The Perfect Mother: A Novel

by Nina Darnton

  She had read with dismay the follow-up article in the International New York Times and had also had the London Times delivered to her room, and she couldn’t believe what they had already dug up. She read again that Emma had been a “party girl” who lived a fast, sexually promiscuous life; that she had dropped out of school and eventually moved in with Paco, who was also in custody, in a shabby apartment far from the usual student section; and that Paco was known as the local drug dealer. There were quotes from unidentified students in the program suggesting that Emma was more interested in partying than studying and others saying that she always seemed cold and unfriendly. One young woman said that her impression was that Emma was so enthralled with Paco she would have done whatever he wanted. That story was in the Times, and the reporter was at least honest enough to follow up with a question about how well her informant actually knew Emma. “Well, I didn’t actually know her personally,” the young woman said. “But I knew many people who did.” The reporters had also interviewed friends and professors at Princeton who were shocked and disbelieving that the serious, hardworking student they knew could be involved in this kind of scandal. It was as if Jennifer were reading about two completely different people.

  Her cell phone rang, and although she didn’t recognize the number, she answered the call.

  “Hello, Mrs. Lewis. This is Theodora Aspek from the London Times. Please don’t hang up.”

  “How did you get my private number?” Jennifer asked.

  “I just want to ask you one question. I want to give you a chance to tell your side, your daughter’s side. The police say that the victim’s body was found in the bedroom near the bed, but they were able to ascertain that the victim wasn’t killed there. They say the body was dragged from the kitchen, leaving a trail of blood. Do you have any response to that?”

  Jennifer felt her face flush with anger. “There were two victims that night. One was my daughter. Please don’t call me again.” She hung up.

  But she wondered about the information. Did that reporter get a leak from the police? Was what she had said true? She called José and asked him. He said that the information was correct. She asked how they could possibly know unless Emma had told them, and he said that the chemical luminol could detect blood even when it had been wiped away. The detectives were able to see the path the body was dragged along by the reconstituted blood evidence, which glowed in the darkened room once the luminol was applied. She had heard of this chemical earlier from Roberto, she remembered. She hadn’t known enough to fear the results.

  “Emma’s story didn’t account for that,” José pointed out, “and they will now of course go back to her and Paco and try to get them to admit what really happened.” He was surprised that the reporter already knew, because he had only just been informed of this development himself. He suggested that Jennifer change her cell phone number immediately and give it only to close friends and family. “There’s one more thing,” José added. “They applied the luminol to the kitchen knife. They found traces of blood on it and incomplete fingerprints in the blood that might be Emma’s.”

  “Might be? And might not, right? Besides, she lives there. Of course the knife might have her fingerprints. The blood might have been hers—she probably cut herself. At home, she was always cutting herself when she sliced tomatoes. That’s probably what happened.”

  “Perhaps.”

  Her anxiety was mounting again. “Have you heard anything from Roberto?” she asked. “He was supposed to be here this morning and he hasn’t arrived and hasn’t called. It’s not like him.”

  José said he didn’t have any information but assured her that if Roberto said he’d be there and wasn’t, there was a good reason. She asked if he could arrange another visit to Emma, saying that when she called, they told her a visit was not possible at this time.

  “They have told me her visiting privileges were under review,” he said, his voice apologetic.

  “But why? I don’t understand. They originally said she was permitted two visits a week.

  José sighed. “They report that she has continued to be uncooperative and they have decided to put her on a restricted visitation schedule,” he said. “But I will try to get that reversed. I don’t know how much I can do.”

  Saddened and frustrated, Jennifer didn’t respond.

  “You can call her,” José added. “They still allow her to use the phone.”

  “I tried; she won’t take my calls.”

  “Oh?”

  “I think she’s still angry at what Mark said in our last visit. But she won’t talk to me either. I don’t know what to do.”

  “I suggest you keep trying, senora,” José said in a sympathetic tone. “And soon you will be able to visit her, I hope.”

  She felt caged in the hotel room, every impulse thwarted. Not only was she blocked from reaching Emma; she was also unable, because of the time difference, to reach her children in Philadelphia, who would surely be needing her help to get through all of this now that it was public. They would still be sleeping now, but she would call them before they left for school, which was still two hours away. She didn’t know what to do to pass the time. Why didn’t Roberto come?

  She decided to take a walk—maybe she’d shop for some presents for Lily and Eric—and went downstairs. As she exited the elevator and walked through the lobby toward the entrance she heard a commotion and someone outside shout, “There she is!” She tried to ignore this and make her way out of the hotel, but a throng of at least fifteen reporters shouting questions crowded around her as she exited. “Did she do it?” “Is she getting fair treatment?” “Does she feel remorse?” “Do you believe her story?” “Was she a problem at home?” She backed up and took shelter inside the lobby, where hotel guards prevented the reporters from entering. She felt flustered and her heart was pounding. She turned to go back upstairs but was stopped by the hotel manager, who asked if he could have a word with her in his office.

  She settled into a black leather chair as the manager sat behind his desk. It was quiet and cool in the air-conditioned office and she felt herself calm down a bit.

  “I’m sorry, senora. I understand that this situation is difficult for you,” he said kindly.

  “Yes,” she answered, “but I am convinced it will get better.”

  He looked uncomfortable and shuffled some papers. “I hope you are right, senora. But in the meantime, I’m afraid I must reluctantly ask you to make other arrangements.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean, we are a tourist hotel and the best in the city. We cannot afford to have scenes outside our door such as the one you just participated in.”

  “I hardly participated. I was accosted.”

  “Yes, I am not saying it is your fault. But it will continue until you leave, and so I am forced to ask you to find another place to stay while you are here in Sevilla.”

  She didn’t beg him or argue with him. She simply rose and walked to the door with as much dignity as she could muster. “How long do I have?” she asked.

  “It would be best if you could leave by tomorrow, but if that is impossible, you could stay until Monday.”

  She nodded and walked out. When she was back in her room, she sat on the bed and allowed herself to cry. Afterward, she splashed cold water on her face and tried calling Roberto again. Still no answer. She called José again—she thought his voice sounded weary; he must be tired of her—and told him what had happened, and he suggested she rent an apartment instead of a hotel room. He said he would ask his secretary to find something and she thanked him. It was time to call the kids in Philadelphia, but she felt so disheartened that she knew it would be hard to sound the note of confidence she thought they needed. Still, she reminded herself, she’d been an actress; she could fake it.

  But she put it off, deciding to check the Internet first to see if there were any updates. There were probably lots of tweets about all this, she realized, but she didn’
t have a Twitter account and wouldn’t know how to use it if she did. She’d have to ask Roberto when he came. In the meantime, she used her iPad to log on and typed in the URL for the Huffington Post. As she had feared, the story about Emma was on their home page and included the damning photograph that was in yesterday’s NYT and all the British papers. She quickly scrolled through it, ascertaining that it didn’t add anything new. But when she reached the end, she was shocked to see dozens of comments from readers. It seemed that everyone had an opinion, and every opinion was negative. Many were cruel and insulting and some gave links to blogs that, when she opened them, opined freely about Emma’s behavior without a shred of credible evidence. One person, who signed herself “tellall,” claimed that Emma had slept around promiscuously at Princeton and had seduced her best friend’s fiancé. How could that be? Jennifer thought. She knew Emma’s best friend. She wasn’t engaged—didn’t even have a boyfriend. Was it someone else? Was it a lie? No way to tell. Another, from Spain, asked what did anyone expect? Emma was known, this person wrote, as the “reina de los orgasmus.” Jennifer had only recently heard about them, she thought. Now Emma was supposed to be their queen. This was absurd. A guy calling himself “spanishstud” said he had gone to Paco’s to buy drugs and Emma had been there. He said she had looked stoned and was watching cartoons while he concluded the transaction. Cartoons? Emma? Still others wrote outraged comments condemning Emma as a rich, entitled American who was ruining the reputation of American foreign students and deserved to “rot in jail.” Someone else suggested that the government close the program altogether, as it was bringing bad publicity to Spain. Many other posts were in Spanish, so Jennifer couldn’t make them out.

  She read what she could voraciously, hypnotically, overwhelmed. Her reactions ranged from despair to fury. Who were these people? How could anyone possibly tell who was lying and who was telling the truth? And how could others feel entitled to have such strong, condemnatory opinions on a subject they knew nothing about? Where did all the bile come from?

  She had to talk to Lily right away, she realized, feeling guilty that she had put it off. She would see all this on the Internet and she had to be armed against it. And maybe even Eric needed to be prepared. Kids at school would have heard their parents talking and might well repeat what they had heard. She hoped Mark and her parents were talking to the kids, helping them through this, but everything that had happened to her since she had been a mother told her that only she could adequately handle something of this magnitude. She didn’t—she couldn’t—trust anyone else. She decided she would go home for a few days. She couldn’t get in to see Emma for another week anyway, and Roberto would track down the background of the elusive Paco Romero.

  With that resolution, she picked up the phone and punched in her home number. As she expected, Lily was distraught. She said reporters had been calling the house and were camped out in front of it and at her school. Mark had instructed them not to talk to anyone, but the kids at school seemed to like the attention and she saw them standing in groups talking to the same reporters she had ignored.

  “I just don’t understand,” she said plaintively. “Did Emma do this? Everyone seems to think she did, but I can’t believe it.”

  “Of course Emma didn’t do this. This is an injustice and you have to stand up for your sister, darling. You know her. You know what she’s capable of, no matter what people are saying.”

  Jennifer asked about Eric, and the news there was no better. The kids in his class had been hearing gossip from their families for days. Where they had learned of it was a mystery; it had only just made the international news. But somehow the word had gotten out, or some version of it was being bandied about. Jennifer had no way of knowing what they were saying, but Lily said the effect was disturbing. Eric was being treated with either scorn and attacks or discomfort and pity from formerly close friends and even their parents. He was miserable and acting out at school.

  “Should I come home for a while?” Jennifer asked. “I could get away for a week and it wouldn’t hurt Emma.”

  Lily thought about it. “No,” she said finally. “We’ve got Dad and Pops and Granny, and Emma only has you. And besides, it will only get worse if you’re here.”

  Jennifer was stung. “Worse? Why?”

  “Because all those reporters will follow you. There will be even more of them.”

  She was right. She told Lily she was proud of her and asked her to be brave and then asked to speak to Eric. He didn’t want to come to the phone and she could hear Lily and Mark in the background urging, cajoling, and finally ordering him to pick up.

  “Hello,” he said sullenly.

  “Eric, honey, I know you’re mad. I’m so sorry this is happening. But I’ll be back before long and so will Emma. We’re a family and we do these things for each other. I need you to be brave and loyal, like I know you are, and to remember that by being here, I’m helping your sister when she most needs it. Okay?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “Okay, Eric?”

  “Yeah,” he said, barely audible. “But I gotta go.”

  “Okay. Let me talk to Daddy.”

  She updated Mark on the recent call from the London Times and they agreed that now that things had heated up he would be more valuable staying where he was and helping to manage the story on that end. They had to get their side out, to stress Emma’s longtime empathy for the poor, her volunteer work, her good grades and hard work. When they hung up, there was less tension between them than before.

  She thought about what she had said to Eric, that her being there was helping Emma. But was it? Emma seemed mostly inured to any comfort Jennifer might give, too caught up in the idea that she and Paco were engaged in some kind of class war in which her parents were on the wrong side. The by now familiar ache stabbed at her chest. Oh, Emma, Emma. She had to find a way to break through to her somehow. She latched on again to the idea that if only they could find something to discredit Paco, that would be a start.

  She wanted to avoid reading any more stories about Emma but was drawn to them like a gambler who has already lost almost everything and can’t stop herself from risking what was left on the slim chance of hitting the jackpot the very next time. Maybe someone would report something that would give her hope. She turned on CNN. The news report had just started. The top story was about the rash nuclear threats coming out of North Korea and the American reaction. She listened absentmindedly, knowing it was important but not able to focus on it. The newscaster followed with stories about Cyprus and Spain’s economic outlook. She was relieved there was nothing about Emma, until the anchor announced that next up would be an interview with the parents of the Spanish student killed in Seville. She felt an internal plunge, like going downhill in a roller coaster, and her heart rate sped up. She wanted to turn it off but couldn’t make herself do it.

  The parents looked to be in their midfifties. The mother wore a trim black suit. Her dark brown hair was swept up into a bun and she wore large silver earrings. She’d have looked like many well-groomed Spanish women one passed on the street, except for her face. She didn’t seem to be wearing makeup. Her eyes looked lined and puffy and—there was no way to avoid it—she had the look of a person who was ravaged by grief. The father wore a dark blue suit, white shirt, and gray tie. He sat by his wife’s side, serious, looking as much angry as bereft. They spoke in Spanish and then English, saying they wanted to reach Emma’s family and friends. They said they wanted to go on television to tell the world that their son was not a rapist. He was a good boy. He would have been a lawyer, maybe even a judge, they said. He respected the law. The American girl was lying. There was no Algerian. No one had tried to rape her. The mother began to cry. Saying she wanted to speak to Emma, she looked straight at the camera. “Please, if you are watching this, please tell the truth. You took my only son. Don’t take the honor of my family.” She covered her face as she began to cry. Her husband put his arm around her and glared at
the camera as the interview ended.

  Jennifer didn’t know what to think. Her ability to block out any argument that led to Emma’s guilt was disintegrating. She wasn’t sure about anything anymore, especially about whether she had ever really known her daughter.

  She tried calling Roberto one more time, not really expecting an answer and not getting one. She was beginning to seriously worry about him. Cars here typically moved along at breakneck speed; Spanish drivers were more aggressive than those in the States. Maybe he’d had an accident. She couldn’t imagine what else would prevent him from at least calling her to say he had been delayed. She hoped he’d show up the next day. Aside from his investigative talents, she needed him as a translator, and she had counted on his being back in time to go to the Triana Bridge steps with her on Saturday. Now she faced the possibility that she might have to meet Julia and Paco’s friend alone.

  CHAPTER 20

  A strident ring awoke her early the next morning. Still half-asleep, she thought it was her alarm clock, but it continued after she pressed the Off button. Groggily feeling around for the phone on her bedside table, she picked it up without looking at it, sure that the call was finally from Roberto.

  “Where were you?” she asked with relief, her voice still thick with sleep. “I was so worried.”

  “It is José, senora.”

  Embarrassed, she apologized. He spoke formally, saying that he regretted that he seemed to have awakened her, but his secretary had found a place for her to stay and he thought she’d want to make arrangements as soon as possible. She hadn’t gone out since the previous day’s fracas and had almost forgotten the need to move. She thanked him and asked where it was.

  “It is a small but I think adequate apartment in the judería,” he said. “Only a few streets away from Las Casas de la Judería. Do you know it?”

  She didn’t, and she asked what judería meant.