Painful Truths

by Brian Spangler

  This is my fault.

  I thought back to how I’d lied about the homeless man. I’d planted a seed that flourished in those lies, growing, festering—I could feel the distrust. My lying about the homeless man had changed him.

  How could it not? It changed me too. It changed us.

  ***

  The next morning it felt as if I were waking next to a stranger. At some point in the deepest of the night, I’d inched toward the edge of the bed, instinctively putting distance between us. I woke to the roar of a car engine. I’d expected to hear the birds chatting or the rustle of a breeze across tree branches, but I must’ve slept through the morning—we both had. I slipped in and out of a doze, feeling exhausted and sick, with a sour taste in my mouth. I waited for Steve to stir, but he stayed still and, thankfully, quiet. My head was pounding, and I was sure I’d vomit if he started up about the case again.

  The tight skin on my cheeks reminded me of having cried myself to sleep. The headachy hangover reminded me of the wine, and a deep hurt inside reminded me that Steve and I were in trouble. I couldn’t see a way back either. Doing nothing, saying nothing, seemed to be my best course. Anything else could end in disaster, and I had to think about Snacks and Michael.

  Let him write the new reports. Let him write a hundred new reports if that’s what it’s going to take to get my mother’s case out of his system. And let him include my father’s name, filling the forensic gap that has left him so baffled.

  I wanted things back to normal, and that meant my babies and husband and, of course, my work.

  As if she knew I was thinking of her, Snacks surprised me by jumping up onto the bed and pummeling the mound of sheets without a care for who was beneath them. I had a fleeting concern for Steve’s leg, but it disappeared when he didn’t move. I heard the sound of kitchen noises clamoring and then heard Steve’s mother humming as she gathered the makings of a breakfast. I cringed, realizing I’d left the empty bottle of wine on the kitchen table—sitting alone next to just one glass.

  I buried my mother yesterday. Maybe she won’t judge.

  Snacks pounced like a cat, crushing the pockets of air between us and letting out shrieks and giggles. I played along, acting as if I were still asleep, waiting for the right moment to grab her. Her little fingers poked and her tiny hands fished through the sheets, finding my legs and hip and then my sides, inching up until I could feel her breathing on my neck.

  “Gotcha!” I yelled. She squealed a laugh that hurt my ears. I wrapped my arms around her and smothered her in sheety folds.

  “You supposed to be a-sleeping. Mum-mum said so, said you needed rest.”

  Sounds like Steve’s mother did see the empty wine bottle.

  Snacks wormed herself through the bedsheets and found the daylight, her hair ballooning from the static, and asked, “Where’s Daddy?”

  I’d never looked to my left, never crept a toe over to his side. I’d assumed he was still laying next to me, but her father was gone. My eyes bleary, I scanned the top of our bureau, searching for his wallet and badge. They were gone too. My heart felt heavy with disappointment. Snacks and Michael were coming home this morning, and I’d hoped—expected—he’d make an effort to be with his family today. Snacks saw my reaction, and I put on a smile to hide the hurt.

  “Your daddy had to go to work early,” I told her, tickling her sides until she waved her arms in defeat. “How was your trip to Mum-mum’s yesterday?”

  “Pancakes,” she blurted, not hearing my question. “Mum-mum making pancakes.”

  “I missed you,” I said and laughed at her hair standing on end, looking like a beach ball. “I missed you this much.” I took my baby girl in my arms and hugged her until she pushed away. She wasn’t much for hugs—we had that in common. But I had at least forced a short one.

  When I finally let go of her tiny frame, I saw the fun had drained from her face, her smile flattened. She pegged my chin with the tip of her warm finger and asked, “You had to bury your momma?” I hadn’t expected such a question and propped myself up to face her. “Mum-mum told me. Mum-mum said your momma died. Grandma gone?”

  “She is,” I answered, but I had no idea how much Steve’s mom had shared with Snacks. “Listen, baby girl, your grandma died. But she’s in a better place now.”

  Snacks frowned. “Better place?”

  “That’s right. She’s in a better place.”

  “But why is it better than here?”

  I hated having phrased it that way, when I really had no idea whether it was better or not. “It was just her time, baby,” I answered. I’d heard that one before too, and hated it just as much.

  “That makes me feel bad.”

  “I know it does, baby.” I pulled her close to me.

  “Is it gonna be my time too?” she asked. Her eyes were dry, but I could hear the emotion in her voice. “I don’t want to go to a better place! I like it here.”

  “No, no,” I assured her, a lump rising in my throat. “You’ve got a lot of time. You, and Michael, and Daddy. A lot.”

  Her stomach growled, sounding out a squelchy trill; her face lit up with surprise. “Hungry!” she bellowed. The smell of pancakes had crept into the bedroom, and the idea of eating didn’t seem all that bad.

  One dry one. That’s all.

  My stomach flipped at the thought, objecting, but I decided to eat.

  “I think I smell pancakes!” I said, raising my voice to a near shout. She startled and rocked back and forth, laughing and covering her ears. “Why don’t you go down and help Mum-mum? Maybe you can cook one or two for me.”

  “And I get to flip ‘em too?”

  “You do,” I nodded.

  “Pancakes! Pancakes!” she screamed, her feet thumping onto the floor as she ran out of my room. I listened to the patter of her feet racing down the hall, toward Michael’s room. Then came the scream of, “Michael! Michael! You want my pancakes? Mom says I’m making ‘em!”

  “Go away,” I heard Michael say, his voice groggy and nasally. He’d probably stayed up late and crashed as soon as they got home. Snacks was at the steps, bracing the rail, when I heard him add, “Three. I’ll take three. Extra syrup.”

  I stretched my arm over to where Steve had slept—the covers were cold, but that didn’t surprise me. What surprised me was seeing that his side of the bed had already been made. My head rocked, tipping to one side as a vile taste crept back into my throat. I decided on a hot shower. The morning was going to be long, but Steve’s mom’s help and getting to the office to do some work with Nerd would be much-needed remedies.

  THIRTY

  I SLOWED MY CAR at the apex of the Neshaminy Creek bridge, stopping in the middle when I confirmed I was alone. I couldn’t remember when I’d started the habit—after Katie’s death, maybe? The spring’s usual rains went quickly, a mere passing that led to parched summer days—save for the stormy evening when my mother had jumped to her death. The edges of the creek shrank inward like puckered lips; the water levels had dropped even more, revealing the stony bottom and boulders. Even the sandy shoals showed, as would whatever else I thought I’d hidden beneath the moving water. My palms itched as a flash of nerves hit me.

  “Relax,” I mumbled, concerned about the evidence I’d thrown into the water. “Don’t overreact.” I’d seen the water levels low before and knew better than to worry.

  A sign of global warming, a news report had said. The mountain snows were at an all-time low. It’d recover. Something always made up for the low levels—late-summer rains or a coastal storm. I’d come to rely on the creek to carry away my evidence, my discarded sins, as the current wound south and then east, feeding into the bigger rivers and the bay, and finally finding peace in the ocean’s dark abyss. But for all I knew, everything I’d ever thrown into the creek might still be on the rocks just beneath me.

  “Rains will come again,” I said, trying to assuage my own nagging conscience. “You’ll swell again.”

  My mothe
r should never have kept the driver’s licenses. She should never have hidden them in the station wagon’s glove box. But that was her decision, her design, her mistake.

  Does that make me smarter? Knowing when to toss my trophies away?

  I sat up, leaning on the edge of my door to look farther downstream. The slow-moving water was gilded with sunlight. I squinted, trying to look past the creek’s bend, and decided that even Neshaminy Creek would have been a bad place for my mother to use.

  Plus, the creek was already my spot, I thought selfishly, as if it were a territory I could claim. She should have found someplace safe, though. Maybe cut the licenses into confetti and set them afire, burning them until they were soot and ash. She could have thrown the ashes into the wind, let the air’s currents take away her secrets like the creek took mine. The blare of a car horn warned I’d overstayed my time. I waved my arm apologetically and then drove into town without looking back.

  ***

  When I reached town and spotted my building, I saw that Mr. C’s was open. His bright overhead lights turned the inside of his salon alive with activity. Four of his five chairs were filled by older women who I’d seen every week since Nerd and I began working out of the office. I had to laugh—I knew now how much Carlos struggled with them.

  Impossible, he’d said after their last visit. They are just so impossibly unreasonable.

  One of the women nodded, shook her head, and talked with her eyes shut—with aluminum foil packets bouncing around her head. Another wagged a wrinkled finger, forcing a point, her bluish hair wet and drippy. The remaining two said little but bobbed their heads as they picked sides—the loose skin beneath their chins swaying like a pelican’s pouch filled with a fresh catch.

  The scene was hilarious. Carlos broke my stare, catching my attention through the window, his expression pleading for me to come inside. When I shook my head, he mouthed the word H-E-L-P, spelling out the letters for emphasis. I shook my head again, a wicked smile curling my lips. I winked a bleary eye, telling him he was on his own. He could never pay me enough in “sexy” to help. Not today, anyway. Not with an ache that still pounded and stretched from the base of my skull and up into my eyeballs. He went on to mouth B-I-T-C-H, which only made me laugh harder. I blew him a kiss before reaching my door. He quickly lifted his chin, moving his cheek as if to catch the invisible endearment.

  From the doorway leading to our office, I could hear the soft murmur of the old women, and their pitchy voices and wordy exchanges. Carlos had his morning cut out for him. A glance at the long stairwell in front of me immediately made me think I had the same in store for myself. The faint sound of a clicking computer keyboard and the humming of a popular tune encouraged me to climb up, though.

  The stairs left me woozy, but I reached the landing and waved a quick hello before plopping into my chair. I sat still for a while, letting the hangover fall out of me. That bottle of wine—still sitting empty on my kitchen table, I realized—had officially made me miserable.

  A harsh square of sunlight cut across my desk—moving like the second hand of a clock. I glanced at my empty trash can and thought I was about to fill it. My mouth watered and my throat closed tight, but I counted in my head until the nauseous wave was gone. Nerd said nothing, but I noticed he had stopped humming.

  “Rough night?” he finally asked.

  “Ya might say that,” I answered, agreeing as a yawn took hold of my face and refused to let go.

  His chin remained clean of scraggly whiskers, and his hair was still neatly combed back. I eyed him as he stood and walked around his desk. The clothes he wore were new—just as the suit had been. And then it hit me—the hangover lifting briefly—Nerd was dressing for someone else. I was sure Carlos had helped with the suit he’d worn to my mother’s funeral, but I doubted Carlos had helped him with an entire wardrobe.

  A mystery. Ideas appeared in the fog, needling at me and then receding. I couldn’t put my finger on it. I tried to focus, but with my head full of cotton balls, my attempts were only briefly successful. And then I saw it in a flash and seized the image, freezing it in my mind. In the memory, I saw Nerd, his fingers on my arm, helping to steady me next to my mother’s casket. And just over his shoulder, there had been a pretty face—but not just any face. I recognized her.

  And there had been more too, hadn’t there? Didn’t I see something else?

  Nerd reached the end of my desk, perching himself on the corner like a bird. I stayed in my thoughts, curious. I tried to piece together what I’d seen. He waved in front of my eyes, snapping his fingers annoyingly. I shooed him away and then bolted up in my chair with a revelation.

  “I know who she is!”

  “What?” he asked, looking baffled.

  It wasn’t Nerd holding my arm that I had noticed, but his free hand. When he came forward to help me. The young woman—the pretty face—she had held his hand, her fingers were interwoven tenderly with his.

  “Dude! You brought a date to my mother’s funeral?” I asked, blurting out what sounded more like an accusation. “Becky? The librarian?”

  His cheeks turned a deep red, and the fierce reaction spread. “She insisted,” he answered with a half smile. “I mean . . . well, we’ve kind of been seeing each other, and she wanted to be there with me.”

  I leaned forward, patted his arm in approval.

  “Brian, I’m messing with you,” I assured him. I gestured at his computer, adding, “Computers aren’t going to keep you warm at night. Not like she will.” The blush on his face flashed again.

  “Work—” he began, then stopped. “Are you sure you’re up for it?”

  I frowned at him and toyed with my keyboard, sliding it in front of me. “I’m fine. Why?”

  He shrugged and said, “You . . . you look a bit rough. Sure you don’t want to sleep it off, or maybe have an energy drink?”

  “I need to work,” I said, stabbing my keyboard to wake the screen so I could log in. “I will take one of those, though, maybe two.”

  “We’ll start with one,” he answered, placing a blue chrome can in front of me. He stayed, fixing his stand like a statue. I could tell he had something to share.

  “This doesn’t look good,” I mumbled. “What is it?”

  “Sorry. Bad news. Might make for a short afternoon.”

  His gaze fell awkwardly, avoiding mine, avoiding me in fact as if I were the mythological Medusa figure who could turn him to stone.

  “Just tell me, okay?”

  “We’ve got nothing,” he said. The news quashed my hopes of starting a new design.

  “Nothing?” I asked, confirming. “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, there is one. Just one case, but we should pass on—”

  “So we’ll work that one case,” I interrupted.

  “Hold on,” he said, raising his voice. “I’m still working the feeds. I’ve checked and triple-checked them, but something isn’t right.”

  “And you’re sure your software isn’t filtering too much? I mean, that’s what the software does, right? Cull the list?”

  His face soured, confident the issue wasn’t his. Then he added, “In my opinion, it would be a huge risk to even open the case.”

  “Why?” I asked, thinking the opposite, thinking that if his software was working then the case should be the safest to pick. “If your software has been refined and fine-tuned . . . well, doesn’t that mean this one case is our best bet?”

  He seemed to consider what I’d said.

  “Yeah, in a way. But . . .” he answered reluctantly. He picked at his fingernails, chipping and scraping—a habit that drove me nuts. I smacked the top of his hand. “Sorry. Can’t help it sometimes. Amy, I can’t tell if this case is a sting or not. That’s what scares me.”

  “What about the picture frame?” I asked, referring to the software we’d planted at the police station. “Have you done anything more with it?” Nerd’s face warmed with a huge smile, telling me he’d made progress.
<
br />   “Oh yeah, about that. I’ve got something to show you, if you’re up for it.”

  “Something good?” I asked, hopeful. He pointed to my screen and directed me to a new icon on the desktop.

  “Must’ve overlooked that one,” I confessed, quickly blaming the hangover. I clicked on a viney, green icon intertwined with thorny roses.

  “Wait till you see this.”

  “Brian . . .” I said, trying to hold in my excitement. His surprises were always fantastic. “What did you do?”

  “When we loaded my software from the picture frame, that got my foot in the door—so to speak. I could read some files and e-mail, but I wanted more.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, staying with him. “And?”

  He motioned to his computer and then to my computer. And from his pocket he pulled out a cell phone—a huge sheet of black glass that looked ridiculous in his small hands. “What does every computer, every tablet, nearly every phone have these days?”

  I looked at the computers, trying to find something in common with the cell phone. Nerd helped me along, pointing to the glassy eye above the screen.

  “Camera,” I answered.

  He rolled his hand, expecting more. The cotton balls were back again, clogging my brain, soaking up whatever inspiration intuition might have given me. But then I saw what he was looking for and blurted out the answer: “A microphone!”

  “Bingo! So, once I had my foot in the door, I updated my code to do more than just read files. Version 2.0 is called Becky, and she is our eyes and ears across all the devices at the station . . . and beyond.”

  I frowned, fixing him with a trite stare. “Corny, Brian. You named your new software after a girl?”

  “Too much?” he asked his face contorting.