Tell Me Something Real Page 19

  I wince at her words. After seeing Mom, I obsess about the details all over again, dwelling on Lupe. Still, I can parcel out my memories: Mom and Munchausen’s, and then, separately, the courtyard and the ocean. I miss Roberto bringing us meals. I miss seeing Marie smile so freely, kicking the soccer ball with Roberto’s sons. I doubt he knew about Mom. If he did, I believe he would have done something. Roberto is a father. He looked out for us—and I’m certain no one paid him extra to be a decent human being.

  “I don’t miss it. I missed Dad too much when we were there,” Marie says without looking up from her book. “Now I miss Mom.”

  Every time I open my mouth to tell Adrienne about Mom or the conservatories, something stops me. Maybe it’s the way she funnels her energy into art, with a pen or colored pencil tucked behind her ear. Or how she strokes Marie’s hair, teasing the cropped strands at the base of her neck. Strong when occupied. But when she’s alone, staring into the open fridge, her eyes narrowed in concentration, she looks young like Marie. Like she can’t handle anything else, especially the reality of Mom in the psych hospital.

  We make a list of the names, twenty-two saints in all, of the canonized girls. By bedtime, Marie commits their fates to memory. A holy savant. If she didn’t seem so at peace, if she asked for Mom, I would be worried. But she doesn’t. Wearing her new plaid uniform, she hums “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road” by Elton John, complete with dance moves. Adrienne puts on the record and they sing in unison, twirling around the room, giddy and dizzy.

  Still, we don’t take any chances. Adrienne collects all of the scissors and stashes them with her art supplies.

  I remember Sister Mary Margaret’s words: Marie needs structure and guidance. She will provide that at school and in the sanctuary. We’re charged to provide that at home, with the help of Felicity, Perpetua, Justina, Solina, and the other girls who suffered the sword or the stake.

  The final bell rings and I meet Adrienne at the car. I watch as she walks out the double doors. Last night, she chopped off her long denim skirt so it stops above her knees, such a different style than her ankle-length flowing gypsy skirts and scarves. She took a break from Marie’s saints to adorn her own T-shirt with a portrait of Debbie Harry, who is eclipsing Stevie Nicks as her fashion icon. The heavy black eyeliner suits Adrienne.

  Jeff, a painter, compact and muscular like a wrestler, calls her name. He’s the one who introduced her to Blondie. She turns around and holds out her hand. He grabs it and laughs at something she says. He has the same easy smile as Zach, but intense eyes, observant, with the power to notice the smallest details in a painting, analyzing color and composition. In a black leather jacket, he seems tougher, like he can handle Adrienne’s barbs. Not someone she can eviscerate with a phrase. He looks like he is falling in love on the spot.

  She refuses to speak to Zach—and all of her old friends—trading them in for the art crowd. Both the ones who sneak cigarettes by the art classrooms, and also the serious museum-visiting ones who speak breathlessly of Rodin and Pollack and O’Keefe.

  “Are you going to go out with him?” I ask, gesturing at Jeff as he unlocks an ancient Fiat.

  “Probably,” she says. “He’s supertalented. He knows about Mom but hasn’t made a big deal about it. Plus, look at him. He’s gorgeous.”

  I wonder if he heard his name, because he turns and gives her a final wave.

  When we arrive to pick up Marie, she stands off to the side, alone, fingering her rosary.

  “How was your first day?” I ask.

  “Okay,” she says.

  I inventory her limbs, not finding any hints of ink.

  “You sure?” Adrienne asks, eyeing Marie in the rearview mirror.

  “Stephanie is having a birthday party. All the other girls are going.”

  I turn around and smile. “That will change when you get to know them. Do you want to get a treat? We can go to Dairy Queen.”

  “Good plan,” Adrienne says as she does a quick U-turn, setting off a chorus of blaring horns.

  We drive along the beach, and it’s hard not to think of crossing the border, of heading down to Ensenada. A breeze stirs the air. The hair around my face swirls and I absorb everything I love about the drive: the golden quality of light, blue jays and seagulls rivaling for food, and the scent of jasmine mixed with honeysuckle. Salt water. The wheels on the road. The destination doesn’t matter. As long as I’m in motion. As long as I’m moving forward, away from the pain, away from the grief.

  Cars flood the drive-thru. I point to a couple of empty picnic tables. “Let’s sit outside.”

  With soft serve in hand, Marie perks right up. We choose the only table in the shade. I watch her eat, smiling, because even though this is hard, Marie is in a better school. I spare her the news that I saw Mom. It has to stay that way. All day, I couldn’t stop thinking about those first few days without her. Back when I thought we were losing her forever, when I thought I wasn’t going to be with her in her last moments, all I wanted was to see her. To talk to her. To say good-bye. I close my eyes and remember the taxi, the hospice, the feeling that my entire world had blown to bits. Then the reality of her in the mental hospital, shuffling like a zombie, but somewhere, deep inside, a glimmer of her true self—whoever that is.

  There’s no question that I need to transfer. The only question is which conservatory to choose. I can’t be free while living in the house. Now that Marie is under the care of Sister Mary Margaret and Adrienne has found her new posse, they’ll be okay. Fine, even. Dad will do everything for them, something I now understand deep inside. And he has to do this for me—let me go. He’ll fight me, but I will win. I have to.

  I push aside my malt, too nervous to take a sip.

  I expected Adrienne to explode, but after I finish telling them about both schools, what I like about each one, she stares at her sundae, at the cherry sinking into the ice cream, with her mouth set in a grim line.

  “I can’t imagine you not playing, but I can’t imagine you gone,” she says. “I wish you weren’t so damn good. Then we wouldn’t have to deal with this.”

  Marie wipes a smudge of chocolate from her chin. “You can go, but you have to come home whenever you can, because I can’t lose you and Mom.”

  “Hey,” I say, and poke her arm. “It’s not like Mom at all. You’re not losing me. I’ll come home all the time.”

  Marie takes a bite of her cone, quickly catching the melting ice cream, staring at me, not saying a word. She used to eyeball Mom in the same way, like she was divining her fate. I peek under her sleeve, looking for more signs of markers and quotes. Nothing.

  “What?” I ask.

  “You’re like Saint Bridget. It’s kind of like going off to a convent. Just come home.” She gives me a serious look. “Promise.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  My attention shifts to Adrienne, who shakes her head. “I think you should wait and go next year. It’s pretty shitty timing if you think about it.”

  My chest tightens with urgency. Adrienne narrows her eyes. I can’t wait—not even for Adrienne. I can’t spend the rest of the year sitting through classes, especially English, where Jasmine stares at me with pity. I can’t bear to spend every day in the house, dwelling on Mom’s lies, analyzing every detail. I can’t play at home, not like I need to, not like I do at school. Composing the song was an anomaly. It worked because Mom—not Liszt—was the focus.

  “I’m sorry.” I’m leapfrogging birth order, jumping ahead, leaving before my time. I know I’m asking for a lot—probably too much. “I don’t know how to stay. I need to transfer this year. Now.”

  I can’t read her expression, something between a smirk and a frown. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier, and now you want to bail.”

  She’s right. I should have. But Dad is right too. I can’t defend myself to Adrienne, because in order to do so, I’d have to tell her about visiting Mom—something I won’t do. I’ll never inflict that experience
on my sisters, and if that means keeping a secret, I’ll keep it.

  She turns to Marie, who pops the remainder of her cone into her mouth. Adrienne brushes Marie’s hair off her shoulders. There isn’t a way to put it back without revealing the inches of cropped hair.

  “Are you ready to go?” she asks without looking at me, only focusing on Marie. Like I’m already gone.

  Dr. Suzanne Shepherd directs us to sit in a circle. She’s an older woman, dark haired, elegant. I think this is how Mom would have looked when she approached her sixties. Well dressed, graceful, and a little formal, a little stiff.

  Not now, though. Not ever.

  I take the chair next to Adrienne, even though she refuses to look at me. She hasn’t said a word, not driving back home, or riding with Dad to the therapy appointment. I spent years watching Adrienne’s friends rotate in and out of favor, as she banished someone for sharing secrets or kissing someone else’s boyfriend. Even now, with her new crowd, anyone can see that she’s in charge. I just never thought I’d be on the outside.

  “Tell me a little about yourselves,” Dr. Shepherd says, pen and notepad ready. She gives encouraging nods, and, in Marie’s case, a familiar smile as she jots down our hobbies and favorite school subjects, benign and boring questions leading up to a bombshell. I don’t want to be here, but this woman saved Marie.

  “Most families of Munchausen’s patients suspected something was wrong. I want to hear from each of you, how long did you know?”

  She doesn’t ask us if we knew.

  “I didn’t know,” Dad says. He looks at the three of us. “We’ve discussed this.”

  She puts down her pen. “Please know that I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not saying you’re complicit in any way. However, it will help all of you if you have a better understanding of how your mother’s illness manifested. I’m not suggesting that you were helping her with her deceit, but identifying instances when you felt unease can be helpful.”

  “I felt that way every fucking day,” Adrienne says. “What do you want us to say?” She turns to Dad. “This is bullshit. I don’t know why you won’t let me meet with Dr. Whelan instead of coming here.”

  Dr. Shepherd looks over her reading glasses. “Adrienne, let’s start with your father. Peter, when did you become uncomfortable with your wife’s illness?”

  “I was never comfortable with her being ill.”

  “How closely did you monitor her treatment?”

  He inhales and holds his breath a moment before releasing it from his lungs. “Not closely enough.”

  “Until now?”

  “Until a few weeks ago.”

  She asks him what changed, and he details Barb’s suspicions, my injury, and the emergency room visit. “So,” she says, “you first suspected something when Vanessa hurt her ankle.”

  “Yes,” he says, and I wish I’d chosen the empty seat next to his. “It’s true that I knew something was wrong—I just didn’t know it was this. Our friend was suspicious, but even she didn’t see Iris’s duplicity. We thought she might be minimizing or exaggerating symptoms. Nothing like what was really happening.”

  “If I may.” Dr. Shepherd pauses. “This is an extremely difficult situation, but I am curious why you allowed her to continue with Laetrile if she said it was hopeless. Why did you let her keep going? Why did you let her take your daughters down there?”

  We all watch Dad, especially Adrienne, who assumes the posture of a cobra.

  Dad hangs his head and I strain to hear him. “She said that it could give her more time. She was desperate about it. I didn’t know how to say no to her.”

  “That’s exactly right,” Dr. Shepherd says. “Iris assumed all of the power. Do you all see that? Even if you suspected something was wrong, your mother was in control of the situation. Not you. This could have gone on indefinitely, but you stopped it.”

  “I think I could have done something,” Marie says.

  Adrienne scoots her chair closer to Marie’s. “Don’t be crazy. You couldn’t have done anything. It was all Mom’s fault. That bitch Lupe, too.”

  Marie shakes her head. “I saw Mom do things at the clinic. She would boss Lupe around and tell her how much medicine to give her. Lupe would say that it wasn’t right, but Mom took the medicine anyway. She made Lupe hand her the shot and then Mom injected it herself. Even though they talked in Spanish, I knew Mom was lying about something. She made Lupe cry, especially when Lupe took my blood. That’s why I don’t think Lupe meant to hurt us. I forgive her.”

  No one says a word, not Adrienne, not Dad. When Marie meets my eyes, I remember the night of the storm, of the dining room filled with tea lights, and Marie’s plain words: You’re going to die. She looked at Mom in a similar way, almost a challenge, or a plea: Tell me I’m wrong.

  Dad makes eye contact with Dr. Shepherd. His face is paler than Mom’s was at her sickest.

  “Marie, honey,” he says. “Lupe drew your blood?”

  Marie nods. She stares at her lap as though she is in trouble. Dad speaks gently, as reassuring as possible.

  “That’s why I knew that Lupe didn’t want to hurt us. She cried a lot, but Mom screamed at her and forced her to do it. Mom just wanted to make sure that I don’t have cancer.”

  Marie meets my eyes. “She did it to you too, didn’t she? Mom said you were next.”

  It’s as though the air in the room freezes. Goose bumps cover my skin, and my lungs feel frostbitten. Cold sweat runs down my back. I’m drowning in arctic water. It takes a minute before I can breathe or speak. Finally, I choke out, “No, she didn’t.”

  I poke at the inside of my arm, at the shadow of veins beneath the skin. When I meet Dad’s eyes, I understand that everything is different. Mom hurt Marie. Who knows what else she would have done if she'd had the opportunity?

  “That means I knew, doesn’t it?” Marie pulls her rosary—the one she made from the kit, the one lacking the mourning beads—from her pocket and fingers the beads.

  Adrienne covers Marie’s hand with her own. “That doesn’t mean you understood what Mom was doing.”

  “Adrienne’s right,” Dr. Shepherd says in the kind of voice one would use when talking to an injured animal.

  We could make a list, the four of us, Caleb and Barb, too, itemizing the small inconsistencies, the elements that felt strange, just a little off. Maybe then, looking at everything at once, compiled, we might have guessed. Marie couldn’t have known what she saw—it’s too inconceivable, too much to accept.

  “Does this mean I helped her?” Marie asks. She tucks her feet under her body, curling up, looking half her nine years.

  I shake my head, but it’s Dr. Shepherd who speaks. “No. It means that the situation was too complicated to understand. Like Adrienne said, your mother is responsible.”

  Marie shifts her gaze to Adrienne.

  “Why didn’t you say anything?” Adrienne whispers.

  I reach for Adrienne’s other hand, but she yanks it away.

  Marie slides off her chair and stands before Adrienne, tall, emulating Joan. “I didn’t know what to do, and then I didn’t want you to be mad at me.”

  “Girls,” Dad says, ready to intervene if Adrienne loses it. But she doesn’t. She scoops up Marie and holds her close. I want to share the same chair, at least move closer, but Adrienne won’t even look at me.

  Dr. Shepherd starts to explain the complexities of Munchausen’s, deconstructing Mom’s tactics, pathologizing her every move. My concentration remains on my sisters, but with each second that Adrienne refuses to look at me, I feel more disconnected. It’s as though I don’t share their grief. Maybe I don’t, not the same brand anyway, considering I spent yesterday afternoon with Mom. Marie burrows her face into Adrienne’s shoulder, and I look away.

  Her words take their time reaching my ears. I look out the window, at the sun dipping into the ocean, at the lapis-colored waves, until I hear my name. Everyone is looking at me. Even Adrienne. I don’t kno
w what they said or how long they’ve been talking.

  “Vanessa,” Dr. Shepherd repeats. “If you could have anything from your mother, what would that be?”

  I don’t hesitate. “I want her to disappear.”

  It’s her or me.

  Fifteen

  In the beginning of the summer, back when they moved in, Dad presented Barb with a key. A new one fresh from the hardware store, the metal shiny and unblemished. But when they arrive, they ring the bell. Visitors now. Dinner guests. Nothing more.

  Barb folds me in her sturdy arms. “Vanessa, I’m so glad to see you.”

  I hold on tight, overwhelmed by how much I missed her. I won’t let Barb pull away, too gripped by my sudden neediness. She understands and squeezes tighter, cooing “dear one” until I can stand on my own.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  “What on Earth for?” She gently pats my shoulder.

  I feel like a scavenger, a young raccoon, rummaging for scraps of motherly affection. She steps inside and he fills the door. I waited so long that I began to forget the small details of his body. Has he always had so many freckles? His forearms look almost tan. Curls sprout from his scalp.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey,” I say back.

  I pull him inside and feel that familiar rush when Caleb takes my arm. First, our hands touch, then our entire arms, shoulders, legs. This is the closest two people can get while standing side by side. Our legs should be bound together for a three-legged race.

  “Caleb!” Marie yells. “We made something for you!”

  Adrienne and Marie spent the morning in Adrienne’s room. While the door remained open, I wasn’t invited in, not even when I walked past, slowly, peering inside as they continued the assembly line of saint shirts.

  At the sound of Caleb’s voice, Marie bounds to the door, clasping a shirt in one hand and her saint book, fatter than a dictionary, in the other. “We made you a present!” She wears a proud grin as she holds up the shirt, adorned with a drawing of a teenage boy sporting a bowl haircut. He stands at the forefront of dozens of others. “In 1570, a bunch of Portuguese missionary boys fought off a band of pirates. San Juan was the only one who survived. You would totally fight pirates.”