The Perfect Mother (11 page)

Emma blanched, surprised. “Are you mad at me, Daddy? You sound mad.”

He said he wasn’t mad, just worried, but he continued to sound mad. He told her that her situation was extremely serious and that whatever her reasons for protecting Paco, she had to start protecting herself, even if that meant withdrawing her protection from him. As soon as he mentioned Paco, she stiffened and angrily flung back her response, saying he didn’t know what he was talking about. He looked at her sideways, surprised by the abrupt change, but he pushed on, telling her that there was no evidence at all that anyone had been in the room except for her, Paco, and the dead boy.

“I don’t know what you mean by ‘evidence,’” she spat out. “Paco and I live there together—of course he had fingerprints in the room. But he wasn’t there that night, and I was. I am telling you what happened. I’m your daughter. You believe the police more than me?”

“I believe the evidence. Your story has too many holes in it.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Dad. Life is sometimes full of holes. It is what it is.”

Mark leaned back in his chair and surveyed his daughter’s face. She was frowning, her eyes were narrowed, her lips pressed tight to fight off tears. She looked angry and hurt, as though she honestly felt betrayed. He softened his tone and leaned forward.

“Emma, honey. I’m not against you. I’m trying to help you. I don’t want you to spend the next fifteen years in prison. I want you to think a little for a minute—not of Paco and not even of yourself, but of Rodrigo’s family.”

Emma sighed and rolled her eyes.

“Don’t you dare roll your eyes at me!” Mark exploded. “Those people have lost their only son, a boy they were very proud of and, from all I’ve heard, had a right to be. A good student. A devoted son. A kind person. That’s all they have now, those memories and that reputation. When you say he tried to rape you and tried to kill the person who rescued you, you’re taking away their last comfort. Have you thought of that? Is that really what you want to do?”

Emma’s face scrunched up, and finally she burst into tears. But they were angry tears, not repentant ones. “How can you do this to me? How can you accuse me and try to make me feel guilty about someone who tried to hurt me? That’s like the typical male reaction to rape, right? You want me to say he didn’t do it. But he did. I don’t know what you think happened, but the truth is—”

“I’ll tell you what I think happened,” he interrupted. His jaw was clenched, the color rose in his face, and the veins in his neck bulged slightly. “I think there was no Algerian, Emma. I think Paco killed Rodrigo. I don’t know how Rodrigo got into your room or what he was doing there, but I don’t think he tried to rape you.”

Emma got up, sobbing uncontrollably. When she spoke, her voice was less bitter and more heartbroken. “I can’t stay here. I’m sorry you think so badly of me, Daddy. I love you, and I wouldn’t lie to you. I don’t know how you don’t know that.” She turned around and walked to the exit, asking the guard to let her out.

Jennifer left first. José followed and Mark walked slowly behind him. They retrieved their passports without looking at each other. José led them outside, where they each, almost unconsciously, took a deep breath.

“Wow, Mark. That went well,” Jennifer said furiously. “What is happening to you? How could you talk to her like that when she’s so desperate and so alone?”

He looked straight at her. “She’s lying through her teeth,” he said.

M
ark’s phone rang as he was getting into the car, and he spent most of the ride back in intense conversation with the caller while Jennifer fumed. José drove with his eyes fixed straight ahead of him, occasionally trying to overcome the tense atmosphere. “Ah, here we are, back in the city,” he said as they left the expanse of desert and entered a more developed area. When they reached the hotel, Jennifer told José she’d be in touch and, not waiting for either him or the doorman to open her door, rushed out of the car and walked briskly into the lobby without looking back. Mark hurriedly ended his phone conversation, thanked José, and followed Jennifer inside.

She was in the room, lying on top of the bedspread with her shoes kicked, off when he entered.

“I heard a little of your end of the conversation,” she said. “I assume it means you need to go right back.”

“I should get there pretty soon,” he answered.

“That’s fine. Why not see if you can get on a flight tonight?”

He went into the bathroom and closed the door. She could hear the water running, and when he came out he was drying his face.

“Did you need to cool off?” she asked.

“In more ways than one,” he answered. “Listen, Jennifer, we need to talk.”

“Do we? Are you sure? I mean, I know we need to talk about whatever it is that’s going on between us eventually, but do you think it’s wise to open that particular can of worms now?”

“What did you think I meant? I meant we need to talk about Emma. But yes, I guess that also means we have to talk about us. I know you’re mad and just want me to leave, and I know that’s partly because you want to avoid this conversation, but honestly, I don’t see how I can leave without our talking about what happened today.”

She looked at him. He was so upright, so earnest. His boyish face, his sandy hair just beginning to fleck with gray, his conservative, loose-fitting dark blue suit, his Paul Stuart shirt—all made him look like the respectable, law-abiding, decent man and successful attorney he was. This was the package she had fallen in love with. It’s funny, she thought, how the very things that first draw you to someone are often those that finally put you off. What she once saw as integrity she now saw as rigidity. He can’t cut Emma any slack. He refuses to believe her, and now that he’s turned on her, he blames me, she thought.

“What is there to talk about? I believe her; you don’t. Let’s hope the jury, if it comes to that, ends up agreeing with me.”

Mark removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and pulled it off. “The point is that they won’t. If you weren’t so blinded by your defenses, you’d see that.”

“What do you mean my defenses? You think I’m responsible for all this?”

“I think you believe you’re responsible for everything our children do and that’s why you don’t let yourself see them honestly. I think you take too much credit for their successes and too much blame for their failures.”

What Jennifer thought was that his words were really unfair. She had waited and waited for Mark to come, practically counting the days. She went over it in her mind. Though she knew he had to be in the States, she couldn’t help feeling that it was wrong for her to be shouldering all the pressure by herself. She’d thought she was doing a pretty good job and that he’d thank her for it. She’d needed his partnership, his support. And now, instead of this crisis bringing them closer, which it might have, he was using it as a weapon against her. How could he? What a moment for him to start criticizing her.

“I don’t know where this is coming from, Mark.” Jennifer spoke quietly. “But I don’t think this is the time for you to start psychoanalyzing me. Let’s take care of Emma first, okay?”

He barely reacted to her. He had his own thoughts and his own agenda and he had come too far to stop. “Jennifer, do you remember when Emma was in high school and she was caught shoplifting?”

High school again. Was he really going to dredge up every last bit of mud from the past? Yes, she remembered it well and had herself begun to think about it, though she tried not to. Memories crept into her consciousness, even affecting her unconscious dreams, but she kept pushing them away. She felt strongly that doubting Emma was a kind of luxury she didn’t have. She wasn’t a fool, she thought; she saw the new hardness in Emma, the anger, the dangerous signs of a distorted morality—but that had to be the next phase. That would be about
fixing
Emma. Now had to be about
saving
her.

“Yes,” she said. “I wondered when you’d get to that. Are you going to bring up her wetting her pants in kindergarten too?”

It was the one time in their lives before this that Emma had really worried and disappointed her. At sixteen, Emma was caught taking clothing from an upscale Chestnut Hill boutique. Jennifer and Mark had been deeply puzzled by her actions. Emma didn’t need more clothes, and if she did, she had money to pay for them. She didn’t even like expensive clothes. But the store owner found a silk party dress, price tags attached, in her backpack. He said he’d been watching her and saw her put it in. He’d suspected she’d done it before, he said, but this time he’d seen it with his own eyes. Jennifer was a good customer, so he didn’t call the police, but he called her and Mark, who paid for the dress and confronted Emma. She had been with her friend Ashley when she was caught, and she claimed that Ashley had stuffed it into her backpack and she didn’t know it was there. Ashley denied it and the two broke off their friendship.

Mark was talking, but Jennifer barely heard him. She was going over the shoplifting incident in her mind, step by step. He seemed to be waiting for an answer.

“What did you say?” she asked. “I’m afraid my mind was wandering.”

“I said do you remember how cold she was, how she insisted it wasn’t her fault? We thought she’d be crying and sorry, but she seemed angry rather than repentant. Remember?”

Jennifer remembered. She had talked Mark into going to see the owner. Mark had apologized and convinced him nothing like that would ever happen again.

“We had a big, tough talk with Emma, and we thought that ended it,” Mark said.

“It did end it. It isn’t the same, Mark. Lots of teenagers shoplift. That’s not some deep character flaw. She learned from it.”

“Really—what did she learn? I’ll tell you what. She learned she could get away with anything by lying.” He paused and changed his tone from anger to sadness. “She was willing to throw her best friend under a bus, Jennifer. They never spoke again. Didn’t you ever wonder about that?”

She had. It had bothered her a lot. She’d known Ashley since the girls were in first grade together. Ashley’s mother had been her friend, and they’d lost touch after the incident. But she had pushed her disquieting thoughts away. Now, without admitting it, she asked herself again if Emma had lied about Ashley.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “It’s too long ago to remember. Why do we have to talk about it now?”

Those words had stopped Mark before, but there was no stopping him now.

“When was the last time you and I talked about anything important? We have been moving into separate lives little by little, and whenever I try to talk about the shift, you gloss over it and call it unimportant—it’s not the right place; it’s not the right time; we can discuss it at some later time that never comes. Let’s be honest, our life has been about the kids and not much else for years, and you make no effort to change that. Does it never occur to you that I count too, Jennifer?”

She sighed with a trembling breath. “Of course you count, Mark.” She was on the verge of tears and he softened slightly.

“Look, I’ve let it go, so maybe it’s partly my fault. But ignoring upsetting things, refusing to confront them or talk about them—that won’t work this time.”

She thought about the affair she’d feared he’d had. She’d come to think it wasn’t true, but now the thought flashed through her mind that maybe it was. She remembered Suzie telling her to pay more attention to him, not just the children. Maybe she should have. But not now. Now certainly anyone could see that Emma’s problem had to come first.

She really wanted him to leave. For the first time, she was grateful for his demanding job. She spoke in a conciliatory tone. “Listen, Mark, I know you’re right. We have to have a long talk about a lot of things. But we can’t solve everything in a few tense hours before you have to get on a plane. Can you please hold off on this until next time? And can we decide what I should do next about Emma before you go?”

He hesitated, then nodded somberly. He knew he had to leave, and he didn’t want to go with so much anger between them. He sat on the bed, took her hand, and gently pulled her down to sit next to him. He put his arm around her and tried not to react when he felt her stiffen and saw her turn her head away. “Let’s not leave like this, Jen. I’m sorry it came out the way it did. I think we can fix it. I love you.”

She slowly turned her head toward him, but she cast her eyes downward to avoid looking at him directly. “I love you too,” she said mechanically. “I’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” She laughed suddenly. “I guess that just sounds like what you’ve been complaining about, me thinking all this will go away. But it’s not because I can’t or won’t face it; I just think we can overcome it. Am I wrong there too?”

“I hope not,” he said. “I don’t think you’re wrong, if you’re willing to try.”

She asked him what she needed to do about Emma until his next visit. He told her that the most important next step depended on her accepting that Emma was not telling the truth. “Even if you don’t accept it, then you need to realize that her only defense lies in that direction. She needs to admit there was no Algerian—maybe even no attempted rape; I’m not sure about that—and tell us what really happened. It will mean implicating Paco, I’m fairly certain, and she won’t want to do that. But if she really understands it’s her or him, she may change her mind.” His presentation had been unemotional and professional. Now he paused and, lowering his voice, added a more personal, bitter remark. “After all, she had a longer relationship with Ashley than she’s had with Paco, and she didn’t hesitate to turn on her for her own advantage.”

Jennifer pulled away before she could stop herself. “Oh, Mark, you have such a low opinion of her, you frighten me.”

He got up, walked to the desk, and picked up the phone. “I’m sorry. That was an unnecessary swipe, but I fear for her freedom.”

He called the concierge to arrange a booking for that day’s Iberia flight to JFK. Then he busied himself with packing his toiletries and the few other items he’d brought and called his car service in New York to arrange a pickup at the airport.

“Let’s call the kids before I leave,” he said. “I think they’d like to talk to you.”

“I’m not up to it right now. It would be hard to put on any fake optimism.”

“Maybe you should let them know you’re blue. After all, you miss them, Emma is in trouble—they know all that.”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I’ve spoken to them almost every day. I’ll call them later when I’m feeling better.”

What does he want me to do? she thought. Tell them that their father believes their sister is complicit in a murder? He knows nothing about how to talk to children. He never did. But he always thought I did. Now he doesn’t trust either me or Emma.

The concierge called a few minutes later to tell him he was booked on a flight to Madrid that left in an hour. There was a two and a half hour layover in Madrid before his flight to New York. Mark said he’d be right down and asked for a taxi. He hurriedly put his tie and jacket on, grabbed his bag, and walked to the door. “I have to go,” he said apologetically.

“I know. That’s fine. Have a safe trip.” She walked over to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. He put his bag down and took her in his arms, which she passively allowed.

“I’m sorry this happened, Jen. I know you have your hands full here and I hate to upset you more. But I think this conversation was important. I think you’ll see that eventually.”

“I’m fine. Better hurry.”

She waited for the door to close and the sound of his footsteps walking down the hall toward the elevator. Then she heaved a sigh of relief and lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. After a few minutes, she got up, walked to the desk, and picked up the phone. She punched in a telephone number. The phone rang four times before she heard the familiar message: “Digame lo que quiera.”

“If you’re there, please answer,” she said. “I need to talk to you.”

A few seconds and then she heard someone pick up. “
Sí,
senora,” Roberto said. “I am here.”