The Perfect Mother: A Novel

by Nina Darnton

  “‘De acuerdo’?”

  “It means do you agree?”

  “Yes,” Jennifer said, her voice heavy with drink and emotion. “I agree.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Jennifer couldn’t fall asleep. She tossed and turned, restless and agitated, and when finally she took an Ambien and fell into a drugged slumber, she was troubled by fragments of worrying dreams. The pill offered only a brief respite—four hours later she was awake again. She glanced at the clock: 5:30 A.M. She sighed and lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling. It would be 11:30 P.M. in Philadelphia. The kids would be asleep. Mark would be up, probably working in his study. She reached for the phone.

  Her mother answered on the first ring. Mark was out for dinner, she said, and not home yet. Jennifer felt a stab of discomfort. “Who is he with?” she asked casually, but her mother didn’t know. “Someone from the office, I think,” she said. “I don’t know where he is. He said he’d be home early.”

  “Did he come home first to say good night to the kids?” Jennifer wanted to know.

  “No, honey. He didn’t need to. Everything here is fine. Don’t worry. How is Emma?”

  The time had come to tell her what was going on, and Jennifer girded herself for a hysterical reaction. She told her enough so that if the story came out in the media it wouldn’t be a complete shock, but she didn’t go into details. She emphasized that of course Emma was completely innocent and would soon be cleared but in the meantime she was being held in the “detention cell” at the police station. Her mother was silent as she spoke, and when she stopped she expected an explosion, but it didn’t come. She asked Jennifer’s father to pick up the phone and asked Jennifer to repeat what she had told her. She spoke soothingly, telling Jennifer that she must stay as long as was necessary to help Emma, that everything would be fine at home and she was convinced that Emma would soon be freed. Her father echoed her remarks and asked some specific questions: Did they have a good lawyer? Was Emma being treated well? Jennifer had expected this calm reaction from her father, but her mother surprised her. Her mother became frantic with worry when one of the kids had a cold or a slight fever, so much so that Jennifer usually shielded her from that information. Yet she seemed unruffled by the news of her eldest granddaughter’s incarceration in a murder case. Thinking about it, Jennifer realized that her mother had done this before. When Eric was hospitalized as a baby with a mold allergy that closed his trachea and required him to be intubated to save his life, her mother arrived the next day, cooked the meals, helped with the girls, and took over so completely that Jennifer could sleep at the hospital. Clearly, her mother rallied in emergencies—thank God, Jennifer thought. She hoped she was doing the same for her daughter.

  “Tell Mark he must come right away,” Jennifer said. “There’s been a new development—I can’t go into it on the phone—but I think this story may reach the papers soon and he needs to be here. Tell him to call or e-mail me when he’s booked his flight.”

  It was now 6:30 A.M. and the sky was still pitch-black. In a little while it would fade to gray and soon after that the rising sun would flood the room with light. She thought about going back to bed, but more sleep was clearly out of the question; her mind was racing with both worries and plans to head off new problems before they arose. She picked up the phone again and called Suzie. Her friend’s voice sounded groggy and she knew she’d awakened her, but Suzie came to life quickly when she realized who was calling.

  “Oh, thank God,” she said. “I’ve been trying to call you back on your cell. No one answered.”

  “I’m sorry. I was busy and didn’t check. But listen, I need your help.”

  “Yeah. I know. I got that from your message. What is going on?”

  She told her, adding a little more detail than she had for her parents.

  “I don’t understand that suggestive picture,” Suzie said. “It can’t be true. Could it have been photoshopped? Was someone trying to frame her? Ruin her reputation? Is there someone who hates her? Someone who’s jealous of her?”

  “I don’t know, Suze. I never thought of that. I think it’s far-fetched.”

  “You don’t think a photo of Emma looking like a prostitute is far-fetched?”

  “Yes, of course I do. I’m horrified and I need to talk to her about it. But the thing is, tomorrow I have to go see her in jail, and I have been told to expect a press presence. I’m really scared that this will become a big story and be picked up by the American media too. If that happens, it’s a circus. We need to do something to control the story in the States. Can you help with that?”

  “Of course. We need to hire a firm to help show the world the real Emma and to make it clear that she is being unfairly targeted in a foreign country, maybe partly because she’s an American.”

  Jennifer hesitated. “I don’t know if that’s true. I should ask the guy we hired here to manage her case and see if he thinks that approach is helpful.”

  “Look, Jen, I’ll take care of the U.S. side. You worry about Spain.”

  “Okay. But there’s something else. If it does go public there’s going to be a lot of people—friends, family, acquaintances—who will want to follow it, to know what’s happening. I can’t take that on. Can you start a blog or something, and can I forward all the e-mails I get on this to you? Will you be the spokesperson for the family?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. Now try to calm down. We will beat this. She’s going to be all right, you’ll see. Is Mark with you?’

  “No. He’s coming soon.”

  “I’ll call him. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Suze. Thanks so much. I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  She hung up. The sun was just beginning to break the horizon, ushering in another blindingly bright Seville day. Jennifer felt the tight fist of anxiety relax a little. She showered, dressed, and ordered breakfast. Soon Roberto and José would come to escort her to the police station.

  In a black-and-white tailored suit with black pumps and her long hair up in a twist, she looked as though she might have been a lawyer going to try a case. She carried a black shoulder bag and had carefully folded the newspaper with the damning photo of Emma and placed it inside. They ushered her into the backseat of a hired car, Roberto climbing in beside her and José sitting in the front passenger seat. As the driver wove in and out of traffic, Roberto reminded her that the media would make this a different experience than before.

  She could see how right he was even before they pulled up in front of the police station. There was a small mob assembled—at least twenty people milling around, some with cameras, others with microphones, and still more with notebooks or electronic devices. As the car pulled over she could hear someone shout, “That’s the mother!” and the whole group moved as one to the car, crowding around it, making it difficult to open the door. Roberto got out first and led her through the throng, where she found herself in the middle of a scene she’d only ever seen before on television crime shows. Questions were hurled at her like lightning bolts. At first they spoke Spanish, but they soon realized she didn’t understand them and switched to English: “Did you know your daughter was a call girl?” “The police say she invented the Algerian—what do you think?” “Has she told lies before?” “Do you think she thinks an American can do anything she wants and get away with it?” “Have you seen the mother of the victim? What message do you want to send to her?”

  Jennifer put her head down and clutched Roberto’s hand, trying to listen only to him as he whispered into her ear. “Don’t answer,” he told her. “Don’t listen. Keep walking.”

  Once inside, she stared at him, aghast.

  “This is what I meant, senora. This is only the beginning. You must be strong,” he said crisply. She nodded, swallowing hard.

  José approached the desk officer and requested a meeting with Emma. They were told to wait until Fernando, the detective in charge, came to fetch them. Roberto
occupied himself with Jennifer, showing her where she should sit, bringing her a cup of coffee from the machine in the hallway. She felt grateful and more and more dependent on him, looking to him for how to react, what to say, what to do next.

  They waited for more than an hour, during which time José and Roberto tried to impress upon her, as if she didn’t already know, the importance of convincing Emma to cooperate with the police. When Fernando appeared, he greeted them politely and told them they had concluded their interrogation of Paco for the moment. They all noticed that Fernando looked exhausted. His clothes were disheveled, his hair greasy, and he had a five o’clock shadow.

  “We have questioned Paco all night,” he said, rubbing his hand across his eyes. “He has begun to be cooperative.” This news sent a chill down Jennifer’s spine. What did he mean? she wondered. What had they done to him to make him cooperate? He turned to Jennifer. “Your daughter doesn’t know he is here. You will tell her, of course. We will question her again later. I suggest you explain to her, as we will, that one of them will tell us the truth first. That is the person who will have the advantage and testify against the other. It is beginning to look like that person may be Paco.”

  Jennifer bristled before Roberto could stop her. “I see that you do not have the belief that a person is innocent until proven guilty here. My daughter did nothing that anyone could accuse her of.”

  “We will see,” Fernando said with a tired smile. “Would you and your lawyer like to see her now?”

  “Sí, por supuesto,” José said.

  “I should tell you that Paco confirms what we have already heard from several witnesses: He was with Emma earlier on the night of the murder. Only Emma denies it,” Fernando said. He looked sympathetically at Jennifer. “I am a father. I understand the pain this must cause you. I have said it before and I repeat it: You must convince your daughter to tell the truth about everything. It is her best hope.”

  He turned to go and José followed. Jennifer stopped for a moment and turned to Roberto. “Will you come with me?” she asked.

  Roberto looked at Fernando, who nodded.

  “Yes, of course,” Roberto answered. “In any case, it is important that we meet.”

  Emma was sitting on her bed reading a copy of The New Yorker that Jennifer had brought her on an earlier visit. She tossed the magazine aside and jumped up when she saw her mother. She hugged her distractedly, greeted José politely in Spanish, and looked inquisitively at Roberto. Jennifer introduced them, reminding her who he was. She shook his hand and said something Jennifer didn’t understand in Spanish. They sat down around the table and Emma asked when she could get out. Roberto spoke first. “That isn’t so easy, Emma. But the answer depends very much on you. I need to tell you first that Paco has been found and is in custody here. They—”

  Emma didn’t let him finish. She jumped up. “Oh, no. They will try to pin this whole thing on him. I need to talk to him right away. When can I see him?”

  “You can’t see him,” José said. “They are not through interrogating him, although they have questioned him throughout the night, and they will start again with you probably after we leave. They won’t let you talk to him until they find out what they want to know. Apparently he has begun to talk to them.”

  Emma looked at her mother. Her voice sounded desperate. “Mama, isn’t there anything you can do?”

  How many times had Jennifer heard those words? And in the past, there often had been something she could do. How easy that had been. She could talk to the school if Emma wasn’t in the same class as her best friend and get it changed. She could get her a tutor when she didn’t understand math. As she got older, it was a little harder, but she still managed. She remembered when Emma was caught in tenth grade including in an essay two verbatim paragraphs from a published source. The teacher called it plagiarism and wanted to fail her for the course as punishment. Emma swore she hadn’t done it purposely and Jennifer believed her. These things happen.

  Jennifer went in and talked to the teacher. She pointed out how easy it was when writing and copying notes from other writers to confuse them and inadvertently use them. She reminded her that even Doris Kearns Goodwin, the famous historian, had done it, for heaven’s sake. Finally, she managed to convince the teacher to relent. “She’s learned,” Jennifer said. “She’s so sorry and will be much more careful next time. This was an important lesson.” She begged her not to “ruin her whole life” or her chances of getting into the college of her choice. The teacher had caved in and had assigned Emma to detention for two weeks instead.

  But now she was helpless. It was more like the time Emma had been bitten in the face by a friend’s German shepherd. Jennifer had been in the next room and she had heard Emma cooing at the dog. “Hi, Denny,” she had said, and then a growl followed by a terrible scream. “Mommy help me, help me!” Emma had shouted, and there was the blood running down her face and the dog’s teeth deep in her cheek, and finally the dog being dragged away and Emma still screaming, a scream Jennifer would never forget. She had felt helpless then, but she was still able to call the hospital, arrange for a plastic surgeon to meet them in the emergency room, carry Emma to the car, and talk soothingly to her, holding cloth over the bleeding bite and stroking her hair until they reached the hospital and Emma was wheeled into the operating room with Jennifer right behind her. But this time, she really was helpless.

  “No, darling, I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. “But you can do something. You can stop protecting Paco. He has already told them that you were with him the night of the murder. They have other witnesses. You have to tell them what part he played in all this. The case against you has exploded. The press is turning against you. The police must have leaked their suspicion that the Algerian doesn’t exist.”

  Emma started to object.

  “No, wait, Emma,” Jennifer continued. “I believe he does, of course. If you say he does, then he does; I know that. But you can understand, as I’ve tried to tell you before, that now that they know you were lying about seeing Paco the night of the murder, they are reluctant to believe anything you say.” Her voice was rising and her mouth felt so dry she had trouble swallowing her saliva.

  “The Spanish media is surrounding this jail, and if it hasn’t happened yet, soon the international press will join them,” she continued in a tight, tense voice. “We have had to prepare Pops and Granny and Lily and Eric.”

  “There is something else,” Roberto added. “Once the media is involved they start digging up information that might put you in a negative light. Up until now, the press view of you has been positive—a pretty, naive American caught in a web of drugs and murder. They might have been willing to give you the benefit of the doubt about your lie concerning seeing your boyfriend. But now that they have been doing some research, all that has changed.”

  “Changed? Why? What negative things could they have dug up?” She looked again at Jennifer, her voice rising in agitation. “Mom?”

  Jennifer rummaged in her bag and pulled out the newspaper. She was overwrought and her hand was shaking as she tossed it onto the table. “That, Emma. What is that? What in God’s name were you doing dressed like that?” She fought back tears. “Oh, my God, what has this Paco done to you?”

  Emma picked up the newspaper, seemingly bewildered. She looked at it for a long time, during which everyone seemed frozen. Then she laughed—a hard, bitter laugh that Jennifer barely recognized as belonging to her daughter.

  “That was Halloween, Mom. That was a costume for Halloween. What did you think? That I was a hooker? God, Mom, don’t you know me at all?”

  CHAPTER 13

  Jennifer felt she had made a serious mistake. She should have known that there would be a good explanation for that photograph. Her trust in Emma had wavered, and of course Emma had felt betrayed. She was determined never to let that happen again. She told Roberto to be sure he explained Halloween to the Spanish media in order to defang them, and sh
e called Suzie and told her to make much of it with the public relations people, telling them it was a perfect example of a typical innocent American custom being turned into ugly innuendo and used against Emma.

  Mark was scheduled to arrive in three days. But before he did, yet another blow struck. José called to say that the police had decided to charge Emma as an accomplice to murder. She had already been moved from the cell in the police station to a prison out of town. Jennifer called Mark to alert him and beg him to come sooner, but she didn’t reach him and his secretary said he was in court. She fired off an e-mail giving him the news and telling him to call right away, but she didn’t hear anything until she received a voice mail the next day saying he got her message and wished he was with her. “Only two more days,” he said.

  He arrived, as scheduled, greeted by the crowd of journalists that now gathered around the hotel and hounded Jennifer every time she appeared. A big man and an angry one, he barreled through the crowd with large strides and pointy elbows and flicked away their badgering questions with contemptuous looks and curt replies.

  Jennifer was waiting for him inside where the doormen were able to keep the journalists away. They walked together to the elevator, riding up and then entering their room without a word.

  Jennifer was so angry she could hardly look at him. He knew her well and saw at once, by her refusal to make eye contact, how upset she was.

  “I couldn’t come sooner,” he said. “I couldn’t even reach you to talk. I was in court all day yesterday.”

  She shot him a long-suffering look. This was an explanation she’d heard before; she couldn’t even count how many times. It was word-for-word the excuse for everything he had missed that mattered to her or the kids throughout the years. He understood her meaning without a word passing between them.