Little Lies

by H Hunting

  I call her name and cross over to the closet because the door is open a crack, but it’s empty too. Panic makes everything tight, and I try to think about where else she might hide, what her other favorite places are in the house. I rush back upstairs to the spare bedroom at the end of the hall that looks like it belongs to a princess, and push the door open. It slams against the wall with a startling thud as I call out, “Lavender, the game’s over. Are you in here?”

  A sound so feral, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end comes from the other side of the room. It’s followed by an aggressive slam that makes the closet door rattle on its hinges.

  I slide across the hardwood floor and try to turn the knob, but it’s jammed or locked or something because I can’t get it to turn. “Lavender? It’s Kodiak. I think the door is stuck. I’m gonna get it open, okay?”

  She wails from the other side, sounding more animal than human. I don’t want to think about how long she’s been stuck in there. Lavender hates the dark; she’s afraid of the things she can’t see. Ever since she was taken three years ago at a carnival. A lot of things changed after that night.

  Lavender isn’t just quiet anymore, she’s something else—missing, even though she’s here. She doesn’t really remember what happened, but dark and small spaces make her nervous. And sometimes she has bad dreams that make her look tired.

  I keep trying to turn the knob, but it won’t budge. Once my baby sister locked herself in the bathroom, and I had to figure out how to get her out. I run into the bathroom and yank open the vanity drawer, searching for something I can use to pick the lock. I find a safety pin and prick myself trying to straighten it out. My hands are shaking, and the door keeps rattling, like Lavender’s slamming herself against it. I try to jam the pin into the tiny hole, but it’s hard with how slippery my hands are. I finally manage to slide it in, and I hear and feel the faint click and release.

  I turn the knob and Lavender tumbles out, knocking me down. We land on the floor with a thud and an oof.

  “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” I repeat, sitting up and rearranging her stiff, shaking form. She curls into a tiny ball, her entire body convulsing with silent sobs.

  Her hands are fists, and I can’t see her face. Her auburn hair is a wild, tangled mess. I try to smooth it with my palm, like I’ve seen my mom do with my baby sister when she’s upset. I register the wetness in my lap, the smell of urine and something metallic. I wrap my arms around her and rock her, telling her she’s safe—reassuring myself as much as her.

  Lavender is nine.

  I’ve known her my entire life.

  She is my secret best friend.

  We’re the same but different.

  We’re connected by invisible threads. I always seem to know when she’s sad or scared. But no one really understands, so we don’t try to explain. I feel sick with guilt that she was stuck in that closet with the monsters in her head.

  Her panic is so big, it fills the room and seeps into me too. I rock with her, trying to make it better with my words, but that’s not fixing it.

  I shift so I can tip her head up and ask her to look at me, like my mom does when I have a hard time settling my bad thoughts. Her eyes are wild, distant, and filled with fear. Tearstains streak down her cheeks, her lids puffy and red from crying. But that’s not the part that scares me the most. It’s the streaks of blood on her cheeks and across her forehead. It’s the teeth marks that have cut through the skin in her bottom lip and the fresh blood seeping from the wound, trickling slowly down her chin.

  Dread wells inside me. I’m terrified they won’t let us all hang out together anymore because of this, scared they’re going to take her away from me, scared she’s locked inside her head forever and I’m never going to get my friend back—that she’ll be here, but totally gone now.

  But I lock all the panic and the fears down in the box in my mind, like my therapist tells me to, because right now, Lavender needs me to be stronger than my fear. I take her blood- and tear-streaked face between my palms, wishing I knew if the cut on her lip was the only place she’s hurt.

  “Lavender, look at me. I’m right here,” I whisper. “You’re safe now.” I repeat it until her gaze slowly meets mine.

  Her whole body shakes every time she drags in a shallow breath.

  “I’m right here,” I reassure her.

  “I-I-I,” she stammers.

  Lavender’s words sometimes get stuck, like a beat skipping. It used to happen to me, but I outgrew it.

  “It’s okay,” I reassure her. “I know you were scared. I’m sorry we didn’t find you sooner. I can help, though.” When I was really little and the worry got too big, my mom would always make it better. She said it was a distraction from the monster living in my head, and that when I didn’t give the monster attention, it got smaller, and then it wasn’t as scary anymore. So I do the same thing for Lavender, hoping I can make her monster small again. She’s too upset to talk, though, and I can’t do it the way my mom would, so I improvise.

  I take her small hand in my clammy one. “Can you open for me?” My voice shakes with nerves.

  She uncurls her fist. She’s dug her nails into her skin so hard, there are weeping, crescent-shaped cuts spanning her palm.

  Before she can see it, I press her hand against my chest and keep my own on top. The blood soaks through my cotton shirt. It’s black, though, so it will disappear.

  “Do you feel it?” I whisper, not needing to explain. She understands what I’m asking: Does she feel how fast my heart is beating? How scared I am too?

  She gives me one jerky nod.

  “Your fear is my fear,” I say, just like my mom does when my heart is beating out of control and the panic takes over. “I feel what you feel.”

  Lavender blinks at me, eyes watery. She starts to bite her lip but flinches.

  “It’s okay. It’s a little split. It’ll be fine.” It might be a lie, but I don’t want to feed her monster. “We just breathe it out, okay? We just breathe.” And that’s exactly what we do; we breathe until my heart isn’t racing anymore and she’s not shaking like she’s inside her own personal earthquake.

  I want to clean up all the blood on her hands and her face, but if she sees the damage, it’s probably going to make the panic come back. So we sit and breathe. With every inhale, I draw a figure eight on her back, and then repeat it on the exhale. It helps distract me from the panic, so I hope it helps Lavender too.

  My legs lose their feeling.

  My heart slows until all I want to do is sleep.

  Calm. Calm. Calm.

  Lavender sways into me. Her hand grows lax over my heart and slips down, landing in her lap. I always sleep for ages after the panic monster has been tromping around in my head. I lean against the wall, legs asleep and neck already cricked, but I don’t want to disturb Lavender.

  So I wait for our parents to come home.

  And I fall asleep too, because anxiety and fear are exhausting.

  Age 9

  I WAKE UP to shouting. My body hurts so much, and I’m confused. I’m not in my bed. I’m in the spare room, and suddenly I’m dumped on the floor.

  “What did you do to her?” River is screaming, screaming, screaming.

  River has a big temper sometimes, the kind that explodes out of him in ways that make my entire body break out in a cold sweat. Mostly he gets mad when someone does something to upset me. He’s like an angry, rabid dog right now, barking and lunging at Kodiak.

  I try to find my words, but I can only make one sound. “I-I-I.” I hate it when my brain and my body don’t work. And I’m so tired. So, so tired.

  “She got locked in the closet! She was scared and couldn’t get out!” Kodiak’s voice is loud and strained and unsteady.

  The floor vibrates under me as more people come rushing down the hall.

  “Hey! Boys! That’s enough fight—oh my God.” My mom skids to a stop, hazel eyes wide, hand coming up to cover her
mouth. She pushes past Kodiak and River, dropping to her knees in front of me. Her hands hover in the air like scared birds before they finally cup my cheeks. “Lavender, baby, what happened?”

  I open my mouth, trying to find words, but her fear is my fear, and it all gets stuck again. Kodiak’s mom, Lainey, appears in the doorway, eyes bouncing around the room, taking in the way Kodiak and River are facing off against each other.

  “River, Kody, what happened?” Lainey asks in a tone I’ve never heard before.

  “He did something to Lavender!” River shouts and points a finger at Kodiak.

  I cover my ears with my hands and shake my head. My hands hurt. I don’t understand what’s happening.

  All of a sudden Daddy is in the room too, and he is angry—angrier than River. His voice is a sonic boom. Kodiak bursts into tears. And there is yelling, yelling, yelling.

  And I am scared all over again.

  I can’t breathe.

  I remember smells and sounds and being scared, but I can’t connect them to anything but the darkness and how badly I wanted out of the closet and how it felt like I would be there forever.

  It’s Lainey who cuts through the noise with a shrill whistle. She doesn’t yell like everyone else. Instead, she says, “Everyone out except Violet, Lavender, and Kodiak, please.”

  When Daddy starts to argue, she holds up a hand and says, “Your anger is a trigger for both of them, and we cannot get the story with you here. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. So please, help us help them.”

  “Please, Alex,” Mommy whispers brokenly. Her palm is damp as it smooths my hair away from my face. “Lainey’s right.”

  He backs out of the room, taking a still-uncontrollable River with him, and then there’s just the fear monster in my head and the salty sadness left hanging in the air.

  “Kodiak, can you tell us what happened?” Lainey asks softly.

  He stumbles over his words, desperate to purge them. “We w-were playing hide-and-seek. Mav was it. He found R-river first and t-took a l-long time to f-find me.” He sniffs and swipes under his nose with the back of his hand, but his voice grows steadier as he speaks.

  I want to be strong like Kodiak. I want to know how to make the monster in my head smaller.

  “When Mav found me, we decided we were bored with t-the game, and we went to get a snack. But then I asked if he’d found Lavender, and he said she always hides in the same place, which is true most of the time. But I had that feeling—the one that makes my stomach feel off. Y-you know, the one you told me not to ignore?”

  “Your instincts,” Lainey says.

  He nods. “So I went to check, but Lavender wasn’t with River, and I know she likes this room, s-so I came looking for her. The door must have locked on her so she couldn’t get out. I got it open, and then I took her fear and made it mine like you do with me.” His voice cracks, and he shakes his head like his monster inside is growing too fast. “I would never hurt Lavender. I would never do anything to hurt her, not ever. Please, Mom, I w-would never.”

  “I know, honey. It’s okay. You did the right thing. It’s okay.” She opens her arms, and he steps into her embrace. She cups the back of his head and turns toward Mommy.

  They share a look that makes my stomach hurt.

  After everyone is calm, Lainey takes Kodiak home, and Mommy takes me to my bathroom and draws me a bath. I sit on the closed toilet lid while she wipes my face with a warm, wet washcloth. I don’t really understand why since I’m getting in the tub.

  Now that it’s just the two of us and no one is yelling anymore, I get my words back. “Kodiak was telling the truth.”

  “I know, baby. Kody isn’t a liar.” She gives me a soft smile, but her eyes are sad. Big, fat tears well, and she blinks a lot, like she’s trying not to let them fall, but they do anyway.

  I lift a hand, wanting to wipe her sadness away, but I stop when I see my palms are crusted with dried blood. “I hurt my hands.” I did it before, when I got lost at the carnival.

  Mommy covers them with hers gently, her bottom lip trembling. “It’s okay. That’s my fault. I should’ve trimmed your nails for you earlier this week.” She stands and presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Let’s get you in the bath and ready for bed.”

  “I’m sorry I had an accident,” I mumble as we peel off my still-damp pants.

  She tosses them into the corner. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, baby.” The cracks in her voice scare me.

  I don’t want her to be upset with me or Kodiak. I finish getting undressed, and she helps me into the tub. Everything hurts, and my hands sting when the warm water hits them. I start crying again, because now that I’m not as scared, the hurt is bigger. Little bubbles of memory float to the surface and pop before I can hold onto them. Queenie says it’s okay not to remember, so I don’t chase the memories because I think there are monsters hiding in them.

  Mommy lathers up a cloth and washes my back. She tries to sing one of my favorite songs, but her voice keeps breaking, so I tell her it’s okay. I usually get changed on my own at bedtime, but tonight, she helps me into my jammies when my bath is done. She puts antibacterial ointment on my hands and my lip, which is sore too. She winds gauze around my hands. The sides are bruised from banging on the door.

  “You must have been so scared,” she whispers, brushing my hair back again.

  I nod. “I thought the monsters were going to get me. I thought all I would have is the dark and what was inside my head. I kept trying to scream, but the fear ate all my sounds.”

  She hugs me so tight, it’s hard to breathe.

  She gives me Tylenol and asks me where I want to sleep tonight.

  “Is River okay?”

  “Should we go see him? I know he’s worried about you.”

  I want to hold her hand, but mine hurts so I settle for rubbing the edge of her sleeve between my fingers. It’s damp from my bath. “Maybe I could stay in his room tonight.” I already know he feels bad, and for some reason there’s an uncomfortable weight making my chest heavy. It’s not the worry monster clogging my throat. It’s more like that feeling I get when we sneak cookies before dinner and then we aren’t that hungry for good-for-us food. It feels like I’ve done something wrong, but I haven’t.

  Mom knocks on River’s door and pokes her head in. “Is it all right if we come in?”

  “Sure.” It’s Daddy who replies, not River.

  Mom slips in the gap, and I follow, my stomach churning as I see River, curled up in his bed with Daddy. It looks like he’s been crying. His hair is all messy, and his eyes are tired. He has a line between his eyebrows that deepens when he’s upset, and it’s there now, deeper than ever.

  River doesn’t cry often. He gets mad and throws things, breaks his toys and then feels bad about it, but tears aren’t that common for him, which is how I know he’s really upset about what happened.

  He sits up, eyes filling again. He swipes at them irritably. “I’m sorry.”

  I cross the room, gravitating to my other half. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

  He shakes his head furiously but opens his arms, pulling me against his wiry, hard warmth. “I should’ve known you weren’t okay,” he says into my hair. “I should’ve been the one to find you. I’m supposed to be your trampoline.”

  That’s River’s way of telling me he loves me. He’s my trampoline—with him I know I’m always safe to fall. He’s going to beat himself up over this—not just because they forgot about me, but because it was Kodiak who found me and not him. Being a twin is tough sometimes. We’re connected in ways people don’t understand. I feel his anger and frustration. I feel his guilt. We know when things aren’t okay with each other.

  So I understand why he blames himself right now. It’s like being half of a whole. You’re your own person, but you’re not. Everything about me is tied to River, and everything about him is tied to me.

  He’s fiercely protec
tive.

  “Can I stay in here with you tonight?” I ask.

  He nods and squeezes me so tight, it makes my ribs hurt, but I don’t say anything because he already feels bad enough.

  There are two beds in River’s room. We’ve only had our own rooms for the past six months. We decided it was for the best because all my art supplies are a lot to handle. Plus Mom said when we get older, we’d have to have different rooms anyway, because boys need privacy and so do girls. But we left the other bed because sometimes I don’t like being in my own room by myself.

  Daddy cuddles with me for a few minutes and inspects my bandaged hands and my arms. The fronts of my forearms are starting to turn colors—yellows, greens, and darker blues and purples. He takes my chin between his thumb and his finger, gaze shifting to Mommy. “That’s a pretty deep split.”

  “I know. Do you think it will heal on its own?” Mommy wrings her hands, eyes wide and nervous.

  He’s quiet for a few seconds before he finally answers. “Probably.” The way he breathes hard through his nose tells me it upsets him, so I say I’m sorry.

  “Oh, Lavender, honey, I’m the one who’s sorry. You must have been so scared.”

  “I’m okay now, though,” I say, because even though he’s right and I was scared, I don’t want River to feel worse than he already does.

  Daddy tucks me into the bed next to River’s, and Mom grabs my stuffed superhero beaver. It used to be hers. He wears a cape and he’s cuddly, and she’s a grown-up, so she let me have it because I think beavers are funny animals. They’re cute but mean, and when we visit Daddy’s family and friends in Canada, we always get flat donuts coated in sugar called Beavertails.

  I hug the beaver to my chest and curl up on my side, facing River. His mouth is set in a thin line, halfway to a frown. He waits for the sound of Mom and Dad’s door closing down the hall before he throws his covers off and swings his legs over the edge of the bed.