Fine. I’m selfish and self-centered and should be thinking about my mother, but all I can think about is Dorinda. Plus, whenever I’m researching a story, I always turn to experts for advice and information. Maybe I’ve got one in this very room.
“Well, Mom,” I say, “you’re right. I was thinking about my story. Remember I told you Dorinda Sweeney agreed to do an interview? And you and I talked about how far a mother might go to…well, I’m just trying to decide how to ask her if she’s sacrificing her freedom for her daughter. It just seems so unlikely. That someone would do that. Doesn’t it?”
“Ah, Charlotte.” Mom elevates her bed a little higher. Even with her bruised eyes and bandaged head, she manages to look almost regal. “You know I’m proud of you, don’t you? That I realize what a success you are, in your career. All those Emmys. You know that, don’t you? “
I’m not sure where she’s going with this. Although her praise is reassuring to hear, I know Mom well enough to predict there’s a “but” coming up.
“But…” Mom doesn’t disappoint me. “With all your flashy and fast-track life, I’m still not sure if you understand human nature. Or maybe it’s because you’ve never had a child of your own.”
Don’t go there, I silently plead. Do not go there. The joy drains from the day, as I sit, silent, wondering yet again why every conversation with her winds up about me and my failings. I look at my feet, wishing I could look at my watch.
“You think I don’t still worry about you?” she asks. “You think I don’t look in the mirror and get surprised, every time, at who’s looking back?”
I look up, puzzled not only by her words, but by a tone of voice I’ve never heard from her before.
“When I think of you,” she continues, shaking her head carefully, “I can still see you as a child. I still see me as a young mother. I heard your first word, I smelled that sweet baby shampoo in your hair. The first book you ever heard, I read it to you. We listened to music. Practiced the alphabet. You’re still that little girl to me, and it almost makes me cry every time I see you, all grown-up and on your own. I would have done anything for you. Still would. That’s my job.”
I pull a tuft of pink tissues from a pearl-inlaid lacquered box on her dresser. The white tulips seem a little hazy, I realize, as I dab my eyes. Then I see Mom needs a tissue, too. She takes the one I offer with a smile of thanks, but then waves it at me instead of using it.
“You think I’m criticizing you,” she says. “I know you do, and I wish-I wish you wouldn’t. Majoring in Shakespeare. Husband. Children.” She smiles, tucking the tissue under a cuff of her periwinkle satin bed jacket. “Plastic surgery. Those are all your decisions. I only want you to be happy. Like your Dorinda. She wants her daughter to be free. She’s doing her job.”
I think about love. I think about justice. I think about loyalty. I think about sacrifice, and the choices parents make. And their children.
There’s a tap on the door. “Mrs. McNally?’ A white-coated attendant, the same one who reassured me there was nothing ominous about the hospital activity Mom thought she noticed, enters Mom’s room, wheeling a cloth-covered dinner cart. He smiles as he sees both of us.
“And Miz McNally. I saw in the guest book you were here. Nice to have you with us.” With a clang of silverplate, he whisks the cover from a platter of assorted cheeses. “I managed to snag you some delicious apps from the kitchen.” He looks around, then closes the door.
Mom waves the platter away, but I’m focused on the food, realizing my Greek salad with no onions or croutons lunch was long ago. Then I hear a little noise, a mixture of a sigh and a hiss. When I look up, the nurse, his back pressed to the closed door, is looking at us, waiting for us to pay attention.
“I’m not supposed to breathe a syllable, but I have to tell you,” he says, his words tumbling out. “I’m very fond of you, Mrs. McNally, and you, too, Charlie, if I may call you Charlie.” He pauses and purses his lips, apparently considering whether to go on. I’m transfixed, Gouda in hand, waiting for what’s coming next.
“But Charlie, you said your mother was worried. About all the activity. And I just don’t feel comfortable with that. And you’ll probably find out about it anyway,” he says, using the classic rationalization of someone about to spill a secret.
The nurse takes a few steps forward. Then he puts both hands on the foot of Mom’s bed and whispers a name.
Mom’s eyes widen. I put down my cheese.
“She’s here, getting a little work done,” he says, his eyes glistening with conspiracy. “But no one is supposed to know.”
“YEAH, IT WAS HILARIOUS,” I say to Josh, holding the phone on my shoulder. Botox is pretending to sleep, so I attempt to climb into bed without disrupting her. She shifts, begrudging me a spot. “So, he says, all her security guards put on white uniforms? Like nurses? So the tabloids wouldn’t know she was there for all the surgery. Apparently the nurses were in a battle royal. Union types, the shop stewards, were enraged the place would let bodyguards masquerade as medical staff. But most were cozying up to the phony nurses, trying to get an audience with their fave rave from the movies.”
I pull my comforter up around my neck, and tuck the phone between my face and the pillow. I wish Josh were here in person. I know he’s in his bed, too. When I close my eyes I can almost feel his arm across my shoulders. Sleeping alone, these days, feels more alone than it used to.
“No, I can’t get you an autograph,” I say. “From her, at least. How about one from me?” I snuggle in closer to the phone. “In a place, say, where only I could see it?”
CHAPTER 18
The razor wire around the prison glitters tauntingly in the July sunshine, daring the bad guys inside-women, actually-to escape. And keeping the law-abiding citizens out.
I feel like the poster child for good guys as I step out of the sunshine and into the institutionally yellow-tiled entry hall. This is the evil twin of the sleek state archives. The place is barely air-conditioned. Smells like stale everything.
I dig my state-police-issued reporter ID out of my purse and hold it up to the thick glass window of the guard’s desk. The guard looks up, assessing, then she slides a pink piece of paper halfway though a metal slot. I see her hand, ragged cuticles and bluing veins, next to mine, tanned from the Cape, manicured and soft. Inside, outside. “Request-to-visit form,” she says, terse and businesslike. She’s said this a million times, and she’ll say it a million more. No need to elaborate, no need to change. She points to a black cord dangling over the edge. “Pen. Fill it out.”
I carefully print my name and social. U.S. citizen, yes. Convicted of a felony, no. Journalist, yes. Nervous, yes. Although that’s not on the form. I hand the pink paper back to the melancholy-looking guard. Somehow feel I should try to connect with her. “Thanks,” I say. “Nice day.”
“Wouldn’t know,” she says through the metal grate. Her patent-billed cap shades her eyes as she reads my paperwork, then she feeds it into what looks like a fax machine. She cocks her head toward a bank of lockers. “Everything in there,” she orders. “Everything. No cell phones, pagers, belts, receipts or keys. Wedding ring, medic alert, you can keep. And the locker key.”
“I can take in my notebook, though, correct? And a pencil?” I ask. I know I can.