The Perfect Fraud Read online

  I hit my mother’s number and Aunt Frannie, my mother’s best friend for decades, answers on the first ring.

  “Oh, thank God, Claire. What took you so long?”

  “Aunt Frannie? Why are you answering Mom’s phone?”

  “It’s crazy around here, that’s why. Oh, honey, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but your dad’s in a bad way.”

  “Bad? How? When? What happened?” The questions squeeze through the growing constriction in my throat.

  “Another stroke, sweetie. Early this morning. Came on so sudden. We’ve been trying to reach you for hours.”

  My dad. My sweet, brave father. His fifth stroke. How much more could his poor body take?

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I was running and didn’t answer my phone. How’s he doing now?”

  “They’ve got him pretty sedated. We’ll know more this afternoon. And your mom . . .” Aunt Frannie clears her throat, sniffs and then blows her nose. “Well, you know.”

  I do. I do know. I feel the familiar tightening in and around my head. It’s as if the barometric pressure has dropped in anticipation of a storm, and my skull feels like it’s about to explode. I look up, surprised to see the clear sun-washed sky when my mind anticipated low-slung massive gray cloud cover. A lizard navigates through weeds and scuttles under one of the angel statues flanking the entrance. I want to follow him. I want to still be on the trail this morning, running with Cal. I want to be anywhere else but in this moment, being sucked back in.

  “Claire, you need to come home,” says my aunt. “Today, if possible.”

  I tell her I’ll text my flight information, and disconnect.

  The lizard peeks out from under the statue, stares at me, whips his tail, and darts up the wall, vanishing into the purple bougainvillea.

  Standing, I can already feel the heaviness, as if I have lifted a backpack of granite to carry with me back east.

  6

  Rena

  STEPHANIE’S BATTLE BLOG

  Posted on July 7 by Stephanie’s Mommy

  I’m so, so sad. Stephanie and me are still here, in New Jersey. As you can see in this pic, she’s still in the hospital, knocked out and getting hydration in her IV.

  I am to say the least PISSED. I almost did it—I almost got her out. Yesterday, I was soooooo upset after meeting with Steph’s doctor. He told me it wasn’t safe to move her and I told him I needed to get her somewhere else because she wasn’t getting better. Afterwards, I checked on her again and left. That night I was packing for our trip and I get this call from a nurse who says Steph is in a COMMA!!!!

  WTF. I saw her not even five and a half hours earlier and of course, she was as weak as ever. But she opened her eyes and gave me this little smile and whispered Hi mama. I was so happy when I left.

  I made the 30 minute trip back to the hospital in 10. Screw any cop who tried to pull me over.

  I ran to her room and there was this big crowd around her. They kept holding me back and I was screaming let me see my baby, I need to see my baby. Finally I got through and there she was, as pale as could be. It was awful.

  The doctor says to me that when the nurse checked on her, Steph said she felt like she was going to throw up. The nurse left to get something for her tummy and when she comes back, Stephanie was unconscious, laid there, with all her muscles twitching. Then they called me.

  I am so, so scared. Things are just getting worse and worse.

  They ran tests. AGAIN! All the same tests as LAST time. They took blood to check her hormones to make sure there’s no pituitary tumor or something called Diabetes Inspitus because both of these can cause kidney problems. They checked to see if her hippothalmus was working since that controls thirst. They checked for a urinary track blockage—anything to explain what was happening, why my little angel has SO MUCH SODIUM in her system.

  Yes—that’s right! It’s HYPERNATREMIA—AGAIN. The exact same condition she had when she was first admitted! What the fuck is going on? This is like one huge nightmare.

  As you know from my other posts two much sodium is EXTREMELY dangerous. Brain damage, seizures, coma. She could even DIE from it.

  Sorry, I have to get back to the hospital. Going to spend the night next to her but no way I be sleping.

  Rena’s Way to Well: Feed Your Kid Right

  Stop feeding youre kids canned fruits. They’re filled with high fructose corn sirup and the cans are lined with a chemical perservative—NOT GOOD

  Peel a clementine instead—YUMMY

  7

  Claire

  I tell Mindi what’s happening, that I have to leave and don’t know how long I’ll be gone. She opens her arms to hug me. I pat her on the back and then slip out of the embrace, my mind on the details of leaving.

  When I get to our apartment, I open the refrigerator. We have only one jar in there, with one olive in it. Which I can see will have to be tossed as the olive has sprouted a tail of slime.

  I’m hot, and the coolness helps, although being inside what most households would consider a source of food only reminds me of how much I hate to cook.

  All the annoying details: Should we have salmon or flounder for dinner? Is that papaya ripe enough to use tonight? Do I stir-fry vegetables in coconut or olive oil? And . . . you have to buy it and wash it and store it and then clean up after it.

  After Cal and I moved in together, every Sunday, I’d scan the computer for recipes and compile a list of ingredients, which I taped to my steering wheel as a reminder to food shop after work on Monday. And maybe, once a month, I’d actually make it to the store, only to return with items like a supersized jar of Vicks VapoRub and a pad of rainbow-colored sticky notes.

  Then, because we were hungry, and because Cal is completely inept in the kitchen, we’d head to Burrito Betty’s or the Tamed Pony.

  Because a restaurant is an emotionally neutral territory.

  Some nameless, faceless cook is paid to toss your penne pasta, and the waitress pockets a bigger tip because of her dimple. It’s the quid pro quo of gastronomy, eliminating any of the emotions underpinning the feeding of another person.

  That, I suspect, is the biggest reason I hate to cook. Because it propels me back to my teens, when my mother was so distraught, so completely depleted by my father’s medical situation, that if I didn’t cook, we didn’t eat. Many times, even after I prepared the meal, I ate alone because she would be seeing clients or tending to my father, who was in bed most of the time.

  At first, I admit, I was proud my parents trusted and needed me to do something so adult and necessary. I did my best to fulfill this role, just as I tried to assist my father as he struggled from the bed to the bathroom and back again, and to be patient and understanding when I was the frequent target of my mother’s emotional stew of anger and misery at what she saw as the injustice of the situation, of what was lost and could never be. I tried to adjust to months and then years of what felt like solitary confinement where my parents and I would orbit around one another but never seem to make landing. I’m not sure that my mother and father also sensed this isolation. Illness seemed only to solidify the existing exclusiveness of their relationship. It wasn’t new for me to experience the feeling that the two of them belonged to a private club of which I was not a member.

  Over the years, pride morphed into resentment. I often wonder if there are lifetime limits on being responsible and whether the wellspring of nurturing can ultimately become parched.

  I slam shut the refrigerator door and turn to see Cal.

  “Hey, Oz. Any ideas about dinner?” he asks, kissing me.

  “My dad’s had another stroke. I have to go there. I don’t want to.”

  He wraps his arms around me and says, “I’ll come with you. I can take off work, no problem.”

  “I need to make reservations,” I say.

  “Did you hear me? I’ll go with you.”

  “I know,” I say, untangling myself to move to the couch, where I open the laptop.


  Kneeling in front of me, he closes the computer screen and takes both my hands in his.

  “I . . . want . . . to . . . help . . . you.” He enunciates each word. “Claire, please, let me help you.”

  “Don’t,” I say. “Not now. I have so much to do.”

  I pull my hands away and walk to the bedroom. At the doorway, I turn to see him still sitting on the rug, head slumped forward onto his chest, eyes closed.

  “Cal, I’m sorry. I have to make calls, start packing.”

  He nods.

  8

  Rena

  “I can’t believe I had to find out our daughter’s in a coma through your blog, Rena.”

  “What the hell did you expect me to do, Gary? I’m at the hospital day and night since it happened.”

  I just walked through the door. The trip home from the hospital was awful. Thunder and lightning and two times I almost slid into the other lane. I’m shivering and dripping, and all I want is a damn nap. Fifteen minutes to lie down and try to get rid of this fucking headache.

  “You could have dialed the phone, sent me a text, something, anything. Tell me what’s going on with my daughter, for Christ’s sake. You obviously had time to type your stupid blog but not a second to let her father know?”

  “Yeah, well, you weren’t there,” I shout. “You’re never there, are you? Do you have any idea what I’m going through? Do you even know what drugs your kid’s taking? Do you know the tests she’s had? No, I didn’t think so. Because you are not here. You didn’t get the phone call from the hospital and then see your baby all tied up in tubes. You didn’t have to sleep there in a stupid plastic chair all night long.” I rub at the side of my head, but it doesn’t help.

  I can hear what sounds like huge trucks, and I’m guessing Gary is calling from a stop somewhere in Raleigh or Atlanta or Tuscaloosa or wherever the hell he’s heading to or coming from this time.

  “Still, there’s no excuse for this. I’m her father, dammit.” He sounds only a little calmer.

  When Gary calls and yells at me like this, it really pisses me off. He’s always bitching about wanting to see Stephanie more, but he’s never home. I try my best to keep him updated on everything that goes on with her, but sometimes it happens so fast I just don’t have the time to give him all the details. He has zero medical background, so he wouldn’t understand them anyway. I try to make things sound positive. So the news sucks this time. Is that my fault?

  “Rena,” he says. “All I ask is that I get told things before those idiots who read your blog.”

  “Are you kidding me with this? I’m here trying everything I can, looking everywhere possible to find out what’s wrong with our daughter. And doing it for four years, all by myself.”

  “Hey, I wanted to be there, remember? You were the one who pushed for the divorce. I never wanted it. You know that.” He’s screaming now, and I just can’t fucking take it.

  I start to cry. “Gary, I’m so tired, and I’m really, really scared. I don’t know what to do anymore.”

  “Listen, I’m sorry,” he says. “I know it’s not easy for you. It’s just I feel terrible about what’s happening to Steph.” He’s finally starting to settle down some.

  “Yeah, fine, but don’t take it out on me. It’s tough enough without you loading shit on me too.”

  “So, what now? What’s going on?”

  “She’s finally out of the coma, and there’s no permanent damage, thank God.”

  I walk into the bathroom and reach for a towel that’s stiff and smells terrible. But it’s dry and I’m not.

  “How did this happen? Do they know why her sodium levels shot up like that?”

  “Of course not,” I yell. “You just don’t get it, do you? They don’t know what the hell’s going on with her. That’s why I have to get her out of there now before something else happens.” I drop the towel on the floor and sniff my arm. It smells moldy.

  “Okay, okay. But maybe they need more time to figure things out.”

  I hold the phone away from my face and stare at it.

  “I can’t believe you just said that,” I tell him. “Your daughter, the one you say you’re so concerned about, is dying in that place. You hear me, Gary? She’s dying, and she needs to get the hell out of there.” I spit out each word. Maxie rubs up against my leg, probably because his food and water dishes are empty again. I swipe at him with my foot, and he hisses.

  I hear the car engine start and then Gary says, “Fill it up, please—premium.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m under a shitload of pressure here. I’m not sleeping and barely eating.” Opening the bathroom cabinet, I look for Excedrin and flip three into my palm.

  “And Stephanie? How’s she handling all this?” he asks. “Poor little girl. Maybe when she’s discharged, she can spend the weekend with me? I’ll be home as soon as I can finish up here.”

  “She ate a little bit this morning, but I think she doesn’t really get a lot of what’s going on.”

  “I guess that’s a good thing. You know what? I can probably be back there by the end of this week. I’ll have to cut my sales trip short. I can always make it to Summerville the next time I go to . . .”

  “No, you don’t have to rush back,” I say.

  “But I want to see her soon, so let’s work something out, okay?” he asks.

  “Sure. Call me when you get home.” But I know there’s no way I’ll let my daughter spend a whole night away from me, at least not yet. What if something happened? What if she woke up in pain and I wasn’t there? “Hey, did you call the doctor for the appointment?” I ask.

  “Yeah, but he can’t get me in until next month.”

  “That long? Shit. How’s your stomach been doing?”

  “Not so great. Man, I’ll really feel guilty if I passed my horrible stomach problems on to Steph.”

  “But at least then we would know what’s going on.”

  “That’s true. Are you still planning to take her to that doctor in Arizona?” he asks.

  “After all this, what do you think?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” he says. “I better go. Long drive ahead. You were going to send me that doctor’s name so I could look her up?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I forgot, but yeah, I will.”

  “Thanks. And I’m sorry I yelled. You’re doing a great job, Rena. You’ve always done a great job with Stephanie, taking care of all of the medical things. I’m worried is all. Keep me informed, okay? Will you do that?”

  “Sure.” I hang up, pour a glass of water, take the pills, collapse on the living room couch, and cry until I finally fall asleep.

  9

  Claire

  Cal is mad. Worse, Cal is hurt.

  There are no flights from the Sedona airport into Philadelphia and the soonest I can get to the East Coast is through a multistop flight out of Phoenix that, unfortunately, lands in Atlantic City, about an hour from Philly. Since it departs tomorrow morning at three, I decide the best option is to drive to Phoenix tonight and catch a few hours of sleep at some cheap hotel near the airport. I pack a few things and the essential toiletries, make the flight reservation, and text Aunt Frannie the information. It’s not optimum that she has to trek to Atlantic City to pick me up, but it’s the best I can do with such short notice.

  “Cal?”

  “Over here,” he answers from the back patio. Patio is an exaggeration, since it’s only a concrete slab, maybe six feet square, with barely enough room for the peeling Adirondack chair we hauled there from the curb of a neighbor’s house.

  Squeezing through the screen door, I wedge myself between the block wall and the chair and bend down to kiss Cal, who is sprawled sideways, his long legs draped over the arm. His forehead is damp from the midday heat.

  “I’ll call you when I get there and let you know what’s happening,” I say, brushing back his bangs, which have fallen over his eyes. He needs a haircut.

  Circling my wrist
with his hand, he pulls me to him.

  “Stay for a little longer?” he asks.

  “I can’t. I should get going so I don’t get caught in commuter traffic.”

  “Claire . . .”

  “Listen, I know. I know what you’re going to say, but I can’t talk about it now.”

  “Why, though? Why do you always think you have to handle these things alone? I love you. You love me. Aren’t we supposed to help each other through times like this?”

  We’ve had this conversation so often, the lines feel as if they’ve been extracted from a long-running play. We’ve memorized and delivered them flawlessly, utilizing nearly the same emphasis each time on those words we want stressed (need, dependence, fear, marriage) and accenting passages to make the points critical to our argument: the gentle probe (“Tell me what I can do to help”), the forceful pushback (“I can’t be what you want”), the impassioned plea (“You know we belong together”).

  The same show, time after time, with the same anticipated dramatic arc (“You could if you tried”) and semisatisfying denouement (“I will. I promise, I will. Give me more time, please”). The curtain closes and ushers move in to clean up the trash.

  I lean over to kiss him again, but he turns his face from me and says, “Claire, I don’t want to make things any harder for you . . .”

  “Cal? What?”

  He unfolds himself from the chair and stands to face me.

  “Nothing. I guess I’m saying nothing, except . . .”

  “Except what?” I ask

  “Except . . . nothing.” He shakes his head, hugs me loosely, and turns to go back into the apartment.

  It’s funny how often the performers are not aware the show may be closing.