Free Little Black Lies by Sandra Block Page A

friends.”
    “Believe me, Scotty, I have been asking her…my whole life. She’s never told me much. And now, I’m not even sure she could if she wanted to.”
    We are standing just inside the lobby. The automatic outside door keeps grinding open and closed, blasting us with cold, rainy air.
    “What do you want to know?” he asks.
    “I don’t know. Anything. Did she like gardening, for instance, or roller coasters?” I have no idea where I came up with that one.
    “Yeah, right. Very important things like gardening and roller coasters. What about your real father , Zoe? Don’t you want to find out about him? How about your real third cousin once removed? Maybe he liked roller coasters.”
    “Listen, Scotty. My father didn’t raise me for four years. He was basically a sperm donor.” This last part comes out a bit louder than intended, and a mother steers her young daughter away from us as they walk by. I move farther into the lobby toward the vast expanse of mauve, determined both to end the conversation and to get out of the freezing doorway.
    Scotty follows me, wiping his wet, grassy sneakers on the black rubber mat. “You are seriously fucked-up, you know that? I always thought you were a little fucked-up, but you are majorly, royally fucked-up.”
    “‘Majorly, royally,’ huh? What are you, twelve?”
    We have finally cleared the doorway when Mom comes heading our way, swooping in to break up her squabbling children as always. Cheery Cherry is pushing her wheelchair.
    “Hi,” Mom says, beaming at us. Every time she looks at me this way, I feel guilty for not visiting more often.
    “Hi yourself,” I say, hugging her, and Scotty moves in for a hug, too. One big happy family.
    “You okay, honey-doll?” asks Cheery Cherry, releasing Mom with some trepidation to her obviously less-qualified children.
    “Yes, thank you,” my mom answers, turning to us. “Let’s sit here today,” she says, pointing to the dark cherry table in the lobby. The idea of us all in her square of a room, with Scotty and me about to throttle each other, does seem ill advised. I sit down by the table in a formal chair, with upholstered swirling blue and mauve, and Scotty takes a similarly floral seat next to Mom. Outside, a robin picks at a patch of grass, swiveling its head around to look out for any competition. I’m wondering when he flies down south. Do robins fly down south? I really need to take my Adderall.
    “So how’s the coffee business?” Mom asks Scotty, perhaps to verify that he is indeed still in the coffee business.
    “Good,” he answers. “Got a few more Web-site clients, too,” he adds, to verify that he is not a complete fuck-up. Scotty has a stack of business cards at the cash register for his Web-site design business: Spyder Web Designs. You might think actual, responsible entrepreneurs would not want to put their entire Web presence in the hands of a flaky barista, but apparently I am wrong. The cards disappear quickly, and I must admit he puts together an eye-catching Web site on the cheap. My brother is probably the next Zuckerberg.
    “So,” Scotty says, apropos of nothing, “guess what? Zoe wants to find out about her real mother.”
    I glare at him. Glare is not a strong enough word.
    “What do you mean?” she asks.
    “Oh, she has this brilliant idea that she’s going to be hypnotized by her psycho doctor.”
    My mom looks at me blankly. “I don’t think I understand.”
    “Listen,” I say in my calmest voice, “this nightmare is very disturbing to me. And I think hypnosis might help me understand it a little better.”
    Mom chews on one of her French-manicured fingernails. Most of the polish has worn off. My mother was never one to chew her nails BD. “Do you really think this is wise, Zoe?” she asks. “Don’t you think sometimes it’s better to leave well enough alone?”
    “Maybe.” The robin darts to another bit of grass. “I don’t know.”
    “She wants to know if her