Don't Trust Her

by Elizabeth Boles

  She’s standing outside. Of course she is. Mama never wants me to meet her in the house. She doesn’t like to walk far distances in front of me. Says she’s too slow. I’m not sure if it’s because she thinks I’ll become impatient or if it’s pride.

  I park and grab the flowers purchased for the occasion. They’re grocery-store bought. I wish they were from a florist, but the dead don’t care what sort of flowers you put on their graves, now do they?

  The wind slices down my coat, and I tug the zipper to my neck. The sun never came out today. Gray clouds pillow the sky as far as I can see.

  Mama smiles weakly. She is spindly. Her scarf has come undone, revealing the tendons at her neck—exposed roots rising to hills.

  She lurches slowly with her cane’s help. “Court, I’m so glad to see you.”

  I knot her scarf loosely. “I’m glad to see you, too. I brought flowers.”

  Mama eyes them with appreciation. “They’re lovely.”

  She’s in a good mood today, considering. Mama does her best to keep her spirits up, but often when I visit, she is sitting in her kitchen with the lights off, sipping her coffee and staring at the wall.

  On those days I spend my entire visit dragging her from the depths as we play cards and look at old pictures.

  But today she is well.

  We do our usual one-armed hug. We started it after she healed from the accident. For Mama, trying to hook both arms around me for a hug causes shooting pain down her back and legs. At least, I think so. She’s never said for sure, and I’ve never asked.

  She accepts little help from me to get into her Equinox that’s two years old. It still has the ripe scent of new car. Getting in is a slow process, one full of deep breaths (hers) and an expression on her face that suggests she’s bracing for impact.

  But she eventually folds into the car, and I drive us out to the cemetery. It’s thirty minutes away, back in the direction toward my house, but I don’t mind.

  We enter the open gates and wind up the hill. My sister’s and father’s graves are on the backside of a field of headstones. I park as closely to them as possible, and we get out.

  Mama’s gait slows to a crawl. I carry the flowers in one hand and offer the other to her as a balancing rod. In front of us, two squares erupt from the ground. The grass that borders them is yellow and dead.

  Mama sniffles. I offer a tissue from my pocket. She takes it and thanks me. A few more steps and we’re standing in front of twin graves—David James Bradshaw and Brittany Morgan Bradshaw.

  Mama kneels. I want to stop her, remind her of how painful it will be to rise when she’s ready to leave. But I don’t.

  She runs her fingers lovingly over my father’s headstone. It reads Beloved Husband and Father. It’s appropriate.

  “If only that day had been like this one,” Mama mumbles, meaning cold and not rainy. She smiles when she says it, as if trying to force some sunshine into a dreary day.

  The date of death on his stone, February 10, 2009, matches my sister’s.

  Letters marking her gray rock stare at me. It reads Gone Too Soon—also appropriate. My heart flutters in my chest, a bird trapped in a cage. The tears come hot and fast. I wipe them away and do what I do every year—silently apologize to my sister for being the one of us who lived, and tell her that I am keeping the promise I made—a promise penned in blood.

  It will be kept until the day I die.

  I hold Mama as she cleans up the area around the graves, removing bits of debris. Then I help her place the flowers in the vases. She cries for a few more minutes then says, “Ready to go, Brittany?”

  I stiffen. This is not a one-time occurrence. My sister has been dead for over ten years, but sometimes my mother still calls me the wrong name. The cause is uncertain. Is it because she wishes the other twin had lived? Or is the pain in her back so bad that it tangles the neurons in her head?

  Either way, when Mama calls me my dead sibling’s name, I don’t have to wonder who she wishes stood beside her in this moment—I know.

  She wishes I were someone else.

  But that’s okay. Grief is a strange thing.

  I help Mama up and we leave.

  We return to her house, and she doesn’t object when I follow her inside. The interior is a study in dark, glossy wood. It’s everywhere—from the curio cabinet filled with Precious Moments figurines and stone mortars and pestles, to the trim framing the doors. Sunlight pierces the yellow shears, and dust motes spiral down onto dark honey-colored hardwoods.

  The place is depressing. A couple of years ago Tal offered to paint the trim an eggshell white, but Mama refused.

  “Oh, that would be too much trouble,” she said.

  Ever since the accident, helping her has become too much trouble. I don’t get it. I’m her only immediate family left, but it’s like the burden of Mama’s heart weighs so heavily on her that she doesn’t want it to be a stone around anyone else’s neck.

  She is not a stone.

  Mama hobbles to her bedroom to change, and I head into the kitchen where more brown greets me.

  I open the fridge and find it full. Limp lettuce shrivels in the bin along with celery. The red pepper and tomatoes are wrinkled as well.

  All the produce I bought her last week has gone untouched.

  “What about the cupboard?” I whisper.

  The hinges squeak when opened and I wince. The Hormel microwavable meals have vanished, along with the tuna and cracker packs.

  My phone pings—probably Tal. I stretch my neck and see it’s a text from Faith Parsons.

  Hey, girl!

  I’ll answer her later. Back to the kitchen and its contents.

  Faith chimes again. Hope you’re doing great!

  This will go on until I answer. Faith is the sort of friend who needs constant validation. If I don’t answer her texts, she’ll think I’m mad. Yes, she’s that insecure.

  I should reply because she’ll worry. But honestly I don’t feel it. Faith can sit for a moment.

  After sliding the phone to silent, I investigate the cabinet where Mama keeps her medicine.

  There, her pills are organized into a weekly box.

  Good pharmacist.

  At least she still separates her meds. Even though her food supply is out of whack, she still has her life together enough to put her pills in the right place.

  My phone lights up. Still Faith. Will you be home later?

  I return to the fridge and puzzle this out. Every Wednesday I deliver Mama’s groceries—both fresh and prepackaged—and whenever I arrive, arms full, the old veggies are gone.

  It hits me—my mother’s been lying about what she eats.

  She eats the cupboard staples because it’s easy to fix them, and avoids the veggies because it’s too much bother. Talk about the story of a person’s life.

  I sigh and pull out the vegetables to start washing and cutting, chopping and storing.

  I make us a salad and heat up some frozen chicken strips. Those, at least, are already open.

  By the time Mama shuffles inside, her clothes changed, I’ve got the perishables all prepped in plastic bowls and sitting on the counter.

  Her gaze shifts nervously from the bright vegetables peeking out of opaque containers, to the fridge, to the cabinets. She knows that I’ve looked inside, but I won’t mention it.

  “All ready for you to eat,” I say cheerfully.

  “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble.”

  My heart hits the floor. “It was no trouble.”

  “Can I get you something to drink?” she says sweetly.

  “Sure,” I say.

  Faith chimes again. I want to drop off your casserole dish. :)

  Better put her out of her misery. I should be home around 2.

  I know she’s relieved that I finally answered.

  Great! (thumbs up emoji) I’ll see you then!

  Faith is endearingly sweet. She’ll bend her back to snapping to help a friend, and i
f something’s wrong, she’ll crowd you until you swear that you’re all better.

  Yes, she’s a great friend.

  Mama draws a cup of water from the tap. “Thank you for making lunch.” She smiles brightly as she sits. “You shouldn’t have.”

  Yes, I should have.

  We sit and talk. She asks about the kids, of course, how they’re doing. They’re well, I tell her. I ask her about bingo at the senior center and church.

  “They’re both fine,” she says, not offering any real information. “The church van picks me up on Sundays.” She lifts her hands. “Nothing’s changed.”

  “I wish you’d move in with us,” I say. “It would be easier. We could go to church together.”

  She shakes her head. “I’m not moving back to that town. Not after what happened.”

  I never should have said anything. Now her mood will sour.

  It does. She becomes quiet, distant, her fingers wrinkling her napkin to a fan.

  But then, unexpectedly, she shifts. “How’re Blanche and Faith?”

  “Faith is coming over later to drop off a casserole dish.”

  “That’s good.” She smiles again. Mama smiles so much when I’m here, I wonder how quickly she fades after I leave—because I know she does.

  “And Blanche is good, too. We had lunch last week.” It’s a lie, but it’ll make her happy to know that I still see my childhood friends all the time. She loves Blanche. “Her kids are growing.”

  Her eyes fill with sunshine. “I’m glad.”

  When was the last time Mama saw my kids? It’s been over a month. We had lunch on New Year’s Day—black-eyed peas and ham.

  “Want me to bring Haley on Wednesday?”

  She beams. “Yes, I would love that.”

  Chapter 3

  It’s nearly two hours later when I finally reach my house. Tal had called a couple of times while I was at Mama’s, so I chat with him on the way.

  “How’s your mom?”

  I sigh. “As good as can be expected. I promised to take Haley Ray over on Wednesday.”

  “Do you want me to pick her up and bring her over for dinner sometime?”

  Tal is the best husband in the world to offer. He really is.

  The truth is that Mama doesn’t drive far on her own. I think it’s lingering PTSD from the car accident that took Daddy’s and my sister’s lives. The same wreck left her back scarred and me physically unscathed, though emotionally scraped empty.

  “That’s sweet of you,” I say. “I’ll find out on Wednesday if she wants to come over.”

  He pauses and I can tell there’s something he wants to say.

  “Spit it out.”

  “I finished My Cousin Rachel.”

  We like to assign each other reading material and then discuss it. It’s sort of our own husband-and-wife book club.

  Yes, it started with 50 Shades of Grey but quickly evolved into meaningful material—hence the Daphne du Maurier. Since he’s finished my assignment, Tal will now dole a book out to me.

  “What did you think of it?” I ask.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  I groan. “Oh no. You think she did it, don’t you? You think she planned to kill him and take the estate.”

  I can hear the wince in his words. “I said you wouldn’t like it.”

  Fired up now, my voice rises. “How can you say that?”

  “It’s just what I took out of the book.”

  I tut. “It’s all a big misunderstanding.”

  “You’re saying that because you’re a woman and she’s a woman.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  His voice teases. “Okay, you’re not saying it because of that. Sorry. We can talk about it tonight, but I doubt I’ll change my mind.”

  “I guess that’s one of the good things about it. The ending lends itself to different interpretations.”

  “You’re so deep,” he jokes.

  I laugh. It feels good and comes from deep in my belly. “See you at dinner. Love you.”

  “Love you, darling.”

  By the time we hang up, I’m at the house. I grab the mail from the box and let the SUV idle while the garage door slowly winds up.

  The brown bricks of my home melt together, almost like camouflage. When I slip inside, the home will secret me away. The SUV will be tucked in the garage, and no one will know who’s behind the windows, peeking out.

  I shiver, shudder at the thought.

  Inside, I change and make a cup of coffee. Then I sit at the kitchen table with my mug and shuffle through the letters—electric bill, mortgage, flyer from a car dealership, and lastly, a plain white envelope with my name on it.

  Wait.

  I slide it toward me. The letter scrapes over toast crumbs scattered on the table.

  I should really do a better job cleaning up after breakfast.

  Against the snow-colored sleeve, letters in black type spell out my name—COURT LANE. My address isn’t printed, nor is there any information about the sender.

  My name is attached to several things: a diploma declaring the successful completion of college, a license to teach elementary education, my marriage certificate, two birth certificates, a mortgage, and my driver’s license, among others.

  Now it sits boldly on this envelope, and yet I pause to open it. The letter could be anything—an invitation to a party, a note from the HOA.

  But the HOA also puts down the address and pens letters to both Tal and me.

  This is purely and singularly mine.

  Yet I don’t want to open it.

  It’s ridiculous, the tightening in my stomach. Probably nothing more than coffee that isn’t sitting right. There is nothing to keep me physically from slicing open this letter.

  But I cannot.

  It’s like a bad movie filtering through my head—one that starts with someone opening a suspicious envelope and leads to a strange chain of events.

  I chuckle. That won’t happen to me. I’m a plain old housewife.

  Deciding that my imagination has gotten away from me long enough, I jack one thumb under the edge and rip the top off.

  The doorbell rings.

  Faith.

  I head from the kitchen, my thoughts still wound around that envelope as I reach the foyer and open the front door.

  “Here you go!”

  Faith Parsons offers the glass dish like Vanna White—with a smile and a flourish. Her caramel-colored curls are balled up into a ponytail, and her jacket strains against hips that shuffle as if she’s trying to burn calories while standing on my porch.

  Faith is that friend we all have, the one who can never lose weight. No matter what she does—smoothies three meals a day, cutting portion sizes—she winds up gaining ten pounds. Skips lunch and goes straight to dinner, loses two pounds the first week and then puts that plus four more back on the next.

  Sweat sprinkles her brow and I can tell that she’s been working out, but I don’t know where. According to Faith, Scott spends their money faster than he can make it. He’s an engineer (like everybody else in this town), so he does fine, but with five mouths to feed, even an engineer’s salary can get ground to dust pretty quickly.

  Hence why I sent over the casserole.

  I take the dish. “I hope you enjoyed it.”

  “Hand to God, Court”—she pledges her right hand—“that is the best chicken spaghetti ever.” Her face scrunches into a mixed knot of apology and thanks. It’s a look that simultaneously says I’m not worthy and thank you. “You’re the best.”

  “It’s the Pioneer Woman’s recipe. I didn’t reinvent the wheel. Just copied it.”

  She laughs. “Well, Scott just about licked the dish clean.”

  “Anytime.”

  “I can’t stay long.” She points to a maroon van with a minefield of stickers featuring Disney characters pasted to the hatch. “Addy is inside sleeping. I just wanted to drop that off and see if you’re looking forward to this weekend?
”

  This weekend? “Mmm…”

  She rolls her eyes. “Paige’s cabin. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

  I shake my head. “No, of course not.” Crap, I had forgotten. “It’s just…today was the anniversary.” She blinks at me blankly. “You know…Brittany and Daddy.”

  Faith’s eyes pinch tight. “Oh no. Court, I’m such a bad friend.” She throws her arms over me and drags me into a hug. “I can’t believe I didn’t remember. I’m so sorry.”

  I let her hold me before sliding away and waving off the deep concern in her eyes. “It’s fine. I took Mama to the cemetery.”

  “I should have remembered, and here I’ve been talking about casseroles like they’re something important.”

  I press the dish to my chest. “Don’t worry about it.”

  She frowns, not completely believing that I’m okay. “Brittany was like a sister to me. You know that.”

  I nod. She needs to talk about it, but I’ve thought of this enough today. Time to change the subject.

  “Anyway, yes, I remember about Paige’s this weekend. Her birthday. And—yes, I’ll drive.”

  I might as well offer because the others won’t. That’s how it always is with women and road trips—no one wants to drive. Get a whole bunch of men together and they’re probably fighting over who gets to helm the vehicle. Not women. We would all rather be passengers.

  Faith beams. “Are you sure? I don’t mind.”

  She does mind. Faith does not want to drive. I know this from experience. Take her out of the fishpond of streets we live on and she becomes neurotic, her gaze darting from side to side, knuckles like white mountains on the steering wheel.

  “It’s fine,” I assure her.

  “We’re going to have so much fun. Paige is hiring a masseuse for us. I can’t remember the last time I had a massage—or my nails done, for that matter.” She shrugs. “Some things are just a luxury, I guess.”

  I never know if Faith says these things so that I’ll feel bad for her, or if she just says them to say them—always talking about money, or the lack of it, I mean.

  She continues. “Then we’ll relax and drink wine by the fire. No kids, no husbands—just you, me, Paige, and Blanche. Paige is going to have a great thirty-fifth.”