The Perfect Fraud

by Ellen LaCorte

  I was beginning to wonder where the pitchforks and rocks were when JR collapsed to the floor, clutching his belly and howling. He threw up and lay in a pile of vomit, and then it was all chaos. His mom screamed for someone to dial 911 while she was reaching for her phone and dialing 911. As the fire station was across the street from the grocery store, the EMTs arrived in under five minutes. They straightened JR out as much as possible, given that he was still coiled tightly in pain, gently palpated his stomach, noted his low-grade fever, and then said to his white-faced mom, “We need to get him to the hospital, pronto. Could be an appendix about to burst.”

  She gave me a look that was partially gratitude but primarily terror and rushed behind the paramedics as they raced the stretcher holding her screaming son to the waiting ambulance.

  I deserted my cart in the produce aisle and walked out of the store before any of the rest of the customers staring at me, openmouthed, could decide to approach.

  It happened several more times after that. Cal and I went to Taco Tuesday at Rosita’s Mexican Grill. All I wanted was the taco platter they offered once a week and a margarita, but before I could dip the first chip into the salsa, I felt a prickling on the skin at the back of my neck. I tried to ignore it, tried to concentrate on what Cal was saying about Maslow’s hierarchy of needs theory, but in increasingly louder interjections, a voice inside my head kept saying, Tell him it wasn’t his fault. He needs to know that. I was so sad, but there was nothing he could have done to help me. Tell him it didn’t hurt.

  The man’s voice wouldn’t stop, like a tape on repeat, until I finally couldn’t take it anymore.

  I twisted around in the booth and tapped the guy behind me on the shoulder. He turned. A bulky guy in a worn denim shirt, sleeves cut off. He had a full beard and eyes so dark you almost couldn’t see the pupils. He was not happy I had interrupted his burrito special and glared at me.

  I gulped once and said, “Uh, did your father or some man close to you recently die?”

  Cal asked, “Claire, what the hell? What are you doing?”

  But the voice in my head refused to leave. It kept repeating things over and over. It was as if I had no choice but to keep trying.

  “I’m sorry, I am, and I know this sounds nuts, but I keep hearing a voice telling me things and it’s a man and he wants me to tell them to you.”

  The guy turned back to his meal snarling, “Sure, lady. You might consider adjusting those meds of yours.” He snickered to his dining partner, a woman with a tattoo up her arm that read: RIDE WITH THE WIND, SLEEP WITH THE WOLVES.

  “He says it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t anybody’s fault. He was just too sad. He didn’t feel there was any other way out,” I said to his broad back.

  He stopped chewing, wiped his mouth on a paper napkin, took a long swallow of his beer, and turned back around to me.

  “Who said?”

  I tried to swallow around the grapefruit stuck in my throat.

  Cal pleaded, “Claire, that’s enough. Let the guy enjoy the rest of his meal.”

  “I’m not sure. I only know it’s a man and it feels like a cousin but it could be a—”

  “My brother. My older brother.” His eyes softened, and his bottom lip started to tremble. “Suicide. Two months ago. But . . . but . . . how . . . ?”

  “I’m so sorry. He wants me to tell you it didn’t hurt.”

  “I don’t understand. Did you know him?”

  “No, I didn’t. I know this is strange, but I’m a psychic, and sometimes I get messages.”

  He nodded once, stuck out a hand the size of a frying pan, and said, “I’m Hank.”

  “I’m Claire. What was your brother’s name?”

  “William, but we called him Whittle because he was always carving stuff.”

  “Hank, he’s okay. Whittle’s sorry for what he did, but he wanted me to tell you that you shouldn’t feel bad about it. He feels finally at peace now.”

  “I wondered about it. We all did. We knew something wasn’t right, but he never talked about it, you know? Pills. He took a bunch of pills one night, and that was it.”

  “I’m so, so sorry,” I repeated.

  “Well, thanks, thanks a whole lot for telling me,” he said, turning back to his dinner. “That’s good. That’s real good. Hear that, Rhonda? Whittle’s okay.” She grunted and said something that sounded like “crazy nutcase.”

  Then, all of a sudden, the voice that had taken up residence in my head stopped. I realized during the time when all I could hear was Whittle, I couldn’t hear anything else, not Cal, not the mariachi-band background music pumped into the restaurant, not the rattling of dishes from the kitchen. Now, everything came back, along with a pounding headache.

  “Cal, let’s see if they’ll pack this to go. I need to get out of here.” I knew Cal was as anxious to leave as I was.

  It got so bad that all I could do was work and then come back home. We didn’t go to movies or restaurants or even run, unless it was very early or very late, to make it unlikely we’d be near other people. I became terrified of being ambushed by information that I would then be compelled to share with a stranger at any random moment because apparently I now had a direct communication line to the universe. It was easier to keep isolated.

  Word got out. People told people. I was seeing clients from eight in the morning until six at night, and judging by the feedback they gave me after each session, I was never wrong.

  I was drained and frazzled to the point of collapse. Besides the physical exhaustion of being constantly attacked with images and words, it was like reading a newspaper from front to back and having every single story lodge into my brain. No, not only my brain, into my heart. I hurt. I hurt for the ones who were divorced and heartbroken, the ones who were suffering from pancreatic cancer or another terrible disease. For the dead mothers, the dead fathers, and especially for the dead children. Each reading left me more depleted. It was only when I was able to give a reading that was hopeful, to relay a comforting message from a loved one, or predict a sunnier future that I felt some bit of relief.

  Besides spending time with my mom, I needed the week off to get rebalanced, to figure out what the hell was going on, and to clear my mind. I needed a spa treatment for my brain.

  I knew my mother could help. If there was anything to know about the psychic world, she was the one to know it.

  Through the years, when my mother would ask me about work, I’d always tell her it was fine. We never shared stories about specific clients, and she never pressed me for information about my techniques. My mother had a long-standing rule about this. She felt her relationship with her clients was very much like that of a doctor and patient, and required complete confidentiality. I was able in some ways to use her code of honor to protect my secret.

  Cal and I’d made plenty of plans to entertain Mom during her visit, to show her around the area. I knew eventually I needed to talk to her about all the bizarre things going on with me. But if I was going to ask her for advice, I would first have to reveal that I didn’t have the skills she’d thought I had all these years. Not a discussion I was looking forward to, but I was getting desperate.

  34

  Rena

  I wake up to the screaming at three in the morning.

  At first I think it’s part of a nightmare I’m having. A pissed customer is chasing me around the drugstore. She’s screaming she was poisoned by the vitamin C I sold her. Then her screams become really high-pitched and the woman turns into a bunch of charging monkeys who are all shrieking, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommmmmmyyyyyy.”

  I jump out of bed. On the floor, Stephanie is rolling back and forth, grabbing her stomach.

  I run over to Mrs. Lupito’s and bang on the door for a full five minutes. I see a light go on in her living room. She finally opens the door a half inch and stares out at me.

  “Que?”

  “It’s Stephanie. She’s really sick. I need your car to get her to the hospital now,�
� I shout.

  “Call the nine-one-one,” she spits out and begins to shut the door.

  I kick it back open.

  “Takes too long. You have to help us. Stephanie’s bad.”

  She frowns but then says, “Sí, fine. I drive.”

  When she pulls her car down the driveway, I’m already there with Steph, wrapped in a blanket. I gently slide her into the back seat. Then I jump in front and shout at Mrs. Lupito, “Fast, dammit, get going.”

  On the way, I call the ER.

  “This is Rena Cole. My daughter, Stephanie, is in extreme pain. Stomach. She’s a patient of Dr. Norton’s. Call Dr. Norton and tell her we’re on our way.”

  I yell at Mrs. Lupito, “See? I told you. Her system can’t take that crap you gave her.”

  Everything in the ER is a blur. People are shouting, and they grab Stephanie out of my arms and take her into a room surrounded by a curtain. I shove my way in, but a male nurse yanks me out and says, “Wait here.”

  “No fucking way,” I yell, running past him. When I see Stephanie, there’s a doctor doing CPR on her, and I scream, “No, no, no.” I feel myself dropping.

  “Rena? Mrs. Cole?” Someone is shaking my shoulder. I open my eyes. I’m in one of the ER cubicles.

  “How is she? How’s my daughter?” I try to sit up, but the nurse, whose name tag says DONALD, won’t let me.

  “You fainted, so we need you to rest here for a while.”

  “But how’s my baby? I want to see her.”

  Donald puts a large, warm palm on my arm and says, “Stephanie’s resting. I know Dr. Norton wants to talk to you. She’s in with another patient right now, but she should only be a minute or two.” He takes my pulse.

  My forehead is pounding. I put my hand there and find a lump the size of a walnut.

  “Yeah, you made quite the face-plant. I’ll get you a compress for that.”

  I start to cry and say, “I’m so scared for my little girl.”

  Donald pulls a rolling stool next to the bed and says, “It’s been real tough, hasn’t it?”

  “You have no idea. She’s been sick for so long. I honestly don’t know what to do anymore. She keeps getting rushed to the ER, and they always find too much sodium in her system, but they never know why.” He hands me a tissue, and I blow my nose.

  “I’m not a dad yet, but I can’t imagine how hard it is to see your kid sick.” He stands and pats me on the shoulder. “I can tell you’re a good mom, though, and I bet they’ll figure this thing out real soon.”

  I sniff and nod.

  “Let me see if Dr. Norton’s free, okay? Need anything?”

  “A ginger ale maybe?”

  “Sure thing.”

  He comes back with a plastic cup of ginger ale, and Dr. Norton is with him.

  “Stephanie’s hanging in there, but it was touch and go for a while. We weren’t sure we could save her,” says Dr. Norton.

  I moan, “Oh, my baby. My poor, poor baby.”

  “What we don’t know is what’s going on with her. Especially perplexing,” Dr. Norton says, flipping through a medical chart, “is her extremely high blood sodium level.”

  “Hypernatremia,” I say.

  Dr. Norton raises her eyebrows and says, “Yes, that’s what we’re suspecting, but why would you mention this?”

  “Because, uh, that’s what she had before,” I say, taking a sip of soda. “Didn’t you read her medical records from the other hospital? That’s what I was trying to tell you all this time. Something is definitely wrong with her, and that’s why I said you need to do a PET scan to figure it out.” I was shouting as loud as I could with my weak voice.

  “Calm down, please, Mrs. Cole,” Dr. Norton says, pushing back a piece of blond hair that came loose from her bun. “Unfortunately, we never got the records. I did tell you that in my voice mail, remember? If you can give me her doctor’s number, I can certainly make a call.”

  “But when will you do the PET scan?”

  She sighs and says to Donald, “Once the patient is stabilized, please see if we can schedule the PET scan while she’s here. She’ll need to stay at least one night anyway, so probably tomorrow morning would be best.”

  Dr. Norton turns back to me. “We’re currently giving her IV fluids to slowly reduce the sodium levels. We can’t do that too rapidly or we risk causing brain damage.”

  “Oh my God, brain damage.” I roll away from her to face the wall.

  “Please, try not to worry. We’re doing everything we can. We’ll know more in another couple of hours.”

  I nod and hear her start to walk away.

  She stops and moves back to the bed. She puts her hand on my arm and turns me toward her.

  “Mrs. Cole, do you have any idea how Stephanie could have gotten so much sodium into her system?”

  “I have no clue,” I say, turning away again. “But I’m sure the PET scan will tell us something useful.”

  “Dr. Norton, can I speak with you a moment?” Donald asks, following her out of the room. But I can’t hear what he says to her, and their voices fade as they go down the hall.

  STEPHANIE’S BATTLE BLOG

  Posted on October 11 by Stephanie’s Mommy

  It’s been a very, very long day or actually, night. It’s eight in the morning now. Before I get some sleep, I wanted to update everyone.

  Stephanie is not here with me. She had to stay in the hospital. She almost died last night. To much sodium in her system. AGAIN. They brought her back, but just bearly.

  The doctor finally agreed to do the damn PET scan. They’ll do it tomorrow before they release her.

  When I wake up, I can hardly believe it’s almost five o’clock in the afternoon. That Xanax I took really did the trick. I call the hospital.

  “Hi, this is Rena Cole. I’m checking on my daughter, Stephanie.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Cole. This is Gretchen. I just got here, but I looked in on her and she seems much better. Even ate a little Jell-O. Such a sweet thing.”

  “Oh, that’s really good. Did the doctor say when she could be discharged?”

  “Let me check the chart. Says here, probably tomorrow morning if she remains stable through the night.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  After I hang up, I look in my closet to see if there’s anything halfway decent to wear for my date with Louis tonight. My black slacks have a stain in front but nothing a long top won’t hide. I get into the shower and am ready to go in an hour.

  He’s standing outside the drugstore, holding a white bag.

  “What’s that, more vitamins?” I ask, kissing him on the cheek.

  “Nah, just a prescription I needed to pick up,” he says. “I thought we’d have those steaks at a place around the corner. It’s not a bad night for a walk, if that’s okay with you.”

  I think people who live here must lose their ability to feel heat. It’s in the nineties. The sweat is already dripping down my back, but I say, “Sure, let’s walk.”

  Over drinks, I fill Louis in on Stephanie’s history, all the doctors we’ve seen, the ER visits, the hundreds of tests.

  “That’s really tough. A sick kid’s got to be the worst.” He wipes some salad dressing from the corner of his mouth.

  The restaurant we’re at is a really popular tourist spot. Hanging from the ceiling all through the room are men’s ties. Well, half ties. Louis says if a guy comes in wearing a tie, one of the staff will walk right up to him, cut it in half, and pin that half to the ceiling. I ask him if some people didn’t get pissed. I mean, what if the tie’s expensive? He says nope, everyone plays along. It makes the tourists feel like they’re really in the wild, wild west.

  I reach for the breadbasket. It’s not actually bread but corn muffins with jalapeño peppers in them. “Yeah, it’s been horrible with Steph so sick all the time,” I say. “I’m wiped out, for sure.”

  “She’s lucky to have a mom like you. I wish my kids were so lucky.”

  “Why? Isn’t
your wife a good mother?”

  “My ex, Rachel? I mean, my almost ex. She’s always screaming at them for something. That is, when she’s not screaming at me. Which is all the time, especially lately.”

  He tells me how he met Rachel in high school. He said their dads had been in the National Guard together, and how happy their parents were when they started dating.

  “It felt like they were tracking our every move,” he says. “It was like they thought, of course we’d get married. Like everyone expected it, and we just went along.”

  “Why? Didn’t you want to?”

  He runs his hand through his hair and shrugs. “I guess so. I guess I did. We were just so young. Like I hardly dated anyone else except for Rachel. I kept thinking maybe I missed out on some stuff, you know?”

  “Well, now you have a second chance, right?” I lean over the table and ask, “What exactly do you want now that you think you missed out on?”

  Before he can answer, the waitress is standing there and takes our order. The steaks are fantastic. We split another bottle of wine.

  “Ready for dessert? They have an amazing warm apple cobbler with vanilla ice cream,” Louis says.

  I stand up slowly and then bend over next to him so my tits are level with his eyes.

  “I was thinking about a different type of sweet ending,” I whisper into his ear. “Follow me to the ladies’ room.”

  I check to make sure the one-stall bathroom is empty, and then I pull him in behind me. I give him a blow job that’s so good he’s still sweating and grinning as he hands the waitress his credit card ten minutes later.

  All in all, a great first date. He takes me back to the drugstore, and I tell him I can walk home from there. He offers to go with me, but I tell him it’s okay. No way do I want him to see that dump of a place.

  “So, Rena. I had a really good time tonight.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  “I need to go on a business trip for a week, but when I get back, maybe we can go away somewhere together. There’s great hiking in Sedona. Maybe next weekend?”

  “Sure, I’d love that.”

  I turn and walk away without kissing him good night. Let him keep replaying that last scene in the bathroom until we get together again.