Tell Me Something Real (18 page)

“I had to see a judge. The lawyer said I needed a restraining order. It's the only way I can protect you. With Munchausen syndrome, it's more common for the mother to say her child is sick. Marie could have been next. She could have said that Marie had leukemia too. She could have poisoned Marie with Laetrile. Killed her like she was killing herself. I did everything I could, Vanessa. I did my best. I'm so sorry. The judge denied our request today. The judge won't grant a restraining order because your mother didn't harm you physically.”

“She didn't
harm
us?” I whisper. “That's where you were today? With a judge?” I'm a bird trapped indoors, flying around, crashing into windows.

I barely hear his answer. “Yes, in court.”

Noise fills the restaurant. A waiter clears a table. Customers open the door. Someone coughs. I wish I could lose every sense, all at once, gone in an instant. Whoever said feelings couldn't kill you was lying. I breathe, in and out, one, two, three, until I feel like I can speak. I can't control the tears. My chin rests against my chest and I cover my face. I wish he'd told me at home or in the car. I try to be
quiet. Dad squeezes my hand so hard it hurts. I worry my finger bones will snap like twigs. I get dizzy and all I see is the swirling face of my mother. I know I'm in some kind of shock because the harder I cry, the more I feel like I'm floating away from my body. The pain in my hand diminishes, as does my labored breathing.

The tears stream down my cheeks, too many to wipe away. “You just disappeared, Dad,” I say, barely choking out the words. “You wouldn't talk to us or tell us anything. You should have told us the truth.”

“Vanessa, I didn't mean to disappear. I should have been with you girls, but I had to take care of your mother. An involuntary committal lasts for ninety days. They're going to try to treat her. She could get phone privileges. She might be released in ninety days,” he says.

I laugh despite myself, and I sound angry and hopeless. Like Adrienne, but drained of power. “I don't get this. I don't believe it.” I try to free my hand, but I pull too hard from Dad's grasp and knock over his glass of wine. It breaks, sending shards into our salads. Wine seeps into the white tablecloth. The waiter hurries over.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“That's okay. Don't worry about it.” The server stacks our plates and carries them to the kitchen before returning for the ruined tablecloth.

The wood is exposed, the deep red of the wine darkening the center of the table. Dad wipes up the liquid with his
napkin and runs his hand across the smooth surface. His fingers stop at the knot in the wood.

“Your mother's like this,” he says as he touches the dark circles of wood. “Most trees have knots, though not deep enough to break a branch. But sometimes the knot is so severe it destroys the tree. That's the case with your mom. I didn't want her to destroy you.”

“I can't talk to her, Dad.”

He nods. “I'll do whatever I can to protect you.”

I feel the tears return and I take more deep breaths.

“Are you ready to leave?” he asks.

I nod several times, first in agreement and then to soothe myself. Dad tosses a generous amount of cash onto the table.

Once we're driving home, I rest my head against the window, feeling its coolness, knowing the closeness we felt on the beach is gone. Our secret isn't like the moon. It is too big for me to see, too blinding.

I want to grab his hand and hold on, hoping he will anchor me, will guide me through this.

But we both know it's too late for that.

We sit on the sofa, Marie nestled between us, with Dad in the opposite chair. Adrienne and Marie were waiting for us, with the kitchen table set for dinner, mac and cheese steaming on the stove. As soon as they saw Dad and me, they assumed the worst, just as I had—that Mom was dead.

I almost wish that was the truth. Almost.

The damning file folder rests on the coffee table, each sheet of paper confirming Mom's lies. Adrienne reads and rereads the pages as Dad explains the same details he just told me.

Most victims who survive shark attacks describe a similar experience: When the monster's powerful jaws, filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth, clamp down on a leg, an arm, even a torso, they don't feel pain. The shock is that unimaginable, that overpowering, that the body blocks out the sensation of being eaten alive. As I listen to Dad repeat the story, I understand that depth of shock, the sensation of being torn in half, yet too numb to feel it.

Marie sits silent and still. I wait for Adrienne to cry or scream, to storm out and slam a door, but she remains in her spot, crammed next to Marie and me.

“What about Lupe?” Adrienne asks. “Didn't she suspect something? She always talked to the doctors.”

I know what Adrienne is asking: Didn't Lupe love us enough to protect us? Unlike Dad, she was there every day, monitoring Mom's health, every infusion, every pill. She always called us
mijas
with such affection. We were in her care as much as Mom. She doted on us more than any other patient.

Dad runs a hand through his hair and struggles with his words. “Lupe never worked for the clinic. She worked for your mother.”

“That's bullshit,” Adrienne says. “She worked harder than anyone else there.”

Dad looks at her softly. “That's because she was there to take care of you and your mother. That's all she did. She was a private nurse.”

“I don't believe you,” Adrienne says.

Dad reaches into his briefcase and withdraws a book of traveler's checks. “Flip through this.”

Months of checks made out to Guadalupe Ortiz. Five hundred pesos a month to perpetuate Mom's lies.

Marie, curled up between us, puts her head in my lap. I stroke her hair and wipe the tears from her cheeks. She lifts her head when she speaks. “Lupe lied too?”

Dad rises from the chair and kisses Marie on the forehead, whispering something only she can hear, before taking a seat on the floor. When we were younger, we sat in the same positions as he read us books, bedtime stories, and, later, chapters from his own childhood favorites,
The Hobbit
and
The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe
.

“Your mother had . . . how should I say this? . . . had an unusual arrangement with the clinic. Apparently, this happens a lot with Americans. We pay a lot to be there and that gives us more power. Americans come with their own staff and ideas, and the clinic accommodates them. The doctors supervise treatment in a different way. They're not accountable to insurance companies, and the Laetrile ban makes it difficult for American doctors to work with the clinics. And then there's the language barrier. I never would have guessed that your mom would exploit that to her benefit.”

“What benefit? Mom poisoning herself? That's a hell of a benefit,” Adrienne says.

Dad doesn't look up; he stares at the file, his eyes on the prescription pad and traveler's checks. He straightens his spine. “I keep trying to figure out when things changed. There must have been a trigger. Something must have made her do this. She was happy in college. She was so good at nursing that she talked about doing something more, even medical school. She threw parties. She had friends. She wasn't moody like she was with us.”

I raise my fingers to my face, feeling my puffy eyes. “You never said anything about her moods.”

“She could be hard on you girls. She could be hard on me. After she lost the baby—”

He snaps his head up, suddenly hyperalert. Before Adrienne, Mom miscarried. It wasn't a secret. She always spent the anniversary alone. Dad took the day off work, shepherding us to and from school, taking us to dinner at our favorite Old Town restaurant, La Sirenita. Mom's heartache was what Adrienne called our “hooky day.”

“Oh my God,” he says, covering his face with his hands. “Maybe it never happened. The miscarriage. Maybe she lied about the pregnancy.” He cries until his nose runs, drying his tears with his sleeve. As I listen, it feels like time is moving more slowly, as though my mind knows this conversation will be one I replay again and again.

“I wasn't at the hospital when she miscarried,” Dad says
at last. “I was at work. I never talked to a doctor. Your mom told me about it. Just her. I think this has been going on for twenty years.”

“And you never noticed? I can't fucking believe this.” Adrienne is so angry that she sounds calm.

He shakes his head. “I don't know what to say. I can't believe this either. I'm so sorry.”

Adrienne stares at him, ignoring his tears and explanations and apologies. “You should have gone to the clinic with her—not us. You should have bought a Spanish dictionary. You never stood up to her.”

He taps his fingers on the table. “You mother has never done anything she didn't want to do. This was on her terms. All of it. I wish I'd known—” He stops midsentence and rubs his eyes. “But you're right, Adrienne. Things could have been different. I should have taken control of her treatment, but you know your mom. She always had an explanation for everything. I relied on her for information. I shouldn't have. I know I should have been more involved.”

“You never stand up to anything, Dad. Not to your fucking boss. Not to Mom. You could have stopped all of this if you'd tried.”

Dad gives her a flabbergasted look, wincing at her words. Slowly, he shakes his head. “I don't think anything could have stopped her.” Before Adrienne answers, he flips through the folder until he finds what he's looking for. He
traces the words with his finger, following each sentence before he hands it to Adrienne.

It is in English, written in Mom's elegant cursive, a list of medications and combinations. She calculated the side effects, how much the drugs would make her sick. She wrote it all out. If she took a certain amount, she'd vomit. Another amount, she'd pass out. And the last damning line: the combination that would kill her. Her suicide. She was prepared to die for her lie.

My mind pictures the scene. Mom in bed. Me coming in to check on her, cupping pills or a glass of milk—whatever she needed. I would have discovered her body, rigid and cold and blue. I would have screamed. I would have called Dad or Barb. I would have shielded Marie, and even Adrienne. She would have done this to all of us, but I feel the betrayal the most deeply. She would have done this to
me.

Adrienne bolts off the couch and walks over to the shelves lining the wall. Mom's altar, her photos and vacation souvenirs. She's going to hurl something fragile across the room, something made of crystal or porcelain, something precious and breakable. She lifts the giant conch shell and raises it to her ear before setting it down with too much force. Her hand travels to the Venetian glass, sunbursts of color, and grabs a vase. When it hits the wall, I feel like the whole world shatters. Marie screams.

“Shhh,” I coo, pulling her closer. I don't tell her everything will be okay. No more lies.

Dad stands. “Adrienne, don't you dare do that again.”

“Or what? What are you going to do, Dad?”

“Please sit down, honey.”

Marie climbs into my lap. I wrap my arms around her, holding her as tight as possible, wishing away the pain, absorbing her tears.

“I'm here,” I say. “I'm right here.”

Marie hides her face and chants something about Mom and God, over and over again, half sob, half song.

“Adrienne,” Dad says, his voice strained and hoarse, “we're in this together. I'm your father. I promise I'll take care of you.”

She looks at him with such venom. “Oh sure, because you've done such a spectacular job so far. Let's see, you let your crazy wife fake cancer. You let her drag us down to that hellhole so-called ‘clinic,' and then you tell us she's dying. Father-of-the-year award. Great job, Dad. You should be proud.”

“I spent the day in court, Adrienne. I didn't want to hurt you any more than she already had. I had to make arrangements. I had to listen to the psychiatrist and the lawyer.” He looks each of us in the eye. “I never meant to lie to you. I didn't mean to hurt you. I was trying to protect you.”

“Well, you sure as hell failed,” Adrienne says.

“That's enough,” he says. “I know your mom isn't here to explain herself. You have every right to be angry with her and with me. But you have to calm down and listen. This
is terrible, but you must believe me that I did everything I could. I did all of this for you.”

“Bullshit!” Adrienne yells.

A shadow of anger passes over Dad's face before his eyes fill with tears. “I hope you'll come to see my side of things.”

Marie squeezes me tightly, her face against my shoulder, whispering, “Mom, I want Mom.”

“No, you don't,” Adrienne snaps.

But Marie nods fiercely. “She's not going to die. She's still with us.”