This was normal, regular life.
I dashed off a quick reply, hesitating before I hit Send. Mom had friends, women she’d known since high school or even earlier, who she still saw regularly in town. They planned semiannual trips to the casino together; they met once a month for Margarita Mondays at the Mexican restaurant just outside of Woodstock. I knew Mom would be good for friendship advice, but it seemed too much to go into here, too difficult to provide the wording and tone and context needed for an email. Besides, I could imagine her reply, the sort of simple logic that was nonetheless compelling. Sometimes people just grow apart. Maybe that’s for the best.
* * *
They came back from the beach in the late afternoon, leaving a trail of toys and towels from the front porch through to the foyer, Jordana’s freshly mopped floor sprinkled with sand. I was sitting on a couch in the living room with a book on my lap and a highlighter clenched between my teeth.
Michael put a hand on my forehead. He smelled like sun and sweat. “Feeling better?”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Where’s everyone else?”
Lauren yawned. “Dad’s helping Uncle Patrick return the cruiser. He only rented it for the day.” She plopped down next to me, leaning against my shoulder. Her wet hair was braided and tied with one of Lizzie’s chunky elastics. “God, I’m tired. Think I’ll take a nap.” I expected her to head upstairs, but instead she pulled the quilt from the back of the couch and curled up next to me, her head heavy on my shoulder.
We ate dinner on the back deck, the only place that could seat twelve comfortably, with Lizzie perched at one end in her high chair. I picked listlessly at my food, wondering if I was in fact coming down with something or if it was a general malaise, brought on by heat and exhaustion.
“Tonight’s fireworks night, isn’t it?” asked one of the twins, the one with the flat mole by his ear. This was apparently the only way to distinguish them, except that I’d already forgotten whether it was Eric or Patrick Jr. who had the mole.
“Tomorrow,” Mrs. Mabrey corrected. “They do a big thing in Yarmouth, and we have front row seats from our beach.”
“What about the ones we brought?” Annabelle whined.
Sue rolled her eyes. “Patrick stopped at a roadside stand and spent hundreds of dollars on these stupid fireworks. He’s basically turned our children into pyromaniacs. I promised that we could do some down by the beach, where they won’t start anything on fire.”
Mrs. Mabrey smiled tightly, annoyed to have the schedule disrupted.
“It’ll be nice to do our own fireworks,” Senator Mabrey said, his words carrying all the weight of a judicial pronouncement. “We haven’t done that in years, not since Lauren was little.”
Just after sunset, we traipsed down to the beach with lawn chairs and towels and a case of beer and a box of long-reach oven matches. The Brewster-Holmeses—I couldn’t not think of them that way—lugged boxes of fireworks onto the beach, and Michael shone a flashlight while Eric and Patrick sorted the fireworks into piles, by category. Annabelle tried to help and was rebuffed at every turn; she ended up claiming the sparklers for herself and Lizzie. Peter lit them one by one, and the girls went into a wild sparkler frenzy, dancing in and out of the water, like fiery amphibian creatures. Lizzie charged toward me, demanding that I appreciate the whirls and sparks.
“Okay, okay,” I laughed, brushing off a spark that landed on my bare leg. “Why don’t you write something in the air, like your name?”
She grinned, making indecipherable swirling marks in the air that might have been the letters of her name or nothing at all. “Do you think Mommy can see?”
Mrs. Mabrey and Kat had decided to stay and watch from the back deck of the main house. The space between the house and the beach was thick with foliage, but they would have been able to see little bursts of sparkler light and the ambient glow of fireworks.
“Mmm, maybe,” I said, and Lizzie ran off again, back toward the water.
We settled onto the beach in a line, waiting for the show—Peter and Mr. Mabrey and Patrick and Sue, empty bottles of Sam Adams sticking out of the sand like little flags marking their territory. I lowered myself onto a beach towel a few yards away and did the math in my head. Thirty-six more hours, and I would be on my way to Cambridge. Lauren would get me to Yarmouth, and a bus would take me the rest of the way. I was both nervous for the experience—would I be even half as smart or qualified as the other students in the program?—and excited for a break from the Mabreys, from smiling and being polite and navigating their social rules.
Lauren had brought her camera, and was documenting the scene with the diligence of a forensic analyst. Later, she could tuck the prints into an album to prove how wonderful they all were, how wonderful and happy. She laughed at something Lizzie said, and I remembered her coming into the bedroom the other night, suddenly determined to unburden herself to me. I’m sleeping with Joe. Not an explanation—just a statement of fact. Also: I know I should have told you earlier. Not an apology, not an acknowledgment of the lies she must have told night after night, about having to work in the darkroom or study in the library. She hadn’t apologized for all the times she’d blown me off, for putting sex ahead of friendship, for the ultimate betrayal of Joe being someone I had cared about. Immediately after her confession, she’d seemed lighter to me, no longer burdened by the weight of what she knew. Her conscience was clear, and everything was supposed to be fine between us. Her perfect world could resume.
“Who needs another one?” Senator Mabrey asked, holding out a bottle. “Megan?”
“Sure.” I took fast sips, reveling in my bitterness. Near the water’s edge, Lauren was teasing reactions out of Annabelle and Lizzie, who were hamming for the camera.
“All right,” Michael called. “Let’s get this show on the road!”
Three fireworks had been set up on a plank, and one of the twins struck a long oven match, tapping it briefly to the fuses and jumping back.
“Don’t go burning your fingers off!” Sue called, her voice shrill.
These weren’t serious fireworks, like they’d been in Woodstock. Most of the things my family had experimented with fell into the category of “illegal explosive devices,” to which the law enforcement in Woodstock had turned a blind eye. My dad liked things that he could tamper with in the garage, things that shot into the air with huge booming sounds. The Brewster-Holmeses’ fireworks were relatively tame, with short whistling sounds and flashes of impressive color. I watched as Lauren moved silently around the beach, camera held steady with both hands, getting too close to the explosion at times and backing hastily away. Some of the fireworks that were designed to spin fizzled out in the sand, and there was much discussion about whether they could be lit on the end of the pier, with Sue vehemently stating no and eventually being overruled.
Michael came over and nudged me with his foot. “Can you get some more beer?”
I glanced around, annoyed that this task was falling to me. “Are we already out?”
“We’ve got some serious heavyweights in this group,” he said, offering a hand to pull me to my feet. “In a few minutes, I bet they’ll be restless.”
I brushed loose grains of sand off my legs. “No problem. Be right back.”
The Island was eerie at night, something I only noticed when I was by myself. Footpaths cut through the trees, heading in a rambling way to the main house, to the cottages, to the beach, to the gazebo, to benches placed here and there. In our early weeks on The Island, when it had only been Mrs. Mabrey, Lauren and me, I’d been scared to go too far from the main house on my own, especially after sunset. Lauren had teased me about it—what do you think is going to happen? I’d laughed at myself, too, figuring I’d seen too many horror movies at the dollar theater in Woodstock. But now that there were so many people here, their voices carrying through the night over the hisses and booms
of the fireworks, I felt more secure. I wasn’t likely to go toppling off the side of a cliff, and nothing was likely to jump out and get me.
So I didn’t even turn around when I heard footsteps behind me, the soles of tennis shoes slapping against the flagstones.
Then Michael was there next to me, out of breath.
“Really,” I said. “I’ve got this. A couple more six packs should do it.”
“Figured I’d keep you company,” he said.
“Weren’t you helping with the fireworks?”
“Peter’s got it under control.”
We took a few steps in silence, and then I felt his hand on my lower back, the touch light, like a form of chivalry, as if he were escorting me up the path. What was this? I walked faster, moving out of his reach. I remembered that New Year’s Eve back at Holmes House, the unwelcome kiss I’d been unable to dodge.
“Hey,” I said, when his hand found me again, lower this time, his palm cupping my ass in my denim cutoffs. I whirled around. “Yeah, I don’t think so.”
“Sure you do,” he said. There was a strange smile on his face, an expression I hadn’t seen on him since that night in the basement, when I’d sidestepped his obvious hard-on. What was it he’d said then? Something about bragging rights, something I owed him.
“Really, I’m flattered, but no. Okay? No.” I reached out and gave his shoulder a let’s-be-friends, no-hard-feelings kind of pat, and I turned around, hoping that had done the trick.
I hadn’t gone far when one of Michael’s arms went around my neck and his other hand clamped down over my mouth. I yelled, a muffled sound that didn’t go anywhere. We were maybe halfway between the beach, with its crack and sizzle of fireworks, and the house, a towering behemoth lurking behind a canopy of trees. I remembered Mrs. Mabrey and Katherine watching fireworks from the deck. Would they be able to hear me if I yelled?
With Michael’s hand against my mouth, I screamed again, writhing in his grasp. He lost hold for a moment and I bit down on his finger, tearing the skin with my teeth. This was a joke, wasn’t it? Like when he and Lauren tussled, grabbing hair and going for the nuts. He was going to let me go and we were going to laugh, and he was going to make some comment about me overreacting.
Then he hooked his other arm around my middle, a fist pressing into my ribs. This wasn’t a joke. There was no punch line. There was only Michael and the darkness, an island with few places to run, the scattered members of his family.
“You’re not going to scream again, and you’re not going to bite me,” Michael said into my ear. “Do you understand what I’m saying? You’re not going to pretend this is something you haven’t wanted all along.”
I felt helpless and sick, the night’s dinner rising on a tide of nausea. What was better—to resist or to fight? Which would give me the best chance of getting away?
“What’s it going to be, Megs?” My nickname felt dirty and unfamiliar in his voice.
I nodded, wide-eyed, and he took the hand from my mouth.
“That’s better,” he said, and the smile was there again, grim and unpleasant, as if this was somehow a bitter necessity, something he was bound to see through to the end.
I darted out of his reach, seeing my chance, and made it a few stumbling steps before he grabbed me again, his arm tight on my elbow. “Please,” I whispered. “I don’t want this.”
He propelled me forward, his knees knocking into mine. I glanced around wildly, trying to gauge how I could break away, where I could run. One of Michael’s hands was on the back of my neck now, my hair twisting there with each movement. He jerked me to the left, to a side path that led away from the house, toward the gazebo where I’d spent so many hours this summer, glancing between my textbook and the constant, drifting waves. At its northern end, the gazebo was perched over a steep drop through dense foliage and jutting rocks. I dragged my feet and we floundered, moving forward in a herky-jerky dance.
“Let me go,” I begged. “I won’t tell anyone. I’ll just leave and—”
His hand clapped over my mouth again.
If someone had come upon us at that moment, I wondered what they would see. Two drunken people playing a rough game? Two lovers, engaged in a wild embrace? At what point would it look like a struggle? He pushed me into the gazebo, bending my body like we were ballroom dancers, and my body let me down, succumbing to choreography I hadn’t remembered learning. I imagined myself describing him to the police: six-two, broad-shouldered. He probably had sixty pounds on me, a weight I calculated as he lowered his body onto mine. But of course, he wasn’t a stranger. I knew his fucking name. I knew him.
With my free hand, I clawed at his chest, trying to pry his hand from my mouth. I punched at him, hitting his back and side. I made a fist and swung it, hoping to connect with his crotch as he unzipped his shorts.
“Stop fighting,” he hissed. “You know you want this.”
There was a second when he let go of my mouth, twisting both arms behind me and securing them with one hand. In that second, before his hand could silence me, I let out a scream louder than I’d ever screamed before. Not a word, not language. I couldn’t form help or stop; this was a primal sound, the cry of one animal being attacked by another.
It didn’t take long, start to finish. The floorboards of the gazebo were rough, and pine needles bit into the back of my thighs. I tried to keep my legs together, to attack with my feet and knees and arms. I scratched his face; he bruised my elbow, slamming it onto the deck so hard I literally saw stars, tiny sunbursts in the black landscape of my closed eyes. He pulled down my shorts and ripped off my underwear. He was inside me, saying “I knew you’d like this, I knew you’d like this” in rhythm with his thrusts.
I don’t know why I stopped screaming. Maybe, at some level, I didn’t want anyone to find us—not when I was naked from the waist down, crying and helpless, unable to protect myself. The shame was starting, the deep-down burn that went beyond scratches and bruises and things that could scab and heal. I’d been here before, that last night with Kurt Haschke, although I hadn’t said no then, hadn’t screamed or fought, hadn’t feared whatever came next.
Sometimes, when I thought about it later, I wondered how I hadn’t had a better sense of who Michael was and what he was capable of doing. Over the years I would replay every moment, looking for the time when I must have sent the wrong signal, encouraged when I didn’t mean to encourage. Was it on the boat, when our legs had been pressed against each other, knee to hip? Had I been too sexy in my black one-piece, my shorts too short, the V of my T-shirt too low? Had I given off a scent, a pheromone only he was attuned to, like a dog to a high-pitched whistle? Only that afternoon, he’d pressed his warm palm to my cool forehead, asking how I felt. Now his fingernails dug half moons into my skin, his breath quickened.
I thought about what it meant that he wasn’t using a condom, that I wasn’t on the pill.
I thought every horrible thing a person could think.
Michael said, “Fuck, someone’s coming.” Just like that, he was off me, zipping up. I scuttled back like a crab, struggling into my shorts, which were still hanging off one ankle. I felt around on my hands and knees for my underwear.
We heard Mr. Mabrey before he came into sight. He was talking into his phone, head bent, strides purposeful. In one hand he held three empty bottles, the glass clinking as he passed. Was he wondering what was taking me so long, why I hadn’t returned with a new case of beer? Had they even noticed I was gone, and Michael, too?
I didn’t call out, didn’t try to get Mr. Mabrey’s attention. It was too late; it was done now.
Michael tucked in his shirt, straightened the collar and brushed pine needles from his arms. He smoothed his hands through his thick hair, as if he were completing his regular grooming ritual in front of a mirror.
I wiped my hands on the hem of my shirt, then wiped the tears f
rom my eyes with my dirty palms. You’re the same person you were ten minutes ago, I promised myself. This doesn’t change who you are.
Michael took a few steps out of the gazebo, looking in either direction down the footpath before turning back to me. I froze, my eyes darting around for a weapon. If he came closer, I would scream. I would kill him, even if I had to do it with my bare hands. Was he going to get rid of the evidence—strangle me or hit me with a rock or toss me over the edge of the gazebo, watching my body tumble down the side of the cliff? Would he follow me, chase me if I ran?
But Michael only said, “You call me if you ever need anything.” It was dark in the shadow of the gazebo, and I couldn’t see his face, couldn’t read anger or regret or satisfaction there. A sob came up my throat, and I bit it back.
There was a loud boom from the beach, followed by a fizzing sound, like the sky was opening a giant bottle of soda. I wrapped my arms around my knees, and Michael disappeared down the path, heading back to the beach.
Lauren
The fireworks were winding down by the time I finished a second roll of film and dug around in my bag for another, coming up empty-handed. I’d captured close-ups of sparks and bursts of fireworks, and now I was thinking of other angles—on my stomach on the beach, aiming upward? What if I went out on the boat and shot from there, catching the reflection of light on the water? If I hurried, I had time to grab a fresh roll or two from my bedroom before they finished.
“Hey,” I called, spotting the white of MK’s T-shirt as he came down the path. “Where have you been? The natives are getting restless.”
MK’s face was red, and he was breathing hard.
“Don’t tell me we’re out of beer,” I said.
He gave me a funny, hesitant smile and looked over his shoulder, to where the path disappeared around a bend. “Promise you won’t be mad.”
Here We Lie Page 25