takes me through the second set of doors.

  “I can walk.”

  “Let me be the hero for a minute, would you?”

  He turns down what I think is an empty hallway; when I lift my head, I only get a broader view of the rubber sheet flooring—and a sharp reminder that the muscles along my spine are torn to shreds.

  At the end of the hall he pushes open a door and we enter a stairwell.

  “Three flights,” he says. “Hang on.”

  I hang, mostly.

  From this vantage point, my head closer to where my feet should be, I’m reminded of the last time I was in a hospital stairway.

  Funny that I’d say things are looking up.

  “Here we are,” Walter says at the top of the landing. “Your chariot awaits.”

  He helps me down. It’s a wheelchair, sitting there.

  I climb in, no hesitation.

  As he pushes me back to my room, I realize the reason I was so mad at Tom wasn’t because of the wheelchair comment. It was because I was afraid I was weak.

  I guess I got that out of my system.

  When we get to my room Walter swivels the chair so we can see each other and asks, “Ready for bed?”

  “God yes,” I say. “I owe you, Walter.”

  “You? No. You’ve made my life considerably more interesting. I mean, there’s no algorithm to the shit you’re going through. It’s intense.”

  “Hopefully it’s nearly over.”

  “Well, I’m here to help, okay? Not here, actually—I don’t think I can come back here. That nurse might devour me.”

  “Must have been some cup of coffee.”

  “What can I say? Turns out I’m very charming when I make it up as I go.”

  “Think you can charm her into coming here, before you go? I could use some health care.”

  He nods. “Then I’ll try making my escape.”

  “Good luck.”

  When he starts off down the hall, I roll into the room. I find a towel and get into bed. I pull up my gown and undo the tape. Underneath, my leg doesn’t look as bad as it feels, which is good news—yes, it fucking hurts, but hey, I can feel it.

  I pull the sheets up when I hear Monica.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Like I survived battle.”

  She comes to the bed, turns my arm over. “Where’s the IV?”

  Fuck: I forgot. After all this, I’m going to get busted for not taking medication. Same way this whole thing started.

  “Let me guess,” Monica says, “they used the port for contrast and just taped it up when they were done.”

  “I guess so?”

  She undoes the tape, sets to work replacing the line. “I bet you’re wondering how you’re supposed to get well in a hospital,” she says, “all the things we put you through.”

  I lie back and close my eyes. “The question has come to mind.”

  31

  In the morning, Andy is at my bedside. He doesn’t look happy about it.

  “Two days in a row,” I say. “Did you lose a bet?”

  “I’ve got bad news. Kay St. Claire passed away last night.”

  It isn’t hard for me to look unhappy. “What happened?”

  “Complications stemming from Norovirus, is what they think.”

  “Her grandson was there.” Robyn was right.

  “No,” Andy says, clueless. “She was alone. Died on the toilet. Caregiver found her.”

  “That’s terrible.”

  “Terrible, but no surprise. She got sick, and she was already sick. Immunocompromised, they call it.”

  I know that’s what they call it; that’s what they called it with Donna.

  I also know that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

  He looks down at his hands. “I thought you’d want to know, since it was, you know, personal for you.”

  I raise the bed. “Andy.”

  “Well,” he says, surprised. As close as we’ve been over the years, I may have called him by name twice. Once was on the day Donna died, but he’s right back there anyway, so it’s not like I can make it worse.

  I reach for his hand.

  “You were right,” I say, “everything’s going to be okay. But I’m going to need your help to make it that way. I need you to keep the case going.”

  “Come on, Gina. St. Claire is gone. Isn’t it time to move on?”

  “Says the man who can’t update his bathroom for fear his dead wife will frown upon the new color scheme.”

  He pulls away; I can’t blame him. “Fuck you.”

  Guess I was wrong—I’d call this worse.

  “I’m sorry. But someone’s got to say it to you. When Donna died, you quit. You couldn’t be her hero, so you quit.”

  “I did not.”

  “You admit as much! You blame that heroin junkie. You push it off on the way you say the job has changed. You say ‘why risk?’ and you spout off warnings like justifications. You are a cop-out—and not just at work.”

  I hate that I’m still talking, because Andy is just sitting there and he looks very, very sad.

  Still. “You’re closer to your dog than you are to your girlfr
iend and you’d rather take care of abandoned birds than friends. You don’t want to reach out because you’re afraid to hold on.”

  I reach out again, for his hand. He ignores me.

  “I get it,” I say. “I wish some things stayed the same. Mostly the things that never will. I wish Isabel would stay little—and stay mine, too. I wish I had the guts to share my life with someone over the age of two. I also wish you were still the man you were when Donna was alive.”

  He softens at that. Blinks away the possibility of a tear.

  “I know that can’t happen, Kanellis. But I do know that you can still be a hero. And I’m asking you—begging you—to try.”

  “For you,” he says, kind of like a question, and also an answer.

  I reach out once more. He takes my hand, and I hold on.

  “I know you kept telling me to quit the case because you wanted to protect me, and discouraging me was about as close as you could get. But I’m not the one who needs protection. St. Claire—she needed it. And I know, now, that there are dozens like her who need it, too—”

  “Sick people die, Gina. You can’t protect them from it.”

  I squeeze his hand, and then I let go. “I’m not talking about dying. I’m talking about living. Sick people, old people, crazy people—each of them living every day—however many they’ve got left—without getting fleeced by the doctors, the caregivers, the professionals they pay to care.”

  “I think that’s pretty common. They call it health insurance.”

  “Actually, it’s called Complete Care, LLC.”

  “The home-care company?”

  “Yes. It’s a fraud. Part of a financial racket that starts with a trip to Sacred Heart and ends with a dirt nap in a cardboard box because every last dime’s been ‘meaningfully invested’ in a moneymaking scam.”

  “You know this?”

  I sit up. “I can prove it. I’ve got names, and I know the game, and I’ve got enough evidence lined up to take these sons of bitches out at the knees. But I need you to be the lead. I need you to take what I’ve got and build a case, and then I need you to bring it to Iverson. I want the two of you to come crashing fucking down on them.”

  “Why don’t you want to do it?”

  I sit back. “I may have bent a few rules during my investigation.”