The Perfect Fraud

by Ellen LaCorte

  As always, the inside smells like stale smoke and mold, mixed with oil of wintergreen. That’s from the arthritis liniment she rubs into her joints all day long.

  Prince, her fifteen-year-old beagle, walks into the room. His stomach drags on the stained carpet. My eyes start to water from old dog stink. But Stephanie gets right down next to him and pushes her nose into Prince’s neck. She squeals, “I missed you so much. I was in the hospital, did you know that?”

  “Come away from that dog, Steph. I don’t want you getting sick again,” I say, taking her arm.

  “Leave the child be,” my mother snaps. “There’s no germ she can get from Prince that she probably already didn’t get from the hospital.”

  Stephanie skips over to my mother. She takes each of my mother’s swollen fingers, slowly moves them back and forth, and tells her, “Gram, guess what? I was in the hospital, and I was so sick. I couldn’t hardly eat nothing. But the doctor, Dr. Ron, that’s what he says his name is, was so nice to me. He said I was his bestest patient. He smells funny, though.”

  “Smells funny, huh?” my mother says. She signals for Stephanie to jump up a little so she can lift her onto her lap.

  “Yeah, like medicine.”

  My mother laughs and says, “Well, I guess that makes sense, him being a doctor and all.” Steph nods. I’m thinking, She notices how the doctor smells like medicine but the disgusting dog odor doesn’t bother her at all?

  “And guess what he has around his neck?”

  “What’s that, sweetie pie?” my mother asks.

  “A stekapope. He can hear what my heart says with it.”

  “Stethoscope, Stephanie,” I say.

  “Well, isn’t that amazing?” My mom hugs Stephanie to her. “You sure are one smart cookie.”

  “And you know what else? He said my heart was the sweetest one he’d ever heard.”

  “I can believe that, baby girl.”

  “Gram, do you have anything to eat?” Stephanie asks. She hops down to give Prince another hug.

  “Course I do. How ’bout your favorite? Grilled cheese and bacon.”

  “No crusts?” She’s jumping up and down.

  “Not a one,” my mother says, walking to the kitchen and leaning over to reach for the dented frying pan. She gives me a look before I can even tell her that a cheese-and-bacon sandwich is crap food. She says to Stephanie, “I pulled out some dolls your mother had when she was little. They were in the basement. Why don’t you go play with them?” She points to a box in the corner of the living room. Stephanie skips over to check it out.

  I start, “I don’t think—”

  “Rena, I feed that child this sandwich every single time she’s over, and she eats it every single time, and never, not once, did she get sick.” She puts the bacon on a paper towel and slides it into the filthy microwave. Then she plops two huge lumps of butter into the pan.

  I say, “Steph and me leave tomorrow. The flight’s at seven forty in the morning. I guess we need to get there lots earlier, though, because of security and all that crap.”

  The microwave bings, and she takes out the bacon. She lays the strips over a piece of orange cheese and between two slices of white bread (without crusts), and then puts the sandwich into the sizzling butter. As she flips it, cheese oozes from the sides and smokes. Her hands look all lumpy and veiny.

  I ask, “Do you at least have milk for her?”

  She points to the refrigerator. There are about twenty kitten magnets on it. They hold up a rate increase notice from the electric company, an appointment card for a dentist appointment that was five weeks ago, and seven pictures of my sister, Janet.

  “Have you seen Janet lately?” I ask. I straighten a shot of my sister sitting on the grass wearing an Easter bonnet. She’s got colored eggs in her skirt and all around her. I take out the milk and go to the cabinet for a smudged glass.

  Mom slaps the sandwich onto a paper plate and yells, “Stephanie, lunch.” She pulls out a chair and groans as she sits down. She says, “Every day. Your sister comes over every afternoon.”

  I use a napkin from the plastic holder on the table to try and wipe off some grease from the top of the sandwich.

  “Stop fussing, for God’s sake,” my mother says. “It’s fine.”

  Stephanie runs into the kitchen, hugging a doll. It has no clothes, the hair is hacked off, and it’s missing a leg and two fingers.

  “Why the hell would you keep that?” I ask.

  I used to love my dolls, especially one called “Little Peanut.” She looked exactly like a real baby. I saved up my allowances and Christmas and birthday money for over a year to buy her. You could press two fingers to her tummy, and it was like she was actually breathing. She even had a heartbeat and would “coo.” I wasn’t sure how she could do this. I guess some kind of mechanical shit set up inside her that turned on when I touched her—it was amazing. I took that doll with me everywhere. I remember I even had a regular-sized stroller and I’d roll her through the park. Old ladies would stop and look inside. A lot of times, they’d think she was actually real. One lady even told me what a great sister I was, taking such good care of my baby sister.

  Stephanie hands the doll to my mother and climbs onto the chair. She takes a bite of her sandwich and oil runs all over her chin.

  “You were always rough on your dolls,” my mother says. “I was just saying that to your sister yesterday. How rough you were on your dolls. When you first got them, you’d love them all to bits, changing them into their pretty outfits, feeding them those bottles that looked like they had juice in them but didn’t. You’d spend hours and hours giving them baths and putting them to bed.”

  I try to wipe the grease off Stephanie’s face, but she turns away from me.

  “But, then, always,” Mom continues, “after a while, we’d find one of the dolls in a closet, missing an eye or some such thing.”

  The red plastic clock above the table clicks to twelve noon, a full hour and fifteen minutes earlier than it actually is. That clock never has been right, even when I was living here. The window is open, and I can hear the neighborhood sounds of Mr. Patterson’s lawn mower and his dog (probably the son of the son of the dog) barking. That stupid dog yapped all day and all night long when I was little.

  “How’s Janet feeling?” I ask. “I talked to her a few days ago but forgot to check.”

  Stephanie says, “All done.” She hops down from her chair.

  My mother takes away Stephanie’s plate and tosses it into the trash can, which is overflowing with garbage. Some eggshells fall on the floor.

  “She’s fine, I guess. I’m not sure you can ever really be healthy after what she went through as a kid.” She looks at me. “You know, the females in our family have always been kind of sickly.” I nod.

  When Janet was five, she began having these fevers for days at a time. Then her joints would get all stiff and achy. At first, my mom thought it was the flu. But even after six months, she was still really sick. I’d come home from third grade and there would be Janet in the dark, under a quilt, barely blinking. She’d be watching whatever soap opera my mother had on.

  My father was long gone, which was actually better for me than when he was living at home. But Janet missed him a lot. Well, that’s because she was his favorite. On the other hand, he always told me I was the one Kleenex that ruined the load of wash. Like him, Janet, and my mom would have been so goddamn perfect, except for me? Yeah right. He went to every single one of Janet’s meets when she could still swim. He’d be there standing in the bleachers and yelling like a maniac. I was a Girl Scout for about six months and made this little quilt for a merit badge. I was trying to show it to him one night, but he kept telling me to move so he could watch some stupid football game. So I waited for the commercial. When he finally looked at it, he told me, “Those stiches are all crooked.” Mostly, though, he just ignored me. I was actually happy when my mom and him finally got divorced and he moved the hell out. />
  My dad would still show up at Janet’s meets, but I can count on three fingers the times I saw him after he left. Not for lack of me trying. This one time, I had a small part in my ninth-grade play. Nothing big at all, but I did have a couple of lines. I fibbed and told him I was the lead and that the acting teacher said I had this natural talent and that he should come see me on opening night. He didn’t make any of the shows.

  Another time, I called and told him I broke my ankle when I fell down the basement stairs. I thought he’d come racing over to the house to make sure I was okay. It was a lie. Not the broken ankle—that was cracked in two places and I was in a boot cast for three months. But it wasn’t so much that I fell as that I threw myself down the cement stairs. When she finally got home, my mom took me to the emergency room, and my bastard of a father never did come to the house. I cried all afternoon.

  Without my dad around, it was totally up to my mother to take Janet to the doctor and to specialist after specialist. They thought it might be lupus, but that diagnosis was thrown out. Same with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis and Lyme disease.

  Then, after about a year, she began to feel better. Slowly, at first. But by her seventh birthday, she was running all over the park, playing on the swings and slides with her friends.

  It didn’t last long. Ten months later, she was sick all over again. In fact, she was even sicker than before. More doctor appointments and treatments that never worked. My mother was a wreck. She was putting in thirty-five hours a week cleaning rooms in a hotel. My jerk of a father sent money at first, but then that stopped. The neighbors helped. Mrs. Malone, who still lives two doors down, took Janet to some of her doctors’ appointments. And at least once a week, the Harris sisters, the old twins (dead now, for sure) from the hospital league, brought over brownies or Rice Krispies treats. Those were Janet’s favorites, and sometimes she shared them with me. Every day, it seemed like my mother would bring home something for my sister: a comic book, crayons, and one time, a kitten. I would hold him at home when she was at the lab having a blood test or in the hospital for X-rays.

  This went on until I was twelve and Janet was ten. Then it all stopped. She never got sick again. Not like that anyway. She’d have some colds, and one time she sprained her wrist, but nothing like when she was really young.

  I look at my watch and say, “Stephanie, it’s time to go. We still have a shitload of packing to do before tomorrow.”

  She’s sitting on the floor, hugging another one of my old dolls. This one has only one foot and streaks of red and purple paint over her chest and butt. I take the doll from Steph and throw it back into the box.

  Her bottom lip starts to curl and she says, “Please, please, can I stay a little longer with Gram?”

  I say, “Now. No whining. We have to go.”

  She walks over to my mother who grabs the edge of the table to pull herself up.

  “Give me a kiss, girly.” My mother bends down to hug Stephanie. “I’m going to miss you a whole bunch.”

  Stephanie kisses her twice on the cheek.

  “I’ll let you know where we’re staying once we get there,” I say.

  My mother says “Fine” and shuts the door behind us.

  I hear General Hospital on the TV before we’re even down the steps.

  15

  Claire

  No lights are on in or outside the house, so we maneuver our way carefully over the broken flagstone stairs my parents have planned to fix for all the years they’ve lived here. My mother rummages through her purse for her house key, opens the front door, and flips on the porch light. Moths dive toward the illumination, and she quickly turns it off.

  It smells like home, a combination of eucalyptus and rosemary, my mother’s proprietary blend of essential oils she spritzes everywhere. It’s a big seller in the shop.

  Feeling our way through the front room, we switch on the desk lamp and those on the tables near the sofa, casting pools of light, one of which catches our dog, Sammie, curled in the corner of the sofa. I scratch her behind the ears, and her lips turn up in a doggy grin.

  “Why don’t you try to get some sleep, Mom?”

  She gives me a blank look. I’m not sure she heard me.

  “Mom?”

  “I can’t, Claire, not right now. Maybe in a little bit.”

  Lifting my suitcase, I’m about to walk upstairs to my old bedroom when she asks, “Want to sit outside? Not for long. Just until we get sleepy?”

  I nod, although I’m fairly sure all I need to fall asleep right now is a pillow.

  The night’s turned muggy, but she gathers wood, sticks, and paper and lights a fire in the pit that sits on the bricked back porch. From here, under a red-tinted full moon, I can almost make out the silhouettes of the herbs and flowers in her eight raised box gardens. As always, I’m amazed at what my mother can accomplish in such a small space.

  “How are your crops doing this year?” I ask, taking the glass of red wine she offers me. I sip and hope I can remain awake for her answer.

  “Not bad, considering.”

  “Considering?”

  “That I haven’t had time to give everything the attention it needs.”

  Fireflies hover and flit above the grass and within the bushes.

  “I miss them,” I say, pointing to the tiny sparks. “You know, we have them out west, but they don’t light up.”

  “Really?” My mother has finished half her wine and stares ahead without blinking.

  “Seems like a waste to me,” I continue even though I sense she’s not attuned at this moment to the variants of lighting and nonlighting beetles.

  “Yes, such a waste,” she murmurs.

  A breeze ruffles the tips of the tallest plants, which, guessing by the fragrance blowing toward us, are lavender. I’m instantly thrown back to a summer so many years ago—I can only guess I was seven, based on the image in my mind of me sporting pigtails and a blue-checked cotton shirt knotted at the waist. It was one of those days when sunshine made everything look pristinely outlined and the sunflowers had golden halos surrounding their prehistoric-sized petals. I was spread-eagle on warm dirt in the herb garden, lying between the lavender and dill, each fighting for scent supremacy within my nasal passages. From that vantage point, I could see the undersides of the butterflies and hummingbirds landing to feast. Then, above me was my father who shouts, “Maddie, here she is. I found her,” and he’s laughing and holding a basket, and my mother comes to him with a sweating pitcher of lemonade. We have a picnic right there of roasted chicken, homemade biscuits, and chilled asparagus spears.

  I turn to my mother now and begin, “Hey, Mom, remember when we had that picnic . . . ,” but I’m stopped by the sight of her wet cheeks.

  Still looking forward, she says, “I’m so frightened. I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies. I truly don’t.”

  “He won’t. The surgery will go fine, and he’ll be home soon.” Even I’m not convinced as I say this, my voice trembling. My father looked so pale and weak, I can’t even imagine him swallowing water, much less surviving a major operation.

  Her face is striated by flames flickering from the pit.

  “I know he’s in bad shape. Worse than he’s ever been,” she says, wiping at her cheek with the back of her hand. “I need to face the reality that this may be it. Part of me, the unselfish part, wants him to be done with his agony.”

  I nod my head and feel tears pulse behind my lids.

  Reaching for the bottom of my T-shirt, I press the fabric to my face.

  “We are so different, your father and me, but it didn’t matter. A doctor and a psychic herbal healer? Who in a million years would have thought that match should happen?” She chuckles softly. “Even we didn’t at first. We both tried our best not to be together.”

  “Really?” I ask, even though I’d heard this story many times before.

  “Absolutely. Your dad, as you know, is so . . . rigid.”

  I laugh. “Did you
ever find the oregano after it wasn’t next to the paprika?”

  “Yeah, finally. Turns out he decided to wipe off all the jars and, by mistake, stuck it next to the cumin.”

  “Ah, another spice catastrophe averted.”

  We giggle together. Maybe it’s the wine, but I don’t care. We’re talking, like a real conversation, and that hasn’t happened in so long. I feel, even under these horrible circumstances, a tiny spark of hope. But I quickly talk myself down from even that modulated level of optimism because I know from experience how disappointing the drop will be when everything goes back to what it’s always been.

  “Anyway,” she says, twisting to face me, “we were such opposites, and his parents absolutely hated the match.”

  “His father was an awful man,” I say.

  “He was, and the mother was no prize either. Do you know his mother never called, not even after I told her how sick he was? And his sister, she’s no better. After his mother died, there was absolutely no contact with us. We tried to reach out, but after getting snubbed so many times, we gave up. Sure, at first, Dad was hurt, but we had each other, and you.” Her eyes drift upward to where the moon has started to move behind a shelf of gray clouds. She says, “Even though at first everything seemed to work against us, the universe had other plans.”

  I know I need to ask the question. “Do you really believe that? That the universe wanted you two to be together, that you and Dad are part of some great cosmic design?” It came out snarkier than I wanted, but either she didn’t notice or didn’t care.

  “Yes. Yes, I do.” She starts to droop, not only her eyelids, which flutter, but her whole body softens into the chair and her head drops to one side, resting on her shoulder. I’m thinking she probably hasn’t slept for almost two days now.

  The neighborhood is quiet except for the trees, which are swishing, and the air is tinged with the pungent ozone smell of oncoming rain. I watch the twinkling of the night’s few remaining fireflies and remember my father telling me the females will lurk in the bushes and watch the males’ illumination patterns, trying to find the superior suitor. It’s last call now at the firefly bar, and I silently wish the ladies good luck in finding their perfect match.