Being Audrey Hepburn

Wearing blue nitrile gloves, they basically ransacked my bedroom and seemed pretty happy when they found my closet and all the Audrey Hepburn posters. They neatly rolled up the posters as evidence, tagged them, and put them in big plastic bags. I couldn’t help thinking what Jess would have said about their curatorial techniques. They took my computer and all my VHS and DVD copies of Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Roman Holiday, and the other Audrey Hepburn movies. I have to admit, I wouldn’t have been able to watch them anyway.

News trucks and reporters started crowding up the streets as another group of agents arrived and Mom let them in. What else was she supposed to do?

When a woman wearing a dark blue business suit and dark blue blouse flashed her FBI medallion, we all knew they were here for Nan.

Nan asked permission to use the bathroom, and they made a big show of checking out the downstairs bathroom before she entered, even stationing an agent outside the little window and ventilation fan in the back with another agent in front of the door. As if at eighty-one she was going to make a mad dash for freedom. Nan just wanted to tidy up her makeup and look nice for when they took her away. She didn’t even try to avoid the cameras as the feds walked her out of the house in handcuffs, head held high and smiling as bright as ever, wearing her patented double strand of white pearls.

I couldn’t believe I had caused all these horrible things to rain down on my family.

I climbed back upstairs, crawled into my empty closet, and cried.

67

“Lisbeth was the quiet one,” Mrs. Walker, my biology teacher from Montclair High, was quoted saying in a New York magazine piece. The article compared me to JT Leroy, the literary hoaxer who famously fooled Carrie Fisher and Asia Argento, and to Esther Reed, a con artist with multiple identities, both of whom were caught for masquerading as someone they weren’t for fame and profit. “I would hardly have ever expected her to steal a world-famous dress,” Mrs. Walker added condescendingly. I think they talk the same way about serial murderers.

The piece went on to assume that I was the latest example of social anxiety disorder, appropriately abbreviated as SAD in the DSM-5, where psychiatrists catalog all forms of mental illness. Also known as social phobia, it is considered the most common anxiety disorder: 12 percent of Americans have experienced it in their lifetime. It’s also a disorder that is frequently associated with crime. They analyzed me as being withdrawn, introverted, and characterized by intense social fear, theorizing that I lashed out at society by pretending to be someone else. I was kind of insulted by their theory.

The article made Mom consider moving away, and I think we would have if Nan weren’t still under threat of a federal indictment. And then what happened to Mom made it impossible.

She woke up vomiting, and if Courtney and I hadn’t rushed to Mom’s bedroom and turned her on her side, Mom would have drowned in her own puke. Stuff was up in her nose and everything. It scared the shit out of us. Even after we turned her over, she still wasn’t breathing, so I stuck my fingers down her throat and desperately tried to clear her airway. Finally Mom coughed up more stuff, and I got her to sit up while Courtney called an ambulance.

At the hospital, her liver tests were alarming: ALP—186, GGT—455, MCV—111, and a platelet count over 96,000. I didn’t really know what all that meant—even though the doctors and nurses kept talking about it. Finally I found Dr. Newton to find out what was going on.

“Her liver isn’t functioning,” he said. “We can stabilize her for a while, but we’re not sure what we can do at this point.”

“But she stopped drinking,” I said, feeling hopeless.

“Which is a good development, but the damage was already there,” he said.

“What about a transplant?” Courtney piped up. “She’s on the list, right?”

“We’ve already moved her to the top of the list. And we’ll even go outside our designated area, but there are no guarantees that an organ will be available or that your mom will be able to endure the long hours of surgery,” he said.

Courtney and I silently held hands in the waiting area, alone with the ferns and the rows of mauve chairs with the endless, repetitive voices of cable news filling up the empty space.

After Mom’s condition stabilized, we were allowed to visit her. Every nurse, doctor, and orderly watched as we came in. I couldn’t help feeling that their opinions about me had changed, as if I had caused this terrible thing to happen to my mother. I certainly didn’t feel like the good girl anymore.

“Your lovely daughters are here,” Nurse Bry

When she saw us walking in together holding hands, Mom looked pleased. We sat down by her bed. She seemed to be resting well and no longer in pain.

“It’s mostly just dehydration,” she said, as if that was an explanation for her condition. “I’ll get back on my feet soon.”

“Dr. Newton doesn’t think so,” I said. I guess I had lost all my reticence in talking to Mom the way I used to. Courtney was horrified.

“Don’t speak to her that way,” she said.

“I’m just saying there’s more going on than that,” I responded, defending myself.

“Well, you don’t have to talk about it now!” she demanded. I thought she might start screaming at me, and I winced a little. I could see Mom knew what was going on. It was like she always knew what went down between Courtney and me but was just so messed up in her own life she couldn’t acknowledge it.

“No Court, sorry. Lisbeth is right,” she said. “There is something we need to talk about.” I braced myself, terrified at what she might say next.

“I told the doctors and the nurses and everybody that I don’t want a transplant.”

“Are you crazy?” Courtney said. Now she was really angry.

“I don’t deserve it, Court. They shouldn’t waste an organ on me.” I could tell she had been thinking about it for a long time. “A transplant isn’t like other operations. I’ve seen the patients that need them and how difficult the surgery is. There’s a terrible shortage of organs, and many people who are a lot more worthy than me are waiting for them. I’ll just do the best I can.”

The wind seemed to go out of Courtney. I was devastated, too. We didn’t know what to say. I listened to the various medical monitors beep and whirr, making a symphony of sadness in the room.

Slowly, I found myself trying to unravel the logic of what Mom was saying. I knew she was trying to do something noble. It seemed selfish of me, but I was starting to get mad that she was bailing on us. Sure, it was the “good nurse” in Mom who was trying to do the right thing, but she was giving up on us, too.

“It’s not fair,” I said determinedly. “You’re saying that we’re not worthy. I know I fucked up royally. But I need you more than ever—Courtney and Ryan, too. Nan for that matter, not that you ever think of her.”

Mom looked at me astounded. Courtney didn’t know what to make of it. I’m not sure Court understood what I was trying to say. She was so used to being left behind, and although she was always mad about it, in some way she expected it.

“I can’t sit here with you,” I said. “If this is the way it’s going to be, I’ve got to go.”

68

I expected Jess, but I hadn’t dreamed that Jake would show up with her.

I mean, Jake was an effin’ rock star practically. I was surprised that the press wasn’t following him. Of course, by now my story had been replaced with other headlines, like the one about Kim Kardashian dancing with Kanye at a Miami disco even though she’s eight months pregnant with another baby. The TV news vans and reporters’ cars were no longer hanging outside the house.