The Perfect Fraud

by Ellen LaCorte

  “Please see what you can do? My daughter, Stephanie, is very sick.” I turned and pointed at Steph. She was sitting on the suitcase behind me, sucking the side of her pinkie. I bent down to hug her. “She was just released from the hospital.” Stephanie looked up and Lynnie smiled at her.

  “I’m so afraid the smell from the toilets will bring back her vomiting,” I said. “Her doctor says she needs to be closer to the front of the plane and near a window.”

  “I understand, I really do, but I’m not seeing any options here,” Lynnie said. She turned the screen around so I could see all the red blocks of taken seats. “Perhaps you could tell me what we could do to make your daughter more comfortable in your assigned seats?” She tugged on the ends of the blue-and-white scarf knotted around her neck.

  “Nothing. There is nothing you can do. Like I said, those seats won’t work. I will not have my daughter who is really, really sick and who just got out of the hospital after a very long stay, where she almost died, sit in the back of the fucking plane.”

  “Please, Mrs. Cole, lower your voice. I’m so sorry she’s been ill, but—”

  That’s when I said, “Get me your supervisor.”

  Lynnie walked away and tapped the arm of a man who was loading luggage onto the moving carrier. I leaned down and whispered in Stephanie’s ear that she needed to start crying. She began to whimper and asked, “Why, Mommy?”

  “Just do it.”

  Lynnie and the guy bent their heads together. They looked at me, and then at Stephanie, who, after I gave her a tiny pinch on her leg, was now crying for real. Lynnie returned.

  “My supervisor says that, while we normally don’t do this, we will exchange your seats with two of our other passengers.” She hit buttons, took the suitcases, and wrapped tags on the handles. She said a thank-you that sounded much more like a fuck-you and handed me our boarding passes with the new seats, 6A and 6B. Much, much better.

  “Honey, it’s okay now,” I said, holding Stephanie’s hand. I smoothed down her hair and used my sleeve to wipe off her cheeks. “Thank the nice lady for helping us.”

  Stephanie sniffed and whispered, “Thank you.”

  17

  Claire

  I don’t need to hear what the doctor says. I can tell from my mother’s face as she listens to the tinny voice on the other end of the line that my father is dead.

  And it doesn’t matter why. The fact that his heart was compromised from this and the strokes before, that his lungs started to drown in fluid, that then all the other organs miraculously keeping a human body running fell like dominoes, one after the other: kidneys, liver, large intestine. It doesn’t matter. He is dead.

  My mother crumples to the floor, a straw woman whose supporting framework has evaporated. I crouch next to her and try to gather her into my arms, but she’s fluid and undulating, winding around herself and whimpering. The most I can do is try to anticipate her movements and place my arms and hands between her and whatever hard corners—the stairs, the couch leg, the door frame—are in her path. I reach for my cell phone and call Aunt Frannie, and she and Uncle Ted seem to appear the moment I disconnect, but time is slippery and funky. It could be fifteen minutes or an hour before they arrive. Aunt Frannie is finally able to coax my mother to a chair and have her sip from a glass of bourbon, the hardest, and only, liquor in the house.

  Escaping to the bathroom, I sit and shake on the closed toilet seat. I turn on the water in the tub and the sink to stifle what comes out of my mouth, a keening sound that frightens me so much I clamp my hand over my lips to stop it. I force myself to breathe, in and out, in and out. Standing shakily, I rinse my face with cold water and reach into my pocket for my phone.

  Cal’s phone rings, and I lose count after fifteen. With a three-hour time difference, it’s only eleven in Arizona, and I don’t know why Cal isn’t picking up. A slew of maybes I can’t think about right now will have to wait.

  The next few days rush by, a kaleidoscope of moments, some painted in vivid and garish oils: the obscene brightness of chartreuse grass in the field where we hold the farewell ceremony—my mother certain he would not have wanted a funeral. But most of the moments are hued in some variation of gray: the dimmed hospital room as we surround the bed to say goodbye to the mannequin who is as much my father as a toothpick is a tree. And another gray: the color of the ashes my mother tosses across that grassy field where she and my father spent afternoons the summer they first met.

  Watching my mother spread my father’s ashes, I remember a story my dad told me years ago when I was helping him during one of those many times he had to stay in bed resting.

  He said Michigan used to have gorgeous Dutch elm trees. They would grow to over one hundred and twenty feet and would line the streets of the city, their canopies bending toward one another, creating lovely cathedral-like ceilings. He told me about a family living on a farm there. They had a bull they kept tied by a strong chain to one of those giant elms. The bull would walk around and around the tree, winding the chain during his trips, creating a huge groove into the trunk. Eventually, the family decided to move to Oregon, and they took their bull with them, but as the chain had become deeply embedded within the trunk, they had to leave it there, encircling the tree.

  My dad explained that during the 1950s and 1960s, Dutch elm disease killed almost all the elms, except for this one tree. “You know why?” he asked, holding my hand between his two.

  He told me the iron in the chain had somehow infused the tree with a mineral it needed to ward off the disease. See, he said, it survived even though it was grooved through, even though it had been damaged and was considered unsightly because of the chain. But that chain, that hardship, saved its life. “Get it?” he asked. I remember shaking my head because I didn’t get it then. What I knew was that I was stuck taking care of my father while my mother had to work all the time and I was making dinners and reminding him to take his medicine while everyone else I knew was doing normal kid things. What did a stupid tree, living or dead, have to do with me?

  Standing under skies overcast with dark clouds so heavy you can smell the rain in them, maybe I’m beginning to understand a little of what he was trying to tell me. That there are trials we have to face that may be undecipherable at the time as to why we’re meant to go through them. I think he was letting me know that I would get stronger by what I was being asked to do back then. But this, his leaving us so soon, seemed an unduly harsh lesson, and I’m finding it impossible to fathom what future wisdom could be gained from it someday.

  That night, after the ceremony, at Aunt Frannie’s insistence, my mother sips a cup of chamomile tea and nibbles at half a banana. My aunt says she’ll stay the night, but I tell her I think we’ll be fine and that she should get some rest too. Crimping the foil wrapping on a pan of meat loaf provided by Mrs. Franklin from across the street, Aunt Frannie embraces me and says, “Call anytime, Claire. I mean it, any hour.”

  “I know.” I blow my nose on a soggy handkerchief I vaguely remember being pressed into my hand by Edith Waverly, one of my mother’s former clients. She drove eight hours to tell my mother how sorry she was, how she thought my dad was the loveliest man she’d ever met, and that whenever she’d seen my father and mother together in the shop or digging in the garden, she swore there was a giant golden bubble of light surrounding the two of them. I notice the hankie is embroidered with delicately sewn pansies and violets and smells vaguely of talcum powder.

  I can’t imagine how all these people find out about my father’s death, but within hours, the phones ring so constantly we decide to mute my mother’s cell and take the house phone off the hook. People—clients, neighbors, friends—arrive and, when we don’t respond to the knocking, leave their offerings on our front porch: three green bean casseroles, two platters of brownies—one with nuts, one without, according to the index cards taped on top—and tins of cookies, at least half of which are labeled VEGAN. Bringing them inside, I keep a list of w
ho gave what and jam what I can into the refrigerator and freezer. Neither of us has much of an appetite.

  That night, after Aunt Frannie leaves, I sit on the floor outside my mother’s bedroom. I’m trying to hear her. I need to hear her. I need to be heard. Crying or sobbing or screaming would be better than the hollow silence. Finally, I knock.

  “Mom?” I’m not expecting an answer and begin to stand and walk away.

  “Come in, Claire,” she says, her voice raspy and soft, worn-out.

  I enter, and we spend the next three days and nights in her bed, talking, remembering, crying, and trying to help each other through the inconceivable-ness of what’s happened.

  I don’t want to leave my mother, but after five days, she convinces me to go. She’s started to eat—not much, an egg or two and, occasionally, a piece of rye toast, but she’s showered and is upright, shuffling slowly through the rooms and even, once, walking out into the garden with Aunt Frannie. My aunt promises she will stay with her at the house for as long as they both feel it’s necessary. I’m able to book an early flight out of Philadelphia and text Cal to let him know my schedule. He’d called several times, but with everything going on, I missed the calls, and there was no answer when I returned the calls, so we’ve been communicating through voice mail and text. It’s impossible to tell and, as I keep saying to myself, dangerous and stupid to do, but I can’t help feeling his electronic messages seem curt and distant.

  Sitting on the back patio with her now, with the sun just starting to rise, we’re listening for the cab’s horn. I ask her a question that’s been in my head for the past few days: “Mom, do you want me to come back home to live?”

  She doesn’t respond immediately, and when she does, I think her answer surprises both of us.

  “Let’s see how I do. This is a whole new thing for me,” she says, reaching forward to pull a dandelion from the clover surrounding our chairs. She sniffs, and I don’t need to look over to know that she’s crying when she says, “It will be good if I can learn to be alone, on my own.”

  “You’re never . . . ,” I start.

  “I know.” She takes my hand and stares at two butterflies twirling in a double helix above the hydrangeas. “It’s a wonderful, terrible thing, isn’t it? That this brought us back together, you and me.”

  “I want to help. You don’t have to handle this all by yourself.”

  “Oh, honey,” she says, squeezing my fingers. “I think I’m finally starting to know I’m not alone. Even with your dad gone . . . Of course, there’s no one else who can be what he was for me, but your aunt, all those amazing people who called or came by, they’ll be here. And you . . . We’ll keep talking, all the time, right? We’ll never lose this, never go backward. I’ll make sure of that. And you’ll visit again, very soon?”

  “Of course,” I say. “But—”

  A honk from the front of the house announces the cab’s arrival. She pulls me to my feet and clasps my forearms, green eyes focused on mine, a mirror image.

  “What I don’t want to do is repeat the messes of the past. I do not want you to feel responsible for me. That’s not your job, and it never should have been.” We walk to the waiting cab.

  I toss my carry-on bag into the back seat and say, “I’ll call when I get to Arizona.”

  “I’ll come to Sedona soon. I can’t wait to see that part of the country.”

  She takes me in her arms. I’m still not used to it, but I don’t want to let go or be let go.

  Under the garish overhead lights at Gate 7 in the Philadelphia airport, I’m squirming to get comfortable in the molded plastic chair, waiting to hear the announcement to board. Pulling out my phone, I push Cal’s number again. There’s still no answer, and I refuse to leave another voice mail. I alternate between anger and concern that he could be hurt and I would have no way of knowing. I had called Mindi after my dad died to let her know I needed to stay longer and thought about asking her to go to our place to check on Cal, but I was too embarrassed. What if he was there, and had been the whole time I’d been trying to reach him, watching old movies, eating stale popcorn and ignoring my calls?

  Except, in my heart, I know the overriding emotion I’m feeling is actually fear. Surrounded by milling people going and coming amid a pervasive undercurrent of jet fuel fumes, when I can, momentarily, put aside my grief, I know I am terrified. Remembering the last conversation Cal and I had and adding that we’ve had zero nonvirtual contact since then, I feel like there’s no guarantee he’ll still be in the apartment where I left him. As I run through all the possible scenarios, it seems more and more likely he’s finally had enough of my idiotic relationship rules of engagement or, rather, lack of engagement. That he couldn’t continue with someone who was always keeping him at a distance, and so, he finally made his long-overdue escape.

  The woman at the gate holds a microphone and notifies us we can get on the plane, and all I want is to be unconscious for the next five plus hours, to give my frazzled emotions a chance to recover a little bit before having to handle the next crisis.

  I’d been relieved to score a window seat, figuring I’d lower the shade, cover my head with my hoodie, and block out everything and everyone. Except, there are two people, a girl and an adult I’m assuming is the mother, already in my row. The kid’s in 6A, my window seat.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the woman. “I’m in 6A.”

  “Oh, sorry. Me and Stephanie got switched to these seats. My daughter, she’s very sick, and she needs to be in this row. By the window.”

  I look around for a flight attendant, but they’re all occupied, yelling at passengers to place their bags in the overhead compartments and sit down so the flight can take off on time.

  Not having a bit of strength left to argue, I sit in the aisle seat, buckle up, and prepare to push myself into the oblivion of sleep.

  My neighbor says, “Hi, I’m Rena,” and thrusts a pudgy hand in my direction.

  18

  Rena

  A woman holding a boarding pass stops at our row. She says Stephanie is in her seat. She’s not too happy when I tell her the airline gave us these seats because Steph is sick. Looking around like she’s going to make this big stink, she seems to decide it’s too much of a hassle and sits down in the aisle seat.

  I introduce myself, squeeze Steph’s knee, and say, “And this is Stephanie, my daughter. We’re taking a trip all the way to Arizona to see a new doctor, aren’t we, sweetie?”

  The woman nods, buckles her seat belt, and shuts her eyes.

  She’s so tall her knees are all scrunched up against the seat in front of her. Her lashes are long and fringy and I want to ask her what mascara she uses. And her hair is really shiny and lays exactly the way it should, just touching her shoulders. Maybe I could ask her about her shampoo too.

  Stephanie squiggles around in her seat, so I give her a coloring book and crayons, and then I take the Xanax I brought with me. I’m asleep until I feel Steph shaking my shoulder, asking for some water.

  My neighbor must hear her too, because she looks over at us with her eyes half-closed.

  “The new doctor in Arizona is the best in the nation for treating stomach problems like what Steph has. Steph and me, we know she is going to fix her right up,” I say. My neighbor opens her eyes the rest of the way. There’s this piece-of-crap china figurine I got in a junk store a few years ago. One of those Japanese good-luck kitties holding up a paw. It has two fake emeralds stuck in the eye sockets—that’s the color of her eyes.

  “Pardon me?” she says.

  “I said my daughter and me are going all the way to Arizona to see a specialist. A tummy doctor, right, Steph?” I pat Stephanie’s stomach. She puts a finger in her mouth and starts to chew on the nail. I shake my head, and she moves her hand back to her lap.

  “Oh,” says the woman, “that’s good.”

  “Do you live in Arizona . . . ?” I ask, leaving the air space for her to tell me her name.

 
“Claire . . . It’s Claire. Yes, I live in Sedona.”

  “Oh, Sedona. I heard all about that place. The pictures of those red rocks are amazing. And isn’t that where all those crazy vibes are?”

  “Vibes?”

  “You know, energy circles, shit like that.”

  “Yes, that’s what people say.” Claire moves around in her seat, turns away, and shuts her eyes again.

  “I’m hoping this doctor is everything everyone says she is. We’ve tried so many. In and out of doctors’ offices and emergency rooms and hospitals. But nobody can figure out what the hell is going on. It’s been horrible. Like, not one doctor has a single clue what’s wrong with her? You know what I mean?”

  Claire turns back to face me, and I’m surprised to see she’s crying. She reaches into her hoodie pocket, pulls out a crumpled-up hankie, and wipes at her eyes. Who even uses a hankie anymore?

  “Hey, you okay?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry.” She sniffs. “My father just died.”

  “Oh, that sucks. Was he sick a long time?”

  “Almost all of my life,” she says. “Strokes.”

  “Strokes, they’re the absolute worst. I was a nurse—well, a nursing student—and I can tell you those are the toughest on the families. Awful. I mean the person is just destroyed, piece by piece, right?”

  She sniffs again, and her eyes fill with more tears. “Right,” she says.

  “Believe me, I know about this, how it takes all your hours and your energy. Actually, your whole life, when someone is that sick. With . . .” I point in Stephanie’s direction. She’s staring at Claire with her mouth wide open. I signal with my finger for her to turn around and mind her own beeswax. She mopes but does as she’s told. “With Stephanie, it’s been trauma after trauma, ever since she was born.”

  Claire nods and says something like, “I bet.” But it’s so soft, especially with the noise from the plane, it’s hard to hear her.

  “Hey,” I say. “I got a question for you. Don’t they have those mystical-type people in Sedona? You know, the ones who can tell you what’s wrong? I mean, like physically? Like maybe they could find out what’s going on with Stephanie? At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”