“I don’t know what happened, Mom. I blacked out and I’m at a park.”
“Near Rock Creek,” she says. “I know. I did the ‘find my phone’ search but it’s not exact and I was about to call the police. I just knew—” She sobs before adding, “I just knew you were dead in the woods. I was about to get help. I was about to have a search start.”
“I—Mom, I—”
“Go to the main parking lot.” She hangs up.
My cellphone rings with Danielle’s number. “Where are you?” I demand.
“At Jesse’s,” she says. “Where are you? I was asleep and I thought you were in a room with David, but he was with some other girl.”
“You don’t know what happened to me?” I ask.
“No. Jesus. What happened?”
Headlights shine in my direction from a parking lot. “I’ll call you later,” I say. “I have to deal with my mother.” I hang up and start running toward the lights. By the time I’m at the driver’s side of my mother’s Mercedes, she’s there, too, out of the car and reaching for me.
“You have so much to explain,” she attacks, grabbing my arms and hugging me. “I am furious with you. You scared me.”
“I scared me, too,” I say hugging her, starting to cry, the scent of her jasmine perfume, consuming my senses, and calming me. “I don’t know what happened.”
She pulls back. “Did you drink and do drugs?”
“No. I mean—one drink. I’m fine. I—”
“One drink. We both know what that means. This wasn’t the first time.”
“No. Mom. It was. One drink. I don’t know what happened. Someone drugged me. They had to have drugged me.”
Her lips purse. “Get in the car.”
“Mom—”
“Get in the car.”
I nod and do as I’m told. I get in the car. The minute she’s in with me, I try to explain. “Mom, I—”
“Do not speak to me until I calm down.” The seatbelt warning beeps.
“Mom—”
“Shut up, Hailey,” she says, putting us in motion.
I suck in air at the harsh words that do not fit my mother, who is not just beautiful, but graceful in her actions and words. Perfect, actually, and everything I aspire to be. I click my belt while her warning continues to go off. She turns us onto the highway and I listen to the warning going off, trying to fill the blank space in my head with answers I can give her. But there are none and suddenly she lets out a choked sound and hits the brakes. My eyes jolt open, but everything is spinning. We’re spinning. I can’t see or move. “Mom!” I shout, I think. Or maybe I don’t. Glass shatters. I feel it on my face, cutting me, digging into my skin.
We jolt again, no longer spinning, but the world goes black.
Time is still.
And then there are sirens and I try to catch my breath, but my chest hurts so badly. “Mom,” I whisper, turning to look at her but she’s not there. She’s not there. Panic rises fast and hard and I unhook my belt and ball my fist at my aching chest. Forcing myself to move, I sit up to find my mother on the hood of the car, a huge chunk of steel through her body.
I scream and I can’t stop screaming. I can’t stop screaming.
CHAPTER TWO
I killed my mother.
I have never denied this reality, or my responsibility for her death. From the very beginning, I accepted my father’s grief-fed anger that turned into his hatred. I’d been where I shouldn’t have been. I’d stayed too long. I’d forced my mother to come after me. I’d destroyed my father’s perfect world in the process. I understood because I’d destroyed the only perfect thing in my world.
Back then, I really did hate myself, right along with him. I really did feel that I could have made different decisions that night before my mother’s death, and therefore changed the outcome of that early morning. It gutted me. It shaped my decisions going forward. It shaped my relationship with my father, which profoundly impacted my life, and his. Now, I see things differently. Now, I believe that every decision that I would have made would have ended the same: In my mother’s death. It was her time to die. I was supposed to play a role in how it happened and suffer for it. My father was supposed to hate me for the rest of my life, but I couldn’t accept that. I couldn’t see that my mother was all we had in common, and to love. Because I wanted his love.
But back to defining my perfect lie. I never told my father I drank that night. I never told him I blacked out. Not that it mattered. It changed nothing. He still hated me. I still wanted him to love me. I melted down, and then pulled myself back together, and I did it for him. I tried to be the perfect political princess. I tried to please him. You don’t have to wait until the end of the story for the punchline to that statement. I’ll tell you right now.
I failed.
***
THE PAST—FIVE YEARS AFTER MY MOTHER’S DEATH…
I sit in the auditorium of Georgetown University, my graduation gown hiding the conservative navy-blue dress expected of a presidential candidate’s daughter, listening to our valedictorian, Rebecca Knight, ramble on about our greatness. “We are leaders,” she says, when most of the time she calls herself a leader and the rest of the world idiots. “We are the future,” she adds. “Those insightful enough to see each glass as half full, not half empty.”
She’s right on that. I’ve learned to see the glass as half full, not half empty, but most of the time it’s still filled with blood. Under those circumstances, perhaps half empty is the better scenario. Nevertheless, or whatever the case, today my glass, is, in fact, brimming over with that blood, or perhaps the sins of my past. Otherwise, my father would be here today, but he’s not. No matter how hard I tried to redeem myself with him, to recreate myself for him, I am still that girl who killed her mother. And until he makes me remember that girl again, I am teetering on that emotional tightrope that I’ve secretly walked, which is nearly too thin to walk (because a politician’s daughter must always be perfect) in the years since my mother’s death.
The rest of the speech is more of Rebecca’s eloquently spoken fake perfection that really defines why she’s headed into a career in politics. Not that my father, the master politician himself, is fake. Not that he is real either, because how would I know? He pulled favors to enroll me in this school and keep me close to him, but we share blood, too much blood, to know anything about each other beyond the past it represents.
There are more speakers and then names are called, and chaos, clapping, hugs, kisses, praise follow, all surrounding me, suffocating me. But then I am suddenly throwing my hat in the air, and it hits me that I did this. Through the tears, the pain, the loss, after falling apart and destroying my grades, I stood back up. I went to college. I fought hard. I survived, and I’ve secured a place here at Georgetown for law school, where political careers are groomed and bred. My father doesn’t know it yet, but that’s not my plan. I nailed my interview at Stanford. It’s not art studies as I crave, but my father can’t knock it down, and bottom line: I’m going to get out of here. I’m going to fill my glass with wine, not blood, even if I don’t drink that wine. And so, I catch my hat and I shout in joy.
A few minutes later, I’m outside the building with my favorite people in the world by my side; Danielle, who is still my best friend, and Tobey, my boyfriend of a year, a regular JFK-lookalike, who thinks he knows me, but he doesn’t. At least, not the real me.
The three of us stand there and play the graduation game. We laugh. We smile. We proclaim happiness when happiness is always a glass ball two seconds from shattering. “I start on your father’s campaign tomorrow,” Danielle says in a sing-song voice. “I’m excited. I’m going to kill it at fundraising.”
Tobey sniffs and drapes his arm over my shoulder. “Of course, you will,” he says. “And Hailey and I will be right here in Georgetown law school preparing to keep you out of whatever jail cell your political career tries to earn you.”
There he goes embracing that political future, and the idea of me doing so as well, I think, while Danielle snarls at him. “Jail cell?” she snaps. “Why would you even say something like that?”
“Because,” he replies dryly, “the rest of the world sees your pale pink dress and the pink clips in your hair and they see the sweet girl next door. The three of us know better.”
It’s true, of course. Danielle plays “good girl” like a perfect bad girl. A thought that takes me back to something Terrance, my father’s Chief of Staff, has asked me two times in my life now: How does the world see you, Hailey? The first time he’d posed this question to me, my mother had been alive, and I’d said: Smart and organized, and yet, average. He’d replied: Okay. Now how do you use that against them and for yourself? The second time, I’d been in college, trying to dig myself out of a depression and poor grades. Again, he’d said: How does the world see you, Hailey? I’d said: A stupid fuck-up. His lips had curved and he’d said: Now, how do you use that against them? Turned out, I used it pretty darn well, but that is another memory for another time. For Danielle, I am certain her reply to the same question would be: Beautiful, sweet, and innocent, because she uses those things against everyone and does it well.
“Tobey!”
At the sound of Tobey’s name, the three of us turn toward the voices. We find his aunt and uncle clearing the crowd, a basic middle-aged political couple dripping of money and stature. Both working in political this or that, for this or that representative. Everyone caters to politicians in this town. They arrive by our sides and hug Tobey. I’m next, of course, because I’m their nephew’s girl, and Tobey’s father is my father’s Chief of Staff. They all think they’ll get lucky in life if I, the future First Daughter, marry Tobey, and they all become some version of a royal family. They won’t get that lucky and I won’t make Tobey that miserable. Neither of us need fake bliss in my fake life.
At this point, the family stuff snowballs. Danielle’s father, a pollster for my father, joins us, his dark hair thick, his features as chiseled and perfect as his daughter’s. He’s also without a wife, like Danielle is without a mother. She’d left when Danielle was a small child, and long before my freshman year in high school, when we’d met. She doesn’t talk about her mother and I don’t push.
Whatever the case, I set aside the baggage of the past and live in the moment. I laugh and even smile with the group, but then Terrance appears inside the huddle we’ve formed, a tall familiar redhead in his fifties; my father’s Chief of Staff who is apparently my fake parent for the day.
Suddenly, I am still in the circle of people, but I’m standing on the outside, the absence of my mother a blade carving out my heart in what feels like slow motion. Reality chooses then to slap me a good one: I am, as always, alone in a crowd. Still, I manage to greet Terrance, Tobey’s father, who then hugs Tobey and does a fine job of congratulating everyone. It’s really all more political yip and yap, up until the moment that Terrance focuses on me alone. “Hailey, honey,” he says, taking my arm and turning me away from the group, “your father—”
“Don’t, please,” I say, holding up a hand.
“That early debate is only a month away,” he says, ignoring my objection. “And you know, there’s never been one this early in the primaries.”
“I know,” I say, because he’s clearly going to force me to have this conversation.
“And that your mother and brother—”
“Step-mother and step-brother,” Tobey corrects, joining us, and sliding his arm around my shoulder again. “Susan and Bennett.” He says their names with the disdain I feel.
Of course, he’s protecting me, because while he knows little about the real me, he’s quite aware that my father’s marriage to a younger woman just a year after my mother’s death is as much a sore spot as my arrogant, holier-than-thou step-brother is now and always has been.
Terrance offers Tobey a displeased look before refocusing on me. “They’re a part of your father’s prep team.”
“Of course they are,” I say dryly, and I’m well trained enough to bite back the ninety-nine nasty remarks that come to mind, but I can’t seem to hold back the one hundredth. “Let’s be honest here,” I say. “Who better to prep my father on Russia than Bennett? He’s a corporate attorney, an aspiring politician, and,” I hold up a finger, “this is the big one. He’s spent every family dinner for the past two years debating Russian and American ties with anyone who did or did not want to talk about it.”
Terrance gives an amused smirk. “And getting most of it wrong while assuring us he’s right.”
I’m surprised by his comment, but it makes me laugh. I think. I at least manage some sort of choked attempt at a laugh. He smiles in reply and chucks me under the chin. “Put the shit aside. You did good, kid. And your father is proud of you. I sure am.”
Emotion wells in my chest and I don’t even know why. “Thanks, Terrance,” I murmur softly.
He motions Tobey away, and Tobey reluctantly releases me and rejoins the huddle. Terrance steps a bit closer to me, and for my ears only says, “How does the world see you now, Hailey?”
Before I can form a reply, I’m tapped on the back. I rotate to find my father’s pretty brunette assistant, Leslie, standing in front of me with flowers in her hands. “From your father,” she says, handing them to me, and I swear the pink and red roses wrapped in white paper pierce me with a million thorns.
My lips thin and I look at Terrance. “Ask again,” I order.
He follows my lead without hesitation. “How does the world see you, Hailey?”
“As the future first daughter,” I say, because it’s true. That is how the world sees me. The perfect girl. No one remembers the story that the flowers in my arms, delivered by my father’s secretary tell me now: I’m still me.
And to my father, I’m not a daughter. I’m just a killer.
That’s our secret that no one else knows, and one thing that we undeniably share is the hope that it stays that way.
CHAPTER THREE
A killer and the future President’s daughter. There is irony there, I think, or maybe not at all. The definition of me sounds like a joke or maybe the truth beneath it all is that I’m perfect for the world of politics. Maybe underneath my father’s perfect lie I’d find that what he doesn’t like about me is how much I resemble him. Whatever the case, in the month post-graduation, I began an internship in a nearby political office, while waiting earnestly for news from Stanford, which I’d soon learn was never going to come. All the while, seeing little of my father.
The next time I would have any quality time with him, if you could call it that, was the night of the opening party debates, when he was to face ten rival candidates in challenge for the party nomination. His entire life was driven toward that night, and so was mine. The problem was that neither of us knew in what way. Neither of us knew that that night would change everything, change us, forever.
***
THE PAST—ONE MONTH AFTER GRADUATION, THE BIG DEBATE…
The Austin, Texas auditorium is large and cold with rows of seats facing a stage filled with ten podiums, my father set to be center stage, an indication of his top poll numbers. I’m in the front row, sitting next to my pompous, twenty-eight-year-old Ken doll of a step-brother, Bennett, who is wearing a flag-blue tie to go with his Armani suit. He’s also pressing his knee to mine, in what is a seemingly crowded, unavoidable action, when we both know it’s not. He’s a pervert and always has been. I shift away from him, and cross my legs, resting my hand on the skirt of my also flag-blue, high-necked dress, the design nothing I’d ever choose for myself. It’s from my step-mother’s recently launched clothing line, and since it was delivered to my room an hour before I dressed, with a note from my father that read “for the future first daughter” and this is his night, I’m wearing it.
My phone buzzes with a text and I glance down to find a message from Danie
lle, who is two rows back, thanks to her seat next to her father’s staff position with my father. I grimace at her text that reads: If I lick Bennett will you hate me?
I don’t react. Why would I? This is nothing new. Everyone but me wants to lick the man, the press included, and Danielle has always hounded after Bennett, mostly to ignite my agitation. What she does in this case is earn me my step-mother’s attention. The Audrey Hepburn-ish, sweet as sin bitch leans forward and scowls at me and my phone, which I deserve. I turn off my phone and stick it into the oddly placed pocket, in the shirt. I don’t know why I’m holding the damn thing.
The moderators walk to the stage and my heart starts racing. This is huge. This is everything to my father, and everything that has shaped my life. All things aside that led us here, I am rooting for him. I inhale and force myself to calm. He’s perfect for this job. He cares about this country. He’s devoted his life to his service. He’s intelligent and savvy in all ways, at least professionally. They announce him first, and he takes the stage and I clap fiercely. Now, I actually find myself looking at Bennett, and we both nod. No matter what our motivations, or our relationship, in this, we are together. We want the same thing. For my father to become the President of the United States.
My father appears on the stage, tall, dark and handsome, with wavy locks of dirty blond hair that look so much better on him than me. I’m average that’s been polished and pressed to try to fit in, on his dollar of course, while he’s exceptional in all ways. Really truly, Bennett and his playboy good looks fit my father like a glove of a son, while I am just—something else. I won’t go there tonight.
He claims his podium and waves at the crowd, who gobbles him up like a fat kid does cake, me included, pride welling inside me. The other candidates follow but are dim to his greatness. Soon the show is on the road, and introductions are made, starting with my father. “I’m Thomas Frank Moore, and I want to thank the great people of America for the honor of serving this great country. And thank you to the moderators and the sponsors of this event. I have my family here tonight and I want to make them proud the way I want to make you, the American people, proud. I will serve you humbly, with grace and dignity, and protect you, and honor you.”
A Perfect Lie Page 2