Tell Me Something Real (27 page)

“I totally approve,” Adrienne says. “She's badass. In order to avoid marrying some king, she took her ladies in waiting on a pilgrimage. She said she had to have ten girls come as companions, but each girl had to bring one thousand virgin maids with her. Eleven thousand girls went off in boats, but then some assholes killed them. Vanessa, with
Caleb coming back, I doubt you'd be eligible for the virgin voyage. Lucky you.”

I toss Marie's first communion book at Adrienne, who dodges it like she's the soccer player in the family. I almost envy Marie, so clearly destined for the cloisters.

We spread out on the floor, carpet instead of beach towels, lamps instead of Mexican sunshine, and huddle close. Adrienne puts on a Blondie album, her new favorite, and sings along with Debbie Harry as she sketches the boats sailing across the sea, small dots in the waves, a Milky Way of vessels. Despite Marie's pleas, Adrienne refuses to draw saints in their final moments of torture and death. Marie picks Saint Agnes next, kneeling in prayer with steepled hands and a wry smile. The patron saint of chastity, yet Adrienne somehow makes her look slutty.

“It's crazy, but I miss the clinic,” Adrienne says. “Not Mom's crazy fucking bullshit, but, you know, how we were together.”

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.”