There Will Be Lies

by Nick Lake

  The trails here are [ ], says Michael, who speaks much quicker. I wasn’t sure if [ ], so I thought, why not?

  What he’s saying:

  He didn’t know if I would turn out to be real, if the police would turn out to be right. So he brought a bike, so he could hit the trails, if it turned out to be a bust, a dead end.

  Michael, I am thinking, wrote me off for dead a long time ago, and so he’s going to be the one to watch out for. This whole thing may turn out to be maybe ten thousand times harder for him than for Jennifer, because she KNEW I was alive, she trusted in Jesus.

  She has just had her faith confirmed; he, though—he’s going to have to unbury me; unpack my dead limbs from where he has stowed them away, deep inside him.

  I know I’m right about this: I see it in the veins in his nose, I see it in the way he moves so jerkily, so shakily, like we’re all in HD and he’s been filmed on Super 8, or whatever, some old camera stock like in black-and-white movies, where people moved like marionettes.

  I see it in the way he excuses himself and goes off to the kitchen, leaving me and Jennifer alone in the living room.

  Drink? says Jennifer.

  I nod.

  Okay, great, honey, great. Coke?

  I nod again.

  She goes to the kitchen. The apartment is furnished in black leather, with polished mahogany floors. There are no personal touches, no photos, no flowers—I guess there wouldn’t be. Good views from the windows, though—the red brick and glass of Flagstaff’s downtown; mountains and forest in the distance.

  Jennifer comes back with a glass of Coke, and hands it to me, the awkwardness between us giving an air of ceremony to the way she does it.

  I’ll make lunch, soon, she says.

  I nod.

  Then we need to get you some clothes, you like shopping?

  I shrug.

  Okay … well, whatever, we can get you some stuff quickly. Is there anything you like? Books, games, music … She looks up at me, startled. Oh, God, I’m so sorry, I’m such a klutz … Then she clutches her cross. I took your name in vain, she says, I’m sorry for that too, I … forgive me.

  It’s weird—she’s so beautiful, so, like, movie-star and cheerleader gorgeous, but she’s too nervous and sweet and, I think, a tiny bit crazy, to really BE beautiful.

  I smile, and shake my head, like, don’t worry about it; it’s easy to forget. And it is, I know.

  Do you … watch movies, TV?

  I nod. Closed captions, I say, accentuating the syllables.

  Oh! Of course.

  She shows me around, talking endlessly, but nothing that I really need to know, just nerves I guess. I have no words to describe how I am feeling—it’s like grief, maybe, but grief for myself. I was living my life, and then something came along and killed me, erased me from the world, and now I’m not Shelby Jane Cooper anymore, I’m some other person.

  Except I don’t know this other person. Or anything about them.

  It’s like I don’t exist. Like some magician has taken up my life like a card—SWISH—and swapped it with another, and put them in new and separate decks. We pass a mirror, full length, and I don’t recognize the girl in it. She’s pretty, with dark hair tied back, big brown eyes. A little skinny, maybe.

  But she’s a stranger to me.

  I’m not really paying attention to what Jennifer is saying but suddenly I see her mouth make the words “Grand Canyon.”

  What? I say.

  She slows and exaggerates her speech. The Grand Canyon, she says. We thought we could go. I mean, not today. But while we’re here. It’s so close.

  Two hundred conversations with my (mom) go through my head, from so many years—me saying it’s so close, we can fly there in an hour—her saying, we can’t afford it, honey but really meaning, I know now, I’m afraid because I don’t want to get caught, I don’t want to lose you.

  And even though she always said no, and even though I know it’s stupid … I don’t know. I guess I always thought I would go with her.

  Suddenly I realize: I miss my (mom). I mean, Shaylene Cooper, whatever. I hate her, yes, I’m fricking furious with her, for ruining everything like this, but at the same time there is a part of me that would be happy to go back in time, to roll everything back to before that car hit me, so nothing would have to change, and all the secrets would remain hidden, forever.

  Her face floats in my imagination, disintegrating already.

  I miss her.

  I wonder where she is.

  The woman who raised me. Who told me she loved me, who baked me cookies, who put Band-Aids on my cuts, who taught me to sign, who taught me to read, who put aside her money for me, gave me books, gave me hugs, took me for Ice Cream for Dinner Nights, watched everything in closed captions because of me …

  Hell, what if Jennifer and Michael don’t do ice cream for dinner?

  A touch on my arm. We’re standing looking into the room where I’m going to sleep. Jennifer has already put the bunny on the bed; she must have brought it from the car; I didn’t see.

  Angelica? Or … A pained look crosses Jennifer’s face. Do you … do you prefer Shelby? Her arms spread outward; it’s your choice, say her hands, but her face says different. Her face says my name is Angelica.

  I shrug. I think this is going to be my answer to a lot of things.

  Are you feeling bad, honey?

  Oh you have NO idea.

  I shake my head. I have a little backpack that Carla got for me. I swing it to my front; open it. There’s my cigarettes inside, they’re Pall Mals, whatever that means. I show them to Jennifer.

  Oh! she says. A flicker of disappointment—quick, and then she tries to hide it, but I spot it. Then she puts it away totally out of sight, under brisk helpfulness. There’s a balcony just out here, she says, walking backward into the living room, indicating it with her hand.

  I know, I think.

  I nod at her and she opens the door, sliding it. I go out, awkwardly leaning on the door jamb to lever myself and my bionic-man CAM Walker up and over the lip of the sliding door. If she thinks it’s weird that I don’t take off my backpack, she doesn’t say anything.

  Outside, I lean against the railing, looking down on the cars going by. It’s a beautiful day; the sun is shining even though it’s cold, and crows tumble past me, black rags against the blue sky; freewheeling. There are peaked and gabled roofs in Flagstaff, reaching up to the mountains in the background; you don’t see roofs like that in Phoenix, everything is just flat. I take out a cigarette and light it—the smoke hits my lungs and I cough, but fight to control it, to hold it in.

  People do this by choice? It feels like some creature with dagger-fingers has reached into my chest and yanked.

  After that, I don’t inhale, I just take the smoke in my mouth and then puff it out. From the corner of my eye, I watch Jennifer—she watches me for a while, kind of rapt just by my presence I guess, but when I put out the cigarette and light another one, she starts to get bored.

  Everyone gets bored, even of the people they love. It’s a fact of life.

  Michael comes in, from their bedroom, maybe, and they talk, then walk toward the kitchen.

  I am about to move, when Jennifer suddenly turns her head and then heads to the door—I guess someone has knocked on it or rung a bell. She opens it wide and a woman in a suit comes in, young, blond. Attractive. Jennifer’s body is saying that this woman has some kind of authority, and also that Jennifer doesn’t like it and is afraid of it.

  They come into the living space of the big open plan room and Jennifer beckons me in.

  I slide the door and go back inside. The woman sticks out her hand. Her eyes are sea-blue, her hair like sand. Everything about her says summer. Summer Andrews, she says. CPS. I’m going to be looking in on you. Making sure you’re okay. You want to sit? Talk a bit?

  No, I say.

  She blinks but then catches herself; professional. That’s all right, she says. Rome wasn’t
built in a day. Perhaps we can all just discuss living arrangements. Clothes. Food.

  I sigh inside. I’m trapped.

  For now.

  Chapter 56

  Blah blah blah blah blah blah James, says Jennifer.

  Sorry?

  We’re sitting on the couch, after Summer has left with a threat to come back tomorrow. Michael is fidgeting, uncomfortable.

  Jennifer knows I wasn’t paying attention, but she stays patient. Repeats herself slowly. Your brother, James. Three years older. He’s coming this evening.

  I nod; I’m not sure what is required of me here.

  He remembers you. He was very [ ]. I mean, when you were born, your grandma brought him to visit, and he ran down the hospital [ ], shouting, where’s my baba? That’s what he called you. His baba. He was three.

  I nod again.

  The others … they forgot quickly. Or they didn’t know you. But James never forgot. He loved you. She puts her hand to her mouth, too late to stop the past tense from slipping out. He loves you. He jumped on the first flight he could get. He’s doing a semester abroad. The [ ]. Paris.

  Right, I say.

  Jennifer puts her hands on her knees in a decisive gesture. Okay, I’m going to make some dinner. You eat chicken?

  I nod. Who doesn’t eat chicken? I mean, apart from vegetarians. And vegans.

  You want me to put the TV on, honey?

  I nod. She picks up the remote and flicks it on—Special Agent Deacon fills the screen, a ticker tape running below him, saying, ANGELICA DENIES BEING ABUSED, SHAYLENE COOPER STILL AT LARGE, ANGELICA CURRENTLY—

  Turn it off, I say.

  James shows up after dinner. I am helping Jennifer to clear away the dishes—I mean, what else am I going to do?—when her head does that turning thing again and she puts down the rice bowl and walks to the door. When she opens it, a tall guy comes in: sandy hair, light stubble. He got more of his mom’s looks than his dad’s. In any other circumstance I would think: he’s hot.

  He has a carryall in each hand, and there are dark circles under his eyes; the eyes themselves are bloodshot. He is wearing a University of Calgary sweatshirt and jeans. When he sees me, he drops both bags to the floor—

  —instantly, like that—

  and moves fast, like the quarterback I’m sure he was, crossing the ten yards between us like it’s nothing, and then his arms are around me and he lifts me up into the air, and for a moment I see the ceiling, turning, and just feel his strength wrapped around me.

  Then he must feel that I’m stiff, a dead weight. Because he puts me back down on the ground and steps back, awkward.

  Sorry, he says. His eyes flit away from mine, but keep coming back, like nervous birds to a feeder.

  I make a gesture, like, it’s no big deal. But I’m kind of trembling from shock so maybe it is a big deal, and he can tell. He looks mortified.

  Angelica, he says. I came as soon as I heard. Do you remember me? I remember you. My whole childhood, I don’t think I understood, it was like I had an invisible friend and suddenly they were gone, suddenly you were [ ], but I always remembered how we [ ] and playing in the sand pit with you, and it was only when I was older that [ ] and Mom and Dad could tell me what really [ ].

  I look at him blankly.

  Oh, shit, he says. He turns to Jennifer, to his mom. So what he says next is just pure [ ].

  Then he turns back to me. I knew, he says. No. I didn’t know. But it wasn’t a surprise. That you were deaf.

  Jennifer is standing watching all this with a complicated expression on her face. Love, pride, happiness. But also nervousness. Michael is unreadable.

  James moves a hand to his mouth. You remember that? That meant you were hungry. He walks his fingers. That meant you wanted to go for a walk. Ah … He thinks for a moment. Then he makes a round cage with his hands. Ball, he says.

  And the weird thing is, when he makes these gestures, something flares in my memory. Some dim light, in the darkness. A struck match that is then gone again, into the gloom.

  I guess I didn’t see the connection then, he says. It was just something we did. But now, as an adult, it’s obvious. You were deaf. So that’s how we must have found to [ ].

  You never said, says Jennifer. I see reproach in her eyes.

  I never knew it was important, says James. I was five.

  Michael takes a step forward. He indicates the TV with his thumb. Red Sox, he says.

  Michael, no! says Jennifer, angry.

  But I am not really looking at her. I’m watching Michael, and something is pushing electricity through my skull. You like baseball? I say, with my mouth, the words tortuous.

  You’re kidding? says James. Dad loves baseball. Broke his heart when I tried out for the football team, made [ ]. Oh, wait, wow. You can speak?

  I roll my eyes, like, obviously. He looks embarrassed again. For all his muscle, for all his good looks. I feel sorry for him. This situation must be so weird. But right now I am more focused on Michael, who is looking at me with very slightly narrowed eyes, like he has recognized something in me too.

  You like baseball? he says.

  I like batting, I say, slowly. The batting cages.

  Something collapses inside the bony armature of Michael’s face, then, and he starts to cry.

  I stare at him, horrified. So does James. And Jennifer.

  Michael rubs at his face. I got you a bat. A small one. You were incredible, a natural. You could throw and catch at the age of two. You [ ]. I’d pitch to you and you’d hit the ball, I mean, just in the living room.

  Jennifer has a dreaming expression. I remember that, she says.

  And now you still hit? asks Michael. His cheeks are shiny with tears.

  Yes, I say.

  Come on! he says excitedly. It’s Red Sox vs Mariners. I’ll get—

  No, says Jennifer. Her hands are on her hips.

  No?

  No. We’re doing something as a family.

  James is looking from his mom to his dad and back again, like he’s watching a tennis match.

  Something like what? says Michael.

  I don’t know, says Jennifer. Boggle?

  James smiles. You brought Boggle?

  Sure, says Jennifer.

  James smiles even wider. Teams?

  Me and your dad, I guess. And you and … and Angelica. Are you up for that, honey? She’s looking at me.

  Uh, okay.

  Maybe she’ll help you to finally beat us, says Jennifer, and I remember that Michael is a journalist and she’s a teacher. It makes sense that they’re good at Boggle.

  Fine, says Michael. But tomorrow, he says to me, you and I are going to the park.

  Then his eyes go to my leg, the CAM Walker. Oh, no, you’re—

  It’s okay, I say, trying to keep my sentences short. Only fracture. Batting, you stand still. Just … can’t run.

  You sure?

  Yes.

  Jennifer looks hard at him. You take it easy on her, okay?

  Yes, my darling.

  I smile, for the first time. Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

  That’s what I think then, anyway.

  Later I think: I should stop saying these sorts of things to myself.

  Chapter 57

  Boggle is Awful.

  Not because I’m not good at it. Actually, it seems like maybe I’m too good at it. Jennifer, it turns out, is about 1,781 times more competitive than I realized. And she and Michael never lose, that’s the family story, the kind of myth of the Watsons. They take on, like, all their kids at the same time, their neighbors, their friends, whoever, and they don’t lose.

  Until now.

  We agree that I can write down my words instead of shouting them out, and when I bust out INCONSEQUENTIALLY for eleven points, it’s all over. James high-fives me.

  Unbelievable, he says.

  I had that, I say. Last round.

  He laughs, but he’s the only one laughing. On the o
ther side of the table, Jennifer has a bona fide pissed-off expression on her face, though she’s trying to hide it under smiles. Michael seems shell-shocked. I think he had me down as some kind of retard because I was deaf.

  Have you applied for colleges? says Jennifer. She has stood up and walked away from the table, almost like she can’t bear to look at the Boggle cubes now that she has lost. I am seeing a whole new side of her—there is a hardness in her stance now, in her eyes.

  I shake my head.

  But your—Shaylene, she homeschooled you?

  I nod.

  Okay. Well, the first thing we’ll need to do is check out what you know, and then have you take the SATs. Summer, I mean the CPS, is going to put us in touch with some people in Alaska.

  I shrug.

  Let’s take it one step at a time, huh? says Michael. You want to watch some TV? he asks me.

  I look at the clock on the microwave. It’s late—past eleven. I unfold my hands like pages. Do you have any books?

  James nods. I have some textbooks, a [ ]. A biography of Monet. James is a fine art student, I learned that when we were playing Boggle.

  Jennifer shakes her head.

  Michael holds up a finger, like, wait. He goes into the bedroom and comes back with a thick book. A History of the Arab Peoples.

  No fiction? I ask.

  They wince, like they’re failing a test. Maybe they are. Sorry, honey, says Jennifer. We’re not really novel people.

  Not really novel people, I think. I didn’t know such a thing was possible. Even Shaylene usually had a mystery or a romance in her hands, when she wasn’t stitching Scottish insanity-landscapes. For the first time I realize how sheltered my life has been.

  Speak for yourself, says James.

  Oh yeah? says Jennifer, a glint in her eye, and I see the shared history, the deep love between her and her son. What was the last novel you read?

  Moby Dick.

  You did that for school.

  So? It’s still a novel.

  You didn’t even finish it. You googled the CliffsNotes.

  I start to stand up. I’m sleepy, I say.

  Of course, of course, says Jennifer. We’ll get you a book tomorrow. What do you like? Harry Potter?