The Perfect Fraud

by Ellen LaCorte

  The door slams in my face. No time to deal with that bitch either. I need to hustle or I’ll be late to work—again.

  29

  Claire

  Somehow I finish out the day with my three remaining appointments and, apart from one minor misinterpretation, these readings are also astonishingly on target.

  Sharon L.: Tarot cards. She was crushed to hear her husband is sleeping with yet another one of his secretaries but not all that surprised because (as she told me after we finished) five days ago she did find purple lace panties wedged between two couch pillows.

  Lyle O.: Psychometry reading. After he handed me his father’s watch, I was able to tell him his dad “on the other side” did not want him to buy the house because it had undisclosed plumbing problems. Later, Lyle called the store and told Mindi that when he got home, the realtor was at his front door with news that the house he’d put a bid on had flunked inspection. Seemed there was a significant problem with pitting corrosion in the copper pipes.

  Marilyn T.: Tarot cards. No specific question, just wanted a general reading. I told her, “These first two cards indicate you’ve suffered a loss and some emotional pain.”

  Marilyn didn’t say anything. She sat in the chair, her face closed and her expression stony. I could tell she was one of those clients who liked to test psychics by giving nothing away.

  As I was about to flip her last card, I had one of those freaky visions like I had with Evelyn, except this one was of a screen door open and blowing in the wind and something small, furry, and tan with white spots escaping through it, a blur running from the house and into the night. It looked like a puppy. I could hear someone crying from inside the house, a girl, probably young.

  I glanced up from the cards and asked Marilyn, “Did you lose something? Like a pet? Maybe a dog?”

  She glared at me but said nothing, so I continued, “This third card says you’ve been extremely angry. You and other people in your family are very sad and you need to open your heart to embrace forgiveness. Does that make any sense?”

  Her face softens a smidge, as if someone airbrushed the edges of her hardened cheekbones.

  She says, “I was so pissed. He’s always doing stuff like this. My son, he’s very irresponsible. I’ve told him and my daughter a million times, ‘Close the door, close the damn door or Tanya will get out,’ but do they listen? Then, surprise, guess what happens. He goes out to the garage to get a wrench to fix the leak in the kitchen sink, doesn’t make sure the door is shut behind him, the wind blows the screen door wide open, Tanya gets out and is gone, who knows where. And now Butch and Laurie, they’re all upset. Me too—Tanya was such a cutie.”

  “Tanya was your dog?”

  “My dog? No, we don’t have a dog. Tanya was a guinea pig. We’d let her run around free in the evening, which, except for guinea pig poop on the floor, was fine, if everyone could’ve remembered one simple rule. Keep the damn back door closed. I can’t tell you how—”

  I interrupted, “Marilyn, I’m curious, how big was Tanya?”

  “How big? What do you mean?” She looked at me as if I’d asked her whether she had funds hidden in Swiss banks.

  “I mean, about how much did Tanya weigh?”

  “I don’t know. The kids overfed her, that’s for sure. Maybe three pounds, give or take. Pretty big for a guinea pig.”

  So it was a guinea pig and not a dog, but I still count the reading as accurate. After all, a puppy weighing about three pounds could look remarkably like a runaway guinea pig.

  30

  Rena

  I walk through the door and pull my T-shirt down tight to show off the tops of my boobs.

  “Hi, Joe.” I wave as I walk past him.

  He’s so interested in my tits he doesn’t even bother to look at the clock to see if I’m late. Works every time.

  “New inventory’s in. Can you unpack and price it? Then you can help Shirley in the pharmacy with some of last night’s orders, okay?” he asks.

  “Sure. Let me grab some coffee first.”

  It’s an easy job and really boring, but I don’t care. It gets me away from the house, and I can put Stephanie out of my mind for a little while. Most of the customers are nice enough, but I think the heat gets to their brains. They all seem kind of stupid.

  I’m pricing boxes of foot cream when someone taps me on the shoulder.

  “Joe told me to ask you about what kind of vitamins I should buy,” he says.

  Oh. My. God. He’s fucking adorable. Dark brown wavy hair, a little long, but that’s what I like. And almost-black eyes with these really thick lashes. He’s probably an inch shorter than me, but so what? Those dimples make up for it.

  “Hi,” I say and motion for him to follow me to the vitamin aisle. I make sure to wiggle my butt a little as I walk.

  I finally convinced Joe to get in some organic vitamins. With the other shit, you might as well be eating orange paper if you think you’re getting any kind of vitamin C.

  “My doctor wants me to take vitamin D. Man, there sure are a lot of choices,” he says, looking at the shelf. Then he stares at my chest before finally getting to my eyes. I tuck my T-shirt back into my jeans so it pulls across my boobs to give him the full experience.

  “Yeah, definitely.” I see him noticing me checking out his thighs. The guy’s buff, that’s for damn sure.

  “Why is the doctor concerned about your vitamin D?”

  He moves closer to the shelf to look at the bottles. “I guess because I don’t get out much. I work all day in a room with no windows.”

  “Where the hell do you work? A morgue?”

  He laughs and says, “Sort of.”

  “Well, vitamin D is the sunshine vitamin. If you don’t get enough of it, that’s bad for your bones.”

  He nods.

  “Also your testosterone levels, your sperm, and your ability to get and keep an erection.”

  He turns to me so fast he knocks a jumbo pack of tampons off a display. He bends down to pick them up, and when he notices what he’s got, he turns even redder.

  I start to laugh, and he does too.

  He holds out the tampons to me and says, “I’m Louis.”

  “Rena.” I tell him about the different types of vitamin D we carry. I can tell he’s barely listening to anything I’m saying.

  He decides on the organic ones from Blueberry Hill, a new vendor I told Joe to use.

  “Vitamin D is one of the fat-soluble vitamins. You need to take this with your largest meal of the day, and that meal should contain fat.”

  “So, like, with a big steak dinner?” he asks, grinning.

  “Yeah, that would be perfect.” I move so close to him I can smell his aftershave. I do love a guy who wears aftershave. “It would probably be even better if you had someone to enjoy that dinner with.”

  Leaning in toward me to whisper in my ear, he says, “Well, I’m separated, and my wife is barely talking to me.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Really too bad.” I run my hand up his arm.

  “Yeah, it would be a shame to waste a good steak dinner.”

  Joe walks around the corner, and I step away from Louis.

  “Rena, can you help on the register?” Joe asks. Louis follows me.

  By the time I ring up his vitamins, Louis and me have exchanged numbers and made plans for tomorrow night. We’re gonna meet here in front of the drugstore at seven.

  After my shift, as I walk back to Mrs. Lupito’s, I check my phone. There’s a voice mail from Dr. Norton.

  “Mrs. Cole, this is Dr. Norton. I received your messages and your request for additional testing for your daughter. As we discussed during our meeting this week, I saw nothing of concern in either Stephanie’s blood work or her CT. Except, as noted, she is significantly underweight and well below the height norm for her age group. This morning I got back her blood work for Fabry disease, and this was also negative, but just to be extra cautious, I’ve requested a genetic analysis as
well. Sometimes we do get false negatives in females with this disease, so I think it’s worth this extra step. It will, however, take another two to maybe three weeks to get the results. Perhaps, in the meantime, working with a nutritionist would be a good idea, and I’m happy to recommend one for you. However, my staff tells me you’ve called to request we now schedule a PET scan. I do not believe this is necessary. It’s sometimes a difficult test for adults and even more so for children. As you probably know, it requires an IV needle for the contrast, an exposure to radiation, and many people, especially young children, find being in the tube traumatic. For these reasons, I’m advising against going forth with the PET scan you’ve requested. Please call me should you have any questions. And one last thing. We still haven’t received Stephanie’s medical records. Did you ever follow up on this? If not, please do so as soon as possible. It’s important I have the full picture of her medical history so I can best treat her in the future. Thank you.”

  After listening to her go on and on in her oh-so-clinical voice, I want to scream. I throw the water bottle I’m holding at the mailbox on the corner. The blue box rattles. I wonder if it’s a federal crime to hit a mailbox with a water bottle and then decide I don’t give a flying fuck.

  Who the hell does she think she is? Who made her the fucking queen of what tests my baby should or shouldn’t have? Can’t she see how sick Stephanie is? Don’t I know what’s right for my child? Jesus, I’m her mother.

  I hit the numbers on the phone so hard to return the call I almost slap it out of my hand.

  “This is Rena Cole. Is Dr. Norton there? Fine, yeah, I will definitely leave a message. You tell Dr. Norton she better have Stephanie scheduled for that PET scan immediately or believe me, I will be contacting the AMA.” The dipshit of a nurse or receptionist or whoever answered starts to say something, but I disconnect.

  I walk up the steps to Mrs. Lupito’s. Before I can even knock on the door, she’s there, holding out the bag that had Stephanie’s food in it. I can feel it’s still full, so I look inside. The containers weren’t even opened. What the fuck.

  “She don’t like that stuff. She wanted a bologna sandwich and some chips. I also give her some carrot sticks and she’s fine. No stomach problems at all,” Mrs. Lupito says. You can tell she’s all proud of herself.

  Stephanie is behind her and peeks around at me.

  “Let’s go,” I say to her.

  Turning to Mrs. Lupito, I shout, “You were supposed to give her this special food. You had no right to not follow my orders. Are you going to be there at three in the morning when she’s throwing up and shitting on the bed? Are you going to be the one to try to get her to take just a sip of water because the food you decided to give her made her so sick that nothing stays down or in? Tell me that, Mrs. Lupito. You’ve got some goddamn nerve.” I grab Stephanie’s arm and practically fly her over the steps.

  Mrs. Lupito screams, “There’s nothing at all wrong with that child. Estas loco. Loco! You, you’re the one who’s sick. Sick in the head. She’s scared of you. You know that, right? You scare her.”

  She’s still yelling when I yank Stephanie into our apartment. I slam the door and push her down onto the couch.

  “Why’d you eat that crap she gave you? Don’t you know by now it will make you even sicker?” I yell.

  She squeezes herself into the corner of the couch and says, “But, Mommy, I feel fine. I do. I don’t think—”

  “That’s the problem, you don’t think. Ever. I’m your mama. I’m the one who has to make these decisions. Not you. Not that fucking Mexican bitch next door. And not the fucking doctor either. It’s me. I’m the one up with you all night when you’re sick, taking you to all those doctors, making sure you get the tests you need. You think I do that for me? No, I do that for you. For you, Stephanie.”

  “Yes, Mommy,” she whispers, biting her thumbnail.

  “So don’t blame me when you’re sick tonight. No waking me up, crying that your tummy hurts or you shit your pants. Maybe go next door and see if your fat Mexican mamacita will help you.”

  First the doctor and now my bitch landlady. Definitely destroyed the buzz I had from meeting Louis.

  And bologna? Christ, she might as well have fed her cyanide.

  The main thing I need to do now is to try and get that poison out of my daughter.

  I lie down on my stomach and reach for the supplies under the bed.

  31

  Claire

  By the time I pull into our driveway, I’m so exhausted that extracting the key from the ignition feels like a major accomplishment and walking up the slight hill to our front door might as well be ascending Kilimanjaro.

  Cal is sitting cross-legged on the couch, immersed in his books, notepaper strewn all over the coffee table, a laptop open to the right of him, and a bowl of pretzels to the left. A beer is sweating on the glass-topped end table, and the television is on mute, but I can see Humphrey Bogart mouthing to Ingrid Bergman, Here’s looking at you, kid. It’s a film Cal doesn’t need to watch because he’s seen it a million times and knows every line and nuance, so I guess it’s more of a comfort to him to have it on in the background.

  He looks at me and asks, “What’s wrong?”

  I push aside the pretzels to curl up next to him, snuggling close.

  “You are not going to believe this day.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Apparently, I am a psychic.”

  Cal laughs and says, “I thought we’d already established a long time ago that you aren’t.”

  “True. But now, I seem to be one, for real. I mean, I actually do have those skills—tarot, psychometry, mediumship, everything I learned when I was a kid and could do some of at that time but couldn’t for a very long time and . . . it appears that now, I can.”

  “What? Wait . . . What are you telling me? That you actually can tell people their futures?”

  I take a piece of pretzel and start breaking it into smaller and smaller bits, creating a pile of crumbs in my lap.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. Their futures, their pasts, their dead dads’ warnings about plumbing.” I brush the crumbs into a napkin, squeeze it into a wad, and toss it on the coffee table. “Also, I found a lost ring.”

  “C’mon. You’re saying you saw all these things, like the whole sight-beyond-sight deal?” he asks, the question coming out in a slow and measured pace.

  “Cal, stop that. You’re acting as if I’m crazy.”

  “Well, you have to admit this is a little bit nuts. After all these years, suddenly, you have the gift?” He air-quotes gift.

  “Listen, I’m as shocked as you are.”

  “This calls for a drink.” Cal walks into the kitchen and comes back with two glasses of red, plops down on the couch, and says, “Okay, tell me everything.”

  And I do.

  After I’m finished, he sits quietly for a while, sipping his wine and thumping his fingers against his thigh, a habit he employs when he’s trying to work out something.

  Finally, he stops thumping and turns to me. “Why do you think this is happening? Or, what I mean is why do you think this is happening now? Why, all of a sudden, do you think you’re able to do these things?”

  Walking to the kitchen to squeeze my empty glass in among the pile of dirty dishes in the sink, I realize I’m famished. Apparently, communing with the universe makes you ravenous. I grab two cookies from an open package in the cabinet.

  “I have no idea.” I get two more cookies and bring them back to Cal. “I thought at first it was an accident, you know, like before—when, on occasion, I would stumble onto the right thing. Like that time I guessed my client was a skydiver, and he was amazed because he’d just had a lesson. And that was because the door to the store was open and I’d heard one of the tourist sightseeing planes and that was the first thing that popped into my head—a guy jumping out of a plane.”

  I expect him to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes the
cookies from me, disappears into the bedroom, and comes back with my running shoes.

  “No way, I’m too tired to even move off this couch, much less—”

  “Come on, we’ll take it slow. I have a theory about what’s happening.”

  “Fine, but can’t you tell me this theory while we’re relaxing in front of some mindless sitcom? That’s about all I have the physical and mental strength for at this moment.”

  “Nope,” he says, placing my shoes near my feet, hoping proximity will lead to the actual act of me slipping them on. “I need to think through it a little more, and running helps me do that.”

  It’s more of a fast walk than a full-out run on Airport Loop Trail. Fortunately, it’s nearly empty since it’s a weekday night—most of the tourists won’t be here until the weekend and the nontourists are either commuting home from work or getting dinner ready. We’re able to travel leisurely up the slight elevation without worrying about obstructing hikers or runners who want to go faster, either up or down, than we do.

  When we reach the summit, there are a few more people. One guy is sitting cross-legged and bare-chested in a yoga pose, eyes closed and arms outstretched to the west. The other three are tourists, maybe from Russia, based on what I can tell from their Slavic-sounding accents. They have their cameras on tripods poised to catch the sunset, which is still a half hour or so off. In the meantime, they take selfies: solo shots, then a pair of people, then all three of them, then a different pair. I try to do the math to see how many different combinations they could mesh but soon give up the mental gymnastics. My mind feels too bruised and numb to figure that out after everything it’s gone through today.

  There’s a ledge slightly below the flat of the mesa where Cal and I always perch to watch the sunset. From there you can see the town of Sedona stretched out between the surrounding mountains. As the trail is set around and near the Sedona airport, it’s also a great spot to watch the airplanes take off and land.

  Lights begin to flicker on in the houses below, twinkling through the valley. I imagine a mother coming in with groceries and flipping the switch in her kitchen, or a dad playing with a German shepherd after turning on the table lamp in the den.