Under Lying

by Janelle Harris

  The hour-long session ticks by surprisingly quickly. Members of the circle take it in turns to stand up and speak. They talk about profound loss in one breath and in the next sentence they’re waffling about running out of teabags the last time a neighbour called around for a cuppa. It’s strange. I find myself close to tears one moment and holding my sides from belly laughing the next. I’m not sure how the session makes me feel, and when Jenny asks me if I’ll be back next week I hesitate before I answer.

  ‘Ah, please say you’ll come again. Everyone else is as old as the hills – no offence, Wayne.’

  Wayne smiles and shakes his head, clearly used to Jenny’s unintentional insults.

  ‘It would be good to finally have a friend my own age,’ she adds, ‘and you look like you could use a friend too.’

  She keeps talking, no doubt rattling off an annoying list of reasons why I should come back, but I’ve stopped listening.

  It’s Deacon who helps me decide. I wonder how long he’s been coming. How many sessions have gone by without him saying a word, and most of all I wonder who he lost that their absence has stripped his heart from this world.

  ‘Yeah,’ I say, watching him stand up to leave. ‘I’ll be back next week.’

  Chapter Eight

  NOW

  I sit cross-legged on the floor in Amelia’s bedroom. My eyes are closed and if I concentrate I can feel her chubby arms around my neck. I can hear her laughter. I can smell the shampoo in her hair. She picked it out herself the last time we were in Tesco. She likes it because it comes in a pink bottle with a yellow cartoon fairy printed on the label. I like it because it smells like raspberries and reminds me of summer picnics.

  ‘Hey, there you are,’ Helen says, popping her head around the door. ‘I’ve been looking all over the house for you.’

  I open my eyes and uncross my legs. I try to stand up but pins and needles dart from my knees and my feet are numb. I didn’t notice Helen arrive. I wonder if she’s been here long. Paul must have left the front door unlocked again when he went out running. It’s becoming a bad habit. I’ve tried talking to him about it, but he just rolls his eyes and walks away whenever I bring it up.

  ‘Your mother is on the phone,’ Helen says, holding her thumb against her ear and her baby finger against her mouth.

  I’m dazed. I stood up too suddenly on an empty stomach and circles of white light spin in front of my eyes. Feeling is starting to return to my feet and it stings. I really wish Helen would just go away.

  ‘I don’t want to talk right now. Can you tell my mam I’ll call her back later?’

  ‘That’s what I told her yesterday, Susan. And the day before.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk, Helen,’ I repeat firmly.

  I should probably be irritated that Helen has answered the phone in my house without me even hearing it ring, but I don’t have the energy to care about that right now.

  ‘Okay. I’ll tell her you’re not up to it.’

  ‘What does she want anyway?’ I sigh.

  ‘She’s worried, Susan. She says the news stations in France aren’t carrying any coverage of Amelia’s drowning. And you haven’t replied to her texts. She just wants to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Disappearance,’ I snap. ‘Amelia disappeared. There’s nothing to confirm anything about a drowning. Jesus Christ, why does everyone insist on saying she drowned? She didn’t. I know she didn’t.’

  ‘Of course, I’m sorry. I’ve been listening to the news too much.’

  ‘My mother hasn’t seen Amelia in eight months,’ I say. ‘And it was six months the time before that. If she was so worried about her only grandchild I think she could make an effort to visit more often, don’t you?’

  Helen shakes her head. I can’t tell if her disappointment is with my aggression towards my absent mother or my mam’s failings as a grandmother.

  ‘I’ll ask her to call again tomorrow, okay?’ Helen suggests as she walks out of the room.

  ‘Fine. Whatever.’

  I turn back and take one of Amelia’s T-shirts out of the top drawer of the tall, freestanding dresser. The dresser is an antique I painstakingly refurbished shortly after we moved in. I spent hours stripping back the varnished oak and painting it white. Amelia helped, of course. The yellow handles were her choice. I’ve become quite artistic over the years and the dresser turned out better than I could have imagined. It’s beautiful, but I always worry about its size. It’s three times as tall as Amelia. I’ve asked Paul several times to secure it to the wall in case she tries to climb it or, worse, knocks it down. ‘You can never be too careful with a toddler,’ I say so often I even irritate myself.

  Still staring at the dresser, I place the baby-pink cotton T-shirt under my nose and take a deep breath. It doesn’t smell like my daughter. It smells like the new fabric softener I bought on special offer a couple of weeks ago. I ball the T-shirt up and shove it back in the drawer and slam the drawer shut with an aggressive bang. The dresser wobbles and I know Paul never got around to securing it to the wall. I exhale sharply. I’m frustrated, but I’m not surprised.

  Paul says that I’m a worrier and I see danger in everything. I don’t argue about that, there’s no point. When Amelia first started to walk, I spent most of my time walking backwards a couple of steps ahead of her with my arms outstretched, ready to catch her if she tumbled. And when she started feeding herself I’d spend so long cutting her food into tiny pieces that it was always cold before she could eat it, simply because I feared that her milk teeth couldn’t master chewing properly. Paul said I was overprotective. I said he was too relaxed. We often have arguments over our different parenting techniques. But don’t all couples?

  We had a whopper just recently. I came home from grocery shopping to discover Amelia in the garden on her tricycle without her helmet on. I was furious and gave Paul a piece of my mind. He freaked out and said I was insinuating that he was a bad father. I don’t think that. I think he’s a fantastic dad. Amelia is a lucky little girl. But Paul wouldn’t let it go. He said I was stifling her and that she would grow up afraid to make mistakes or take risks. I said he was careless and complacent. And that if Amelia followed his example she would grow up reckless and selfish. It escalated from there. I bitched at him about all the time he spends working or running. He let rip about the money I’ve spent on the house. He added something obnoxious about at least one of us earning a real living. I lost it a little after that and it got messy. Amelia overheard us shouting. We scared her. I felt terrible, and Paul did too. We put our harsh words aside to reassure our little girl that everything was okay.

  It was. Paul skipped his evening run that night. I cooked his favourite dinner and we all ate together. We read a story together. All three of us squashed into Amelia’s bed and cuddled, enjoying family time.

  Later, when Paul went back downstairs and Amelia and I were alone, snuggling, she asked me, ‘Mammy, do you love Daddy?’

  I nodded involuntarily, her grown-up question catching me by surprise.

  ‘Do you love Daddy the same much as you love me?’ she added.

  I didn’t answer that question. I simply kissed my little girl on the forehead and said, ‘Sweet dreams, darling.’

  That night Paul and I made love in the sitting room for hours after Amelia fell asleep. I watched my husband as he lay next to me on the soft cream rug. His naked, clammy body pressed against mine as he fixed a stray strand of my hair behind my ear.

  ‘You’re a great mother,’ he said, kissing me. ‘I mean it, Susan. I can’t wait to watch our little girl grow up. I hope she grows up to be just like you.’

  Paul’s words play over in my mind now, as they do often. He couldn’t possibly have imagined that less than two weeks later we’d be robbed of the chance to watch our little girl grow up at all.

  I shake my head as if I can toss the memories from my mind, and I’m about to follow Helen downstairs when I notice some photographs scattered on the floor at my feet. T
hey must have fallen out of the drawer when I took out Amelia’s T-shirt. I bend down and gather them up, taking care not to dog-ear the corners.

  ‘They’re fantastic,’ Helen says, picking one up.

  ‘Don’t touch it,’ I growl, grabbing the photo out of her hand.

  Helen jumps back, narrowly missing spilling the cup of coffee in her hand all over her blouse.

  ‘Sorry.’ I quickly lower my voice.

  She looks at me as if I’m a stray dog she’s not sure she can trust.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I repeat, whispering now. ‘I’m just a little emotional. I didn’t mean to bite your head off. I know you’re only trying to help.’

  Helen smiles, unsure, but she takes a step forward.

  I instinctively clutch the photos against my chest. ‘I thought you’d gone back downstairs,’ I say, trying to justify my skittish outburst.

  ‘I had, but I thought you could use a coffee. Your mam says she’ll call you again tomorrow.’

  ‘Okay. Is Paul back yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ she says as she sets the cup of coffee down on Amelia’s bookshelf and turns to walk out of the room.

  ‘Helen,’ I say.

  She turns back to face me.

  ‘Where do you think Paul goes?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He’s running, isn’t he? Training for that big race in Dublin.’

  ‘No one can spend all day every day running,’ I say. ‘He goes somewhere. Not to work, he’s taken leave, obviously.’

  ‘Maybe he goes to the pub?’ Helen says. ‘Larry likes a drink most days. You’d find half the men in Ballyown in the pub on a Saturday afternoon.’

  ‘No,’ I sigh. ‘Paul rarely drinks. Alcohol isn’t good when he’s training.’

  ‘Ah yes, I remember you said that previously.’ Helen smiles sympathetically, and I wonder if she thinks I’m deluded assuming my husband doesn’t drink like most of the other men around here.

  ‘The Guards asked me where I think Paul goes,’ I say, dragging my finger over the top of the photographs I hold against my chest. ‘They asked me what I think he does during all those hours he’s away from the house every day.’

  Helen looks at me blankly. Her eyes are glassy and bloodshot and I think she might be hung-over.

  ‘It wasn’t what they said, it was the way they said it, you know?’ I continue, staring at her, wondering if she’s hearing me. ‘As if they thought there was something suspicious about Paul spending so much time away from our home.’

  ‘I won’t lie,’ Helen says, suddenly astute, ‘I think Paul’s place is here with you at a time like this. The police are barking up the wrong tree, Susan. The completely wrong tree, if they think Paul has anything to do with Amelia falling into that lake.’

  ‘No. No,’ I say sternly. ‘They didn’t say that. That’s not what they were implying.’ I shake my head. ‘Never mind. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘The police have nothing to go on, that’s their problem,’ Helen says. ‘Don’t let them drive a wedge between you and Paul with silly questions that won’t help anyone. Sit down tonight and talk with Paul. Tell him how much you need him near you.’

  I press the photos tighter against me, close my eyes and breathe slowly. A tight knot sits in my chest.

  ‘Paul should be here for you, Susan. That’s all there is to it. I’ll have a word with him, if you like?’

  I open my eyes and watch her with trepidation. ‘Where’s Larry?’ I ask. ‘Doesn’t he mind you spending every day here?’

  Helen clears her throat with a dry cough. ‘No. He doesn’t.’

  ‘But what does he do all evening in that big old house? It was nearly eleven o’clock when he came looking for you last night.’

  ‘He does his thing, I do mine,’ she says.

  ‘And what’s your thing?’

  ‘I like taking care of people. I like making sure they’re okay. I like making sure you’re okay.’

  ‘Helen, maybe you should go home,’ I say. ‘You’ve been very kind, but . . .’

  She shakes her head and I can see tears in her eyes. ‘Larry and I aren’t the picture-perfect couple we pretend to be, you know.’

  I didn’t think for one moment that Larry and Helen were perfect. I think they torment each other with snide comments and backhanded insults. I wonder if that’s why Helen is so pushy and interfering. She has little control in her own home so she’s looking for it in mine. I smile, realising that I spend most of my time trying to read people instead of actually getting to know them. Occupational hazard, I think. I need to work on that.

  ‘I don’t think any marriage is perfect, Helen,’ I say.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve upset you now, haven’t I?’ Helen says. ‘I should learn when to shut up. Larry says my mouth is the biggest part of me. And he’s right. I doubt you want to hear about my marriage troubles when your own worries are so great. Gosh, Susan, I’m sorry. Look at me, a silly woman. You’re right, I should go home.’

  I take a deep breath and set the photographs face down on the dresser. I’m desperate to kiss the back of the top photograph, the way I do every time I let Adam’s work out of my hands, but I restrain myself in front of Helen. I walk over to the bookshelf and pick up the cup she left for me. I take a mouthful and pull a face.

  ‘Let’s go downstairs,’ I say. ‘I’ll make some fresh coffee. No offence, Helen, but this stuff is terrible.’

  Chapter Nine

  NOW

  I sit at the kitchen table with my back to the window. Initially, I was sitting at the opposite side of the table, but I couldn’t bring myself to look out the window at the view of my pretty, well-kept garden and the stream running behind it. I asked Helen to switch places with me. She knew why.

  ‘I’ve lived in Ballyown for twenty-five years,’ she says. ‘And I think you’re the first real friend I’ve made.’

  ‘Twenty-five years is a long time to go without any friends,’ I say.

  ‘Yes. Yes, it is,’ Helen admits. ‘But I had my sons. And three boys will keep you busy with all the mischief they get up to. And then there was the farm. Farms are hard work, you know. There’s always something to be done. I never had a free minute over the years.’

  ‘And now you do?’ I say.

  Helen throws her head back and cackles. ‘Are you going to charge me for this session, counsellor?’

  ‘You said we were friends.’ I keep my voice level, wondering why she’s suddenly so jumpy since we came downstairs. She’s almost spilled her coffee twice. ‘Don’t friends talk about their problems?’

  ‘They do.’ Helen brings her head back. ‘But I don’t feel right talking about my troubles . . . when, well, you know . . . when . . .’

  ‘Helen,’ I interrupt her. ‘I really can’t talk about myself any more. It would do me good to hear something about someone else. Please. Just talk to me. Let me listen. I need the distraction.’

  ‘Okay.’ Helen smiles. ‘I could use a chance to talk, if I’m honest.’

  ‘In your own time.’ I wince and almost bite my tongue, hearing the cliché I use in my sessions. I hope Helen doesn’t pick up on it.

  ‘First of all, I should explain that I like where I live.’ Her eyes meet mine. ‘I just don’t love it.’

  I tilt my head to one side.

  ‘I don’t fit in,’ she rushes to clarify. ‘You haven’t settled in Ballyown in twenty-five years?’ I ask, worrying that I may be in Helen’s shoes some day.

  She looks embarrassed.

  ‘I have,’ she back-pedals. ‘Of course, I have. But it’s not me, Susan. Not the real me. This place, Ballyown, it changes you.’

  ‘We all change, don’t we? Over time?’ I suggest, picking up my coffee and walking towards the sitting room.

  ‘Yeah, sure,’ Helen says, following me. ‘But do we really want to? Or, do we feel we should?’

  I hide an uneasy gulp as we sit down.

  ‘I mean, I love my husband,’ she continues, oblivious to my c
risis of conscience. ‘I’m just not in love with him. Not any more.’

  ‘Has Larry done something to hurt you?’ I ask.

  Helen laughs again. This time it’s less sarcastic and more a nervous giggle. ‘He doesn’t mean to. He’s just selfish. His mother had him spoiled, you see.’ She pauses and takes a deep breath and I can tell the confession is painful for her. ‘She always treated him like a little boy, even when he was in his thirties.’

  ‘It’s not as uncommon as you’d think,’ I say. ‘Lots of grown men live at home, especially if they’re single. They just need to meet the right woman.’

  ‘But that was the problem,’ Helen says, her eyes glassing over. ‘Her interfering didn’t stop when he met me. If anything, it got worse. She did his laundry, cooked huge meals for him, even when she knew we were going out to dinner. She’d even choose his clothes. It was crazy.’

  ‘Wow,’ I sigh. ‘She sounds intense.’

  ‘She was. She really was,’ Helen says. ‘She did everything in her power to break us up, and when it didn’t work and we got married, the old bitch was furious and made my life hell. I hated her. And Larry knew it, but we still had to live with the cranky old battleaxe until she died.’

  ‘God, Helen, I had no idea. I’ve heard in-laws can be a nightmare, but both of Paul’s parents were dead before we got engaged. I never had his family to deal with.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky,’ Helen snorts. ‘I spent years dealing with that woman. Nothing I ever did was good enough. I wasn’t a good enough cook. I didn’t muck out the pigsty right. I mean, how can you possibly criticise someone for the way they shovel shit?’

  I giggle sheepishly.

  ‘It’s funny looking back on it,’ she says as she rolls her shoulders and straightens her back, ‘but at the time I wanted to belt her in the back of the head with that goddam shovel.’

  ‘It sounds like even after you were married she still tried to drive a wedge between you and Larry,’ I say.

  ‘She did. Every bloody chance she got. And that’s why I spent twenty years daydreaming about topping off the aul bitch. A little weed killer in her tea, or fertiliser in her biscuits,’ she says with a sadistic grin.