Truth Be Told

by Kathleen Barber

  I broke away from Ellen and lurched for the exit. Ellen took a step to follow me, but I waved her off.

  “I’m fine,” I lied, my tongue thick. The body in front of me was not my mother.

  It could not be my mother.

  • • •

  I weaved my way through the crowd of bodies in the entryway, keeping my gaze on the ground to avoid accidental eye contact until I reached the women’s restroom. I stumbled inside and leaned over one of the sinks, grasping the cool porcelain. With the tactile sensation of the sink to ground me, I took several deep, ragged breaths.

  Each time I thought I might have succeeded in composing myself, that it might be safe to leave the bathroom, the irrational thought That wasn’t my mother bubbled up from deep within and I was hyperventilating all over again. I had not been prepared for the disorienting sensation of seeing my mother’s corpse, or the pain and regret that it had inspired. Hurt and devastation surged through me, making it hard for me to breathe.

  Behind me, one of the toilets flushed. I straightened my spine and checked my reflection, wiping at my running mascara with my fingers.

  My eyes were still on the mirror when she emerged from the stall. Our eyes locked, widened. We both gasped.

  “Josie,” my sister said, her voice shaking. “You look great.”

  “So do you,” I intoned automatically.

  But she really did. Lanie looked better than I had expected her to, better than me. She had put on weight, but only enough so that she no longer looked emaciated. She had a short pixie cut—a better cut than the hack job I had done to my own hair—and her makeup was soft, understated, and surprisingly tasteful. As I took her in, cataloguing her well-tailored clothing and her pale-pink lipstick, I noticed she was leaning first on one kitten-heeled foot and then the other, picking at the skin alongside her manicured nails. The corner of her mouth was twitching, and her eyes darted back and forth from me to the door. If she didn’t look so well, I would’ve assumed she was strung out.

  Lanie glanced at the door again. “Did you just get here?”

  “Yeah, a few minutes ago.”

  “When did you get to town?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “Were you going to call me?”

  “I didn’t know you lived here,” I said, ignoring her real question.

  Lanie narrowed her eyes slightly. “You didn’t?”

  I held up a hand to stop her further inquiry. “Lanie, can we not do this right now?”

  Lanie’s face softened and she reached out as though she was going to touch my shoulder, but she seemed to catch herself and brought her arm back to her side. “Okay. Have you . . . seen the body?”

  I tried to speak but choked instead. “Briefly.”

  I tasted salt and realized that tears were streaming down my face. I was furious at my body for betraying me, for falling apart in front of my sister. She was the one who couldn’t control herself, who couldn’t keep it together. I was the composed sister, the one who could manage her emotions. Or, at least, that was how it was supposed to be.

  “I haven’t seen her yet,” Lanie said quietly, wiping away my tears with her soft thumbs. “I’m scared.”

  “It’s awful,” I warned. “But I’ll go with you. If you want.”

  “Please,” she said, taking my hand. Even though we hadn’t seen each other in years, and we hadn’t been friends in an eternity, her palm against mine felt right. We exited the restroom hand in hand, all the bad blood between us forgotten for the moment.

  It was a moment that lasted only until the door closed behind us and we spotted the one person who could splinter us again.

  Adam appeared virtually unchanged. He looked a little older and considerably more tired, but he still had the same golden hair, those same cola-brown eyes, that same lanky build. He still looked like Adam, and that fact alone was enough to fling an icy stake through my heart. I unconsciously dropped my sister’s hand.

  Adam’s eyes widened and he exhaled my name: “Josie.”

  My heart rate quickened as immediately as if someone had flipped a switch, and before I could even sort out what that meant or chastise myself for it, I saw her.

  No more than seven or eight years old, she stood at Adam’s side, looking down at her handheld tablet. I didn’t need to see her face to know who she was; that cloud of black hair was unmistakable.

  As if she felt my gaze on her, she flickered her saucer-like, pale-blue eyes up at me. Delicate dark brows knit in confusion, and she turned to Adam.

  “Dad,” she whispered loudly, “why does that lady look like Mom?”

  The corners of my vision darkened, and my knees went weak. I backed away from them, unable to tear my eyes off the child, who was returning my stare with one of her own. Lanie reached for my arm, but I brushed her off. As I pivoted and plunged back into the crowd, I could hear Lanie and Adam both calling my name, a traitorous chorus.

  It didn’t make any sense. None of it made any sense. I gave myself a hard pinch on the inside of my elbow, and then I did it again, gritting my teeth as I squeezed the tender skin with all my force. It had to be a dream. No other explanation was plausible. My mother could not be dead, not before I had the chance to tell her I was sorry. I was sorry I wasn’t a better daughter, I was sorry I didn’t protect Dad, I was sorry I didn’t know how to help her when she needed us. She could not be dead, and my father’s horrific death could not be the subject of a pop culture phenomenon sweeping the nation, and my sister could not have made a child with the first man I had ever loved.

  From Twitter, posted September 23, 2015

  chapter 8

  I struggled to find Ellen in the still-swelling sea of people, most of whose faces I recognized only vaguely or not at all. People reached for me as I passed them, calling me “honey,” a sure sign they didn’t know which twin they were addressing. I finally spotted Ellen, almost hidden behind a towering flower arrangement, talking with a tan brunette woman. It wasn’t until I was within arm’s reach that I recognized the woman as our former classmate Trina Thompson. Trina arranged her face into a mask of sympathy so exaggerated it was almost comical and outstretched her arms, saying, “Oh, honey, I am so sorry for your loss.”

  I sidestepped the hug and offered her a hurried “Thank you” as a consolation prize before dragging Ellen away to the relative privacy of the corner, where I hissed, “Why didn’t you tell me about them?”

  “Them?” Ellen repeated, playing dumb even as her eyes shifted guiltily to the floor.

  “Yes. Them. You know exactly who I’m talking about.” I gulped, my mouth too dry to even speak their hateful names. “Lanie and Adam. And their happy little family.”

  “Oh, right,” Ellen said to the ground. “Them.”

  “Oh, right,” I echoed. My heart squeezed with hurt. Everyone had betrayed me: first my sister and Adam, and now even Ellen and Aunt A. “How could you not tell me? How could you let me walk into this without being prepared? Today, of all days?”

  “Because you didn’t want to know, remember? I tried to tell you. On more than one occasion. I dropped all kinds of hints, too. But you didn’t want to hear it.”

  Ellen was right. My righteous anger abandoned me, and all that remained was bewilderment.

  “How did this happen? Adam barely tolerated Lanie. And after everything she’s done . . . How can Adam love her?”

  “It’s not about love,” Ellen said, as though that made anything better. “They only got married because of the baby.”

  “It’s not 1950,” I protested. “That logic doesn’t hold.”

  “Hey, don’t look at me. I don’t get them, either. But you dodged a bullet with Adam. I heard he spent most of their first year of marriage hooking up with Trina over there.”

  Nothing surprised me anymore. If Adam was going to marry my sister, why shouldn’t he also have an affair with Trina Thompson?

  “She ruined him,” I murmured, more to myself than Ellen.

&n
bsp; Ellen frowned. “Trina did? That seems a little extreme.”

  “No, Lanie did. Lanie completely ruined him. The Adam Ives I knew would never have cheated on his wife.”

  Ellen’s expression flickered. I cut her off before she even opened her mouth.

  “I know what you’re thinking, and all I have to say is this: there’s one common denominator there, and it’s my sister.”

  • • •

  Any pain I experienced at discovering Lanie and Adam’s relationship paled in comparison to what came next: standing in a receiving line with what remained of my family, making awkward small talk with people I barely knew, all while trying to ignore the fact that my mother’s body lay just out of my peripheral vision.

  Ellen, acting as a human buffer, placed herself between Lanie and me in the receiving line. On my left side, Aunt A graciously accepted condolences, while on my right, Ellen’s practiced, honeyed voice greeted nearly every mourner by name. Neither of their voices, nor even my own, mechanically thanking people for coming, was enough to drown out the sound of my sister’s voice as she repeatedly introduced herself: “I’m Lanie Ives, daughter of the deceased.” The extreme proximity to my sister after so much time apart was unsettling, and hearing her repeat her married name was even more so. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched her smile demurely. She at once was and was not the sister I’d left behind, and I wasn’t certain which was worse.

  • • •

  As I shook the liver-spotted hand of an elderly man who described himself as a friend of my late grandparents, I glimpsed Lanie’s old friend Ryder Strong step into the room. Time had been unkind to Ryder: her face was dry and creased, her hair brittle, and she had thinned down to practically nothing, leaving her a collection of bony limbs sticking out of baggy clothing.

  Ignoring the receiving line, she walked directly to Lanie, flustering the short, soft woman from Aunt A’s knitting circle who had been speaking to her. My sister shrank minutely from Ryder, her eyes wide and anxious. Adam tensed at her side and put a hand on Lanie’s shoulder.

  “Sorry about your mom,” Ryder said abruptly.

  “Thank you,” Lanie said quietly.

  Small eyes narrowed, Ryder stared at her for a beat longer, then turned to leave.

  “Wait,” Lanie said, grabbing Ryder’s arm. Ryder spun around, surprised, and I saw Lanie’s fingers tighten around her arm. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot.”

  Ryder opened her mouth to say something, but then just nodded and left.

  I wondered what had happened between them. It had once been impossible to separate Lanie from Ryder. In fact, during our senior year, after a fight with Aunt A over her dismal grades and poor attendance record, Lanie moved into the apartment Ryder shared with her older sister Dani, Dani’s heavily tattooed boyfriend, and a one-eyed cat called Sid Vicious. I nearly worried myself into an ulcer over Lanie’s departure, sure that without any parental supervision, Lanie would stop going to school entirely and might very well cause permanent harm to herself.

  Once, I had driven over there, planning to insist my sister come home. Parked in front of the building, a cheaply constructed complex in a run-down neighborhood, I rehearsed the case I’d make to my sister. Just until you finish high school. Mom would have wanted us to stay together.

  As I summoned the bravado to go inside, two figures stepped outside. Both were wearing dark hoodies, but I could plainly see Ryder’s hair sticking out from one, and I could recognize my sister’s slouching stride anywhere. My hand was on the door handle when I saw Lanie wave to someone, and a bulky guy with a scraggly beard approached the girls. He said something to Lanie and held out his hand; she reached out to meet him and, as they held hands, Lanie’s eyes darted around guiltily. Then he punched Ryder lightly on the shoulder, said something with a smile, and walked away quickly, head down.

  I was in shock. That was a drug deal. As Lanie and Ryder slunk back toward the apartment, hands shoved deep inside pockets, I leapt from the car.

  “Lanie!”

  They both turned, startled. Lanie’s eyes narrowed like a cat’s. “Get the fuck out of here, Josie.”

  Ryder cackled, and together they ducked into the fluorescent-lit hallway. I gave chase, but the vestibule door had locked behind her. There was nothing for me to do but leave, just like my sister wanted.

  • • •

  I stole a glance at a mourner’s watch; only one hour left of the visitation. I could survive one more hour. I had to. I pasted on a smile of grim resolve and resumed my game of trying to remember every detail about each person shaking my hand. Tom Grant, who had lived across the street from us on Cyan Court and had helped Daddy and Pops build the playhouse in our backyard; Jared Waters, who had dated Ellen senior year in high school; Richard Deville, the head of the Elm Park College History Department, my father’s old boss. I wondered if Mr. Deville had been among the anonymous sources Poppy Parnell had consulted; I wondered if he felt guilty about his participation. When he stopped in front of me, though, I just shook his cool hand and thanked him for coming.

  “How are you holding up, honey?” Aunt A asked, rubbing comforting circles on my back.

  “Hanging in there. How about you?”

  Aunt A smiled wearily. “I’m okay. I’m overwhelmed by the number of people who have come to pay their respects to your mother.”

  “They’re ghouls, Mom,” Ellen said, leaning over me. “They know that Aunt Erin is that cult woman from that podcast, and they just want a piece of the action.”

  Aunt A clucked gently. “Not all of them. Not my colleagues from work, or the women from book club or knitting club. Or the gym. Or how about your old high school friends and their parents?”

  Ellen rolled her eyes. “Those last ones are definitely ghouls.”

  As Aunt A shushed Ellen, Adam’s parents joined the queue. They looked almost exactly as I remembered them: Mr. Ives with his bold ties and million-dollar smile and Mrs. Ives with her beautiful posture and ageless skin. Their gaze flickered briefly over me and landed on my sister, their faces wearing matching expressions of sympathy. I had nothing to say to Adam’s parents, and I ducked out of line to once more seek solace in the women’s restroom. Aunt A’s expression was sad as she watched me hurry away, but not surprised.

  Stepping into the hall, my eyes landed on a lean figure in a dark suit, the back of a head topped with soft brown hair, and my heart seized. Caleb. I took a step toward him, my hand outstretched. In the second before I touched him, he turned, and I realized the man was a stranger.

  “Lanie,” he said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Thrown off balance by my mistake, I backed away, grasping inside my purse for my phone. I needed Caleb; I needed to hear his familiar voice telling me that everything was going to be okay. Just as my fingers closed around my phone, I collided with someone. I turned, apologizing profusely, but the words died in my mouth when I recognized Poppy Parnell.

  The corners of her mouth tugged into a sly smile as she looked me up and down. “Josie Buhrman?”

  “No,” I said, attempting to step past her.

  She subtly shifted her body to block my passage and shook her head, her eyes twinkling as though we were playing a game. “No, I’m certain it’s you.” She rearranged her expression into a professional smile and extended a hand. “My name is Poppy Parnell. I’m an investigative journalist, and I’m—”

  “I know who you are.”

  A self-satisfied expression flashed across her face; she quickly flattened it into one of sympathy. “I thought you might. First, allow me to say that I am extremely sorry for your loss.”

  I laughed bitterly. “You aren’t sorry in the least. This is great for your ratings.”

  “This might surprise you, Josie, but I don’t subscribe to the theory that all publicity is good publicity. I take no joy in your mother’s passing.”

  “I’m not having this conversation with you,” I said, gesturing back to the viewing room. “Not while
. . .”

  Infuriatingly, she nodded in agreement. “This isn’t the time or place to discuss business. I would’ve contacted you another way, but you’re a hard woman to find. Can we set up some time tomorrow to talk?”

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I said, turning away from her.

  A thin arm shot out and latched on to my bicep. “Please.”

  “Let go of me,” I said, my voice as stern as possible.

  “Josie,” she said, as though we were friends and I was hurting her feelings.

  “Kindly remove your opportunistic hands from my cousin,” Ellen said, stepping into the hallway.

  Poppy dropped my arm, pivoting at the sound of Ellen’s voice. “You must be Ellen Kelly.”

  “Ellen Carter,” Ellen corrected, crossing her arms over her chest.

  “Right,” Poppy said, pulling a notebook from her shoulder bag and making a note. “I’m Poppy Parnell. I have a podcast called Reconsidered. Maybe you’ve heard of it?” Poppy looked expectantly at Ellen, but Ellen just stared at her with a thoroughly uninterested expression on her face.

  Taking advantage of the momentary distraction and sure my cousin could handle herself against Poppy, I disappeared into the crowd.

  • • •

  After we had shaken the last hand and accepted the last hug, only family remained in the viewing room. Peter stepped out to confirm arrangements for the cremation and funeral on Aunt A’s behalf, and his daughters slouched in back, their fingers skittering across their phones. Aunt A bid a quiet goodbye to my sister and her family, and Ellen and I sank into straight-backed chairs, completely exhausted. I stared numbly ahead, marveling that the visitation had left me so emotionally depleted I no longer found the sight of the coffin unnerving.

  “How are you doing?” Ellen asked, rubbing my knee. She paused and frowned. “I think you missed a spot shaving.”

  I swatted her hand away. “Thanks, Ellen. I’m okay, I think.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Lanie and her family exit the room. My heart twisted a bit to notice she hadn’t even glanced in my direction before leaving, but how upset could I really be? I wouldn’t have returned a smile even if it was offered.