“At that moment my mouth filled with what tasted like ocean water. I had to keep spitting it out. It was the strangest thing. Mom, has anything like that ever happened to you?”
It’s quiet on the line, but I can hear her fiddling with the delicate wind chime that hangs in the kitchen window. It’s made of brass, and the chimes are shaped like butterflies. My dad got it at a flea market for her a long time ago.
“Occasionally I can sense what’s happening when someone is ill or might become ill. Like, I’ll have trouble breathing, which might mean the client should watch out for pneumonia. But no, nothing that sounds like what you experienced,” she says.
“What do I do?”
“Do?”
“You know . . . with this information. How do I handle it? Should I call the police? And what would I say?”
Cal has obviously been listening to the conversation, or at least my side of it, because he shouts from the kitchen, “Call the police? And tell them what? That the spirit world wants you to play detective because some probably way overprotective mommy is legitimately concerned about her sick kid?”
“Mom, can I call you back?” I ask.
Racing into the kitchen, I yell at Cal, “What the hell do I need to do to convince you that the visions I’m having are real?”
Cal whirls around from the stove, where it looks like he’s concocting some sort of an omelet. There’s a frying pan heating, and eggshells and grated cheese are strewn across the counter. Butter has started to blacken in the pan, and he flips off the burner.
“Can you really blame me? All these years you’ve told me you had zero psychic abilities, that you were just trying to make a buck. So forgive me if I’m a little confused here.”
“But now they’re back. I do have these abilities now, so—”
“Fine, maybe I could accept that your long-lost skills have returned. But you want to bring the police into this? To accuse someone of possible child abuse? Can’t you see the potential horrible ramifications of this? Lives ruined?”
“I can’t just ignore what I saw and felt today.”
He wipes his fingers on a dish towel, bridges the distance between us, and takes my hands in his.
“Why not? You’ve told me many times the cards can be interpreted in different ways. What if your interpretation is off this time?”
I rip my hands away. “And what if I’m exactly on target? Do you really think that, if something horrible is happening to a child, I can stand back and do nothing about it? Then, Cal, you don’t know me very well. And, frankly, now I’m wondering how well I really know you.”
I turn from him, march into the bedroom, and slam the door. I’m furious. I can’t believe Cal is still doubting my abilities, but more important, that he can’t see I have to help this child. But in my heart, I know my anger is fueled by something else—recurring self-doubt. What if everything that happened today and in the last couple of weeks is just an impressive streak of bull’s-eye good guesses? Do I really want to call the authorities based on guesses?
I crawl, wounded, to bed. After an hour, I finally fall asleep but toss all night, replaying the battle.
46
Rena
Someone’s pounding on the door. I bury my head under one and then two pillows. Stephanie moans in her sleep but doesn’t wake up.
But it won’t stop. I stumble to the front door, swing it open, and shout, “What?”
Mrs. Lupito doesn’t even blink. She hands me a business card and says, “Here, this is for you. Some guy came to my house yesterday and said for me to give it to you right away.” She smiles with just the corners of her mouth and says, “It’s from a Detective Larson.”
“Fine. You delivered the damn message. Good for you.” I start to close the door, but she slaps a hand on it.
“Listen, I don’t want no trouble here. I never had problems with my renters before, and you better not be bringing any to me now. Understand?”
I slam the door in her face and throw the card on the chair. I head back to the bedroom to catch a couple more hours of sleep. But as soon as I lie down, my cell phone starts to buzz. I really want to ignore it. Then I think that maybe it’s Louis.
But, no. Not his number. It’s from the hospital. Dr. Norton’s administrative assistant, who says her name is Campbell.
“Rena, Dr. Norton asked that I call you. We received the test results back from Stephanie’s PET scan, and she was wondering if you could come in this morning to meet with her.”
“This morning?” I yawn.
“Yes. She has an opening at eleven. Would that work for you?”
“Yeah, sure.” I hang up and call the pharmacy to let them know I can’t work today.
Stephanie and me are only ten minutes late for the appointment, but Dr. Norton looks like she’s been waiting for us for about a week. She’s got this aggravated frown on her face. I’m really glad to see the scrunched lines between her eyebrows and send up a silent wish that they’d stay there forever.
“Mrs. Cole, come in. Please take a seat.” Her desk is huge, all light wood. Besides her computer, there are piles of papers neatly stacked in a slotted metal organizer on one side. On the other side is some kind of ugly-ass carved wood statue. I’m trying to figure out what the hell it’s supposed to be. It just looks like round circles glued to other round circles with a pointy thing coming out of one side. I decide it’s some kind of modern art shit that has no meaning whatsoever but probably costs more than I could make at the drugstore in three years.
Stephanie walks in before me and waves at Dr. Norton.
“Hi there, pretty girl. How are you feeling today?”
I put my hand on Stephanie’s waist and have her sit next to me in the leather chairs facing the desk.
“She’s fine,” I say.
Dr. Norton hits some keys on her computer and then turns the screen so it faces me and Steph.
“Here are the results of Stephanie’s recent PET scan,” she says, pointing to some blobs on the screen. “These are shots from your daughter’s upper and lower gastrointestinal tract. I know it’s confusing to interpret, but the good news is there is absolutely nothing wrong in either of these areas.”
“How about that genetic test for Fabry disease?” I ask.
“It’s going to take another couple of weeks, at least, for those results.” She turns the screen back toward her and says, “It’s great news that the PET scan showed nothing. Of course, the bad news is we still don’t know what caused the dangerous increase in her sodium levels.”
“Maybe you need to do a bone marrow test?” I suggest.
Dr. Norton stares at me and then turns to Stephanie and says, “Honey, see the little table in the corner that’s just your size? Why don’t you go over there? I know there are some coloring books and crayons in the drawer I bet you’ll love.”
Stephanie slips down from her chair, stops, looks at me sideways, and then walks slowly to the table.
Dr. Norton waits until she’s settled and then says in a low voice, “Mrs. Cole, do you have any idea how painful a bone marrow test is? There are no test results, nor any clinical rationale for performing a bone marrow aspiration relative to the symptoms with which Stephanie is presenting. Why would you want to put your daughter through that?”
“Because something is very wrong with her, and I want you to do everything . . . do you hear me? . . . fucking everything . . . to figure it out,” I shout.
“Please keep your voice down. I don’t want to upset Stephanie.”
“Believe me, she’s upset plenty already. In pain all the time. We’re both upset, to tell you the truth,” I say, only slightly quieter.
“I’m sure that’s true,” Dr. Norton replies. “But, frankly, I think it’s time to look seriously at other possibilities for Stephanie’s ongoing problems.”
“Such as?”
She hesitates but then leans forward, like we’re a couple of gal pals out for drinks.
“I think
it would be a good idea for you to meet with the hospital psychologist, Amelia Bately. She’s wonderful. I know you’d like her. Perhaps she can help.”
“Help? Help with what? How the hell would me seeing a stupid psychologist help with the pain that kept my daughter awake screaming bloody murder for over three hours last night?”
I leap up from the chair, knocking over her hoity-toity, look at me, I’m so rich I can buy something that looks like dog shit but everyone else thinks is so fancy wood statue. It crashes to the floor, and the arm or leg, or whatever the hell it is, breaks off and rolls under the desk. I grab Stephanie’s arm and yank her to stand up. I pull the red crayon from her fist and toss it onto the table.
“You know what? Maybe you should concentrate on spending more time finding a cure for my daughter’s illness and less on a good mother who is only trying to do the right thing.”
I hear her calling my name as I race Stephanie down the hallway.
When we get back to the duplex, my heart is still thumping so hard, I can hear it in my ears. How dare she? Who the hell does that bitch think she is?
Flipping open my laptop, I log into my blog. I want to tell my readers what’s going on. I know they’ll be as furious as I am.
There’s a message from my sister.
KnitWit1: Rena, that guy from the hospital came back again today and I told him (again) that the only information I had was that you were in Arizona trying to get help for Stephanie from a famous doctor there. He asked me what kind of illness Stephanie had and I told him she’s had stomach problems all her life. I wanted to let you know because I’m pretty sure he’s going to try to find you there. What’s happening? Why does he want to see you? He asked me if I knew the doctor’s name (which, of course, I don’t). I think about you guys all the time. PLEASE tell me how you both are and what, if anything, I should tell this guy if he stops by again? Also, Gary’s called at least twice a week to see if I’ve heard from you and if I know where you’re living now. Call him . . . and me! Your loving sister, Janet
47
Claire
Cal’s gone when I wake up. I tell myself that’s a good thing because I can’t stand the thought of picking up the fight where we left it last night. Physically I feel better, though, and I’ve pretty much decided I’ll go back to the store today.
I fix tea to drink on the back porch. Just as I’m sitting down, I hear my phone ring from inside the house. Thinking it’s probably my mom after I failed to call her back last night as promised, I run in and finally find it twisted in the bedsheet.
But it’s not her. It’s Cal. I push decline.
He immediately calls back, and I answer this time, spitting out, “What?”
“Don’t hang up, okay?”
“Fine, but make it quick. I need to go to work and give some more fake readings.”
“Claire, please—”
“Please what? Cal, I don’t know what else we have to say to each other right now. I’m trying to get my head around not only my rediscovered psychic skills but also the possibility that a child is in real danger, so—”
“You’re right,” he says.
Caught off guard, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“Oz, I didn’t sleep at all last night. I went out and walked around and around and here’s the conclusion I reached: I do know you, and I know you’ve never lied to me, but more important, I’ve never known you to lie to yourself.”
“So?” I’m not sure where he’s heading with this.
“So if you tell me you’ve got your psychic mojo back, then I believe you.”
I start to tear up.
“Cal, really? Because it’s important to me to know I can trust you with all this. It’s been so crazy, and I’ve been feeling like I’m completely alone with it.”
“I know, and I feel awful about that. I really do. I mean, I’ll be honest, it’s hard for me to comprehend because, well, it’s kind of out there. But last night I remembered what your mom told us about her experiences, and I think I finally began to understand what you’ve been going through.”
“I can’t tell you how much that means to me,” I say over the lump in my throat.
“I love you, Claire, and I never want you to think I don’t support you.”
“Thank you,” I choke out. “Thank you so much.”
“But, besides apologizing for my stupidity, I called for another reason.”
“Which is?”
“This morning on the way to school, I was thinking about your client, Rena, and remember that made-for-TV movie we watched? I think it was last January? Or maybe December? I can’t remember exactly, except I know we still had the Christmas—”
“Cal, did you really call to ask me about some stupid movie?”
“I did. This is important. Because the movie was about a mother hurting her son. Don’t you remember? She was this seemingly perfect mother, went to every PTA meeting, made brownies from scratch? And nobody had a clue she was doing horrible things to her kid.”
Then I do remember: Cal and I curled on the sofa under an afghan, a bowl of popcorn between us, watching this terrible movie (besides the truly disturbing subject matter, it had awful writing and dreadful acting) and wondering how a mother . . .
“For attention, right? She was hurting him and always bringing him to doctors and emergency rooms for his symptoms, just so she could get the attention,” I say, feeling nauseated thinking about it.
“That’s right. She was getting off on all the praise from the doctors and nurses for being this great mother of a really sick kid, when she was the one causing all the symptoms.”
“What was it called? What she had? Something to do with donuts?”
“Munchausen by proxy syndrome,” Cal says. “Donuts?”
“Sorry, what popped into my mind just then was Munchkins. Do you really think Rena has this Munchausen thing?”
“Yes, I think it’s possible.”
I take the phone outside, sip the lukewarm tea, and think about Rena with Stephanie on the plane.
“I know it doesn’t square with the reading or my visions, but I’ve got to tell you, Rena appeared, at least on the plane, to be genuinely concerned about Stephanie. Traveling across the country to see the best doctor and all that.”
“It’s what they do, these moms. They are really over-the-top with what they show the world. On the surface, they look like the perfect parent. But it’s all an act, just for the attention.”
“Lots of people need extra attention, and they don’t hurt their kids to get it.”
“These are not normal people.”
“You’re saying they try to get the doctor to pay attention to them through their kid?”
“Yeah, and get this. The mother will create more and more symptoms. The doctor keeps buying into the apparent illness and loses sight of the fact that many of the symptoms or test results just don’t make any clinical sense. Meanwhile, the kid’s being tortured, first by the mom, and then through all the testing.”
“Wait, what do you mean ‘creates more and more symptoms’?”
“Some moms will lie to doctors about their kids’ symptoms, but some will actually cause the symptoms.”
I shiver even though the temperature has to be creeping toward ninety already.
“Cal, do you think Rena is actually causing Stephanie’s stomach problems?”
Pieces are starting to come together, creating a frightening picture.
Rena on the plane, seemingly a loving mother, willing to travel far away from home in order to finally discover why her daughter is so critically ill. Like someone who should receive the mother-of-the-year award. Then, Stephanie, a fragile specimen of a child, beyond shy. I see her clutching that stuffed toy (a panda? Jeffrey?) and suddenly recall what she said to me.
“Cal,” I say, “Stephanie told me sometimes her stuffed panda was bad and had to sleep on the floor, somewhere where it was dark and cold.”
There’s silence, and then Cal
says, “I’m betting Stephanie was there with that panda during those times.”
“Oh God. Poor little girl.”
Right then, that bizarre salty liquid returns to my mouth in such a rush that I race into the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet, where the saliva or whatever it is keeps replenishing. I vomit several times. From a distance, I can hear Cal’s voice, tinny through the phone I threw onto the bathroom floor. “Ozzie? Are you okay? What’s going on? Something you ate?”
48
Rena
After I close the laptop, I’m about to turn the TV on for Stephanie, figuring I’ll take a nap. But then someone starts banging on my door, which seems to be the routine for today. Goddammit.
I’m afraid it’s Mrs. Lupito again, so I put my finger on my lips to shush Stephanie.
After a minute or so, the knocking stops. Then I hear the person at Mrs. Lupito’s door.
“Hello, Mrs. Lupito. Detective Larson. Sorry to bother you again, but I was next door, and Mrs. Cole still doesn’t seem to be home. Do you happen to know when she’ll return?”
Shit. What the hell does this asshole want anyway?
“Hey, listen, I’m her landlady but I don’t check on everything she does, you know. She came back late last night. I give her your card first thing this morning, just like you say to,” Mrs. Lupito says. “But that one, she’s sneaky. I don’t think she call you back.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Don’t know. Just a feeling.”
“What do you know about Rena Cole, Mrs. Lupito?”
“I know she a real loony bird. She makes a big deal about feeding her daughter all this healthy food, but she don’t seem to care much about what that little girl is doing most times. She’s weird, that’s all I can say. And something is very wrong with her and Stephanie, that much I know.”
“Stephanie. Her daughter?”
The Perfect Fraud Page 23