The Lies We Tell

by Theresa Schwegel

  As I finish the bottle, I feel Calvin behind me. His hands again, around me; one of them holding his own cold-sweat bottle against my dress. His touch is more confident, now. What I wanted.

  I slip out of my heels. My whole body shifts, a relief. My right toes tingle on the hardwood. My breath catches.

  Calvin moves side to side and I think he’s trying to get me to dance but then I realize he’s following me: I’m already dancing. Slow. Hips leading.

  We move like that until I can’t tell if I’m moving at all anymore.

  Then I turn around. I take Calvin’s water. I drink the rest.

  And then he takes me.

  * * *

  “Shit. Shit!”

  I open my eyes to near-blinding sun through unfamiliar windows.

  “What?” I say, while I’m remembering who.

  “I thought I set the alarm,” Calvin says, out of bed, pulling on pants.

  I sit up. I’m still in my underwear, or back in it. Oh, boy.

  “I should go,” I say, beating him to asking.

  “It’s just, Sabrina,” he says, buttoning his shirt. Like I know who that is.

  “I’ll go.” I get up and look around for my clothes and find just my heels sitting next to two bright pink frames on top of the nightstand. The same little girl smiling Calvin’s smile in both.

  I cringe. Not because I have no idea what happened in this room last night, or because Calvin’s apparently got a kid, but because I should be waking up in my own room, with my own kid. I get back into bed and pull the sheet over myself.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “I don’t mean to rush out on you. It’s just, Sabrina’s mother won’t wait. If I’m late, I miss my time. And, like I told you, I don’t get much.”

  “Sabrina,” I say, about the pictures.

  “You get it, right? I mean, I guess you get her side of it. You want what’s best for Isabel, and your brother ain’t it. But I’m not like that. I pay up, I show up.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I don’t remember talking about this last night.”

  “Last night? No, girl, we didn’t talk last night. It was in the hospital, when you told me about Isabel, and everything you’re going through—”

  I do not remember talking to him in the hospital, either. “What is it you think I’m going through?”

  Calvin stands up. “I’m not—I mean, I don’t know exactly. And you were pretty snowed, then. But you said, you said you didn’t want to do it alone. And I get that. And this—what’s happening here?—I think this could be something good.”

  “I do not know what you are talking about.” Snowed? What the fuck?

  “I thought we connected.” He sounds disappointed. “Whatever. I should go.” He pockets his wallet.

  “Do you know where I left my clothes?”

  “In the bathroom.”

  “The bathroom?” Jesus, I don’t even know where it is.

  He leads me in through the kitchen and now that we’re sober, and I’m holding up his day, I don’t look around at his stuff because I’m embarrassed. I go inside and close the door.

  My bag is on the floor. I get dressed and eat gum and use one of Isabel’s wipes under my armpits, one of her bands to tie my hair. I can’t bring myself to look in the mirror. I can’t bring myself to look at myself. I think of Andy. I understand why he hasn’t replaced his mirror. You lose who you love, your face is just a reminder of how amazing it was that someone used to love you back.

  I’m about to toss the wipe when I notice pill blister packs in the trash. A lot of them. I take one out: the pills are gone, but between the foil I can make out it’s Klonopin. There is a sticker mostly torn off the back that declares the sample destined for someone whose last name is Adkins.

  I take another. It’s ripped in half. I find the other half and work out it’s something called zolpidem.

  The third is Oxycodone. There is no foil, or sticker. I recognize it just by the package.

  I pick out a second pack of Klonopin. This one, too, has a partial sticker for the offices of Dr Lawr____kins.

  What the fuck? A doctor?

  As I rifle through the rest, different drugs and presumably different doctors, pieces of last night—those fearless moments in the bar bathroom, and the cab, and at the window; Calvin’s hands, and his mouth, and his need for me—they all fall away as I remember the Oxy, the triple-gin drink, and Calvin’s side job: selling scrips.

  Yes, last night, I wanted relief. Yes, I was reckless. And yes, this morning, Calvin is nothing but a fucking pill pusher with a crappy apartment in the burbs and joint custody of a kid.

  I may as well have just shacked up with my brother.

  I put the bottles back in the trash and open the door. Calvin is waiting for me. He’s finishing a bottle of water, and I think he just swallowed something.

  He asks, “You want one?”

  I assume he’s talking about the water but I say, “I’m good.”

  He’s lucky I remember where the front door is, because I’m thinking fight or flight, and seeing him self-medicate before he picks up his daughter almost makes me want to stay and knock him one.

  At the door I say, “Bye,” without the good. I curse myself all the way down the steps, even as I hear him behind me—

  “Hey—Gina—wait—just so you know? Nothing happened last night.” The way he says it doesn’t sound like disappointment; it sounds like he’d like another shot.

  “Okay, Curtis,” I say, making it clear that I don’t care.

  17

  The cab is a remorse ride. In the heat and sunshine, I think I might die. I ask the white-haired white-burb driver to turn down the radio and to turn up the air. The yellow Vanillaroma car freshener hanging from the never-used ashtray makes me want to throw up, but I’ve got nothing in my stomach. I lean my head against the window and try not to think. Again.

  The thing is, all I can think about is Isabel.

  I call Walter.

  “Is this a pocket dial?” he asks when he answers.

  “No. Are you at work?”

  “Not corporeally.”

  “I need help.”

  “I don’t do tech support over the phone. Meet me.”

  “Say where.”

  * * *

  A half hour later I’m salivating over the menu at a taqueria on Eighteenth Street. I could try to grease my hangover, chorizo and eggs, but I decide not to add heartburn to heartache and order a tamarind drink instead. Plus, Walter doesn’t need to see me chew.

  I get the drink and join him at a table for four—the only one open. He’s eating bacon and scrambled eggs. White toast.

  “That’s authentic,” I say.

  “I hate spicy food.”

  “Why come here, then?”

  “I live around the corner and I’ve got, like, twenty minutes before I’ve got to get back to what I was doing when you called.”

  “I assume I shouldn’t ask what.”

  “I assume you wouldn’t be interested.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m alpha-testing a software program I wrote that lets users alert emergencies to police.”

  “Isn’t that called 911?”

  “It’s more of a panic button. You use it if you believe you’re in danger, and we know who you are and where you are.”

  “What about false alarms?”

  “Working on that.”

  “What about misdials?”

  “Working on it.”

  “What about—”

  “Working. On. All. Of. It.”

  I watch him stuff a half slice of toast into his mouth. I think about taking the other half.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, “but this is starting to feel like a false alarm. How about you tell me why we’re here?”

  “I need you to find someone else.”

  “Let me guess: you figured out Marble was the wrong guy and now you want the right one?”

  “You knew he was the wrong guy? Why did
n’t you tell me?”

  He shrugs. “Didn’t seem like it mattered.”

  “Well this—this is different. This is personal.”

  “I don’t know, Gina. I shouldn’t make a habit of exploiting work resources, even if it’s for a good cause. I’m there for the paycheck. I don’t want trouble.”

  “This isn’t part of a case. This is my brother.”

  Walter takes a bite of eggs. Thinks for a minute. Swallows, says, “Give me his name and number.”

  I get my book, tear out a page, and write down George’s information. “He’s an addict,” I say. “He got angry with me, and he got high, and he took his daughter.”

  Walter looks at the paper. “Who’s the provider?”

  “Well, I am. She’s been with me almost a year—”

  “I mean the service provider. For his phone.”

  “Oh. I don’t know.”

  Walter uses his own phone to dial George’s number. He picks at his food while he waits on the line, then hangs up. “Nobody’s home.”

  “He doesn’t have a home.”

  “Is the phone in service?”

  “It was last night. Knowing George, though, he let the battery go dead.”

  Walter shrugs. “If you had someone at the FBI, they could track the phone, power it up, give him a call—shit, they could use it as a mic to spy on him. Me? I can’t do anything. Not unless he uses it.”

  “But if he uses it?”

  “I can get you the cell tower.”

  “That’s closer than nowhere.” I take a sip of tamarind. It tastes like a smoothie made with steak sauce. Naturally, I think of Andy. I say, sadly, “I don’t have anyone else I can count on. You’re onto something, that panic button. I wish I had one.”

  Walter puts down his fork. “Consider it pushed.”

  * * *

  I get home just before one. I charge the cab fare to my Visa and practically crawl into the house. Calvin was right about a rough morning; when I see that the place is obviously empty, I know I’m also in for a rough afternoon. Especially because all I can do now is wait.

  Inside, it’s so fucking quiet and so fucking empty that I have an impulse to take a whole bottle of Tylenol. I’m not suicidal, though; I’m gin sick. I take two pills and make some eggs.

  My phone rings. It’s Andy calling. I don’t answer. No way I could fake normal.

  I try to eat the eggs. Nope. I make a cup of coffee. Nope. I check the phone, even though it didn’t ring.

  Andy didn’t leave a message, so I text him:

  All fine.

  He may not believe it, but at least he knows I’m alive.

  He may not believe this, either, but when I find Isabel, I’ll make changes. Big ones. I’ll quit the force. I’ll get a civ job working security—I’ll patrol a mall if I have to. Or I’ll just work at a mall. I’ll sell dishes at a department store. Or necklaces. Whatever. Just so I simply work to live. To create a safe place. I’ll sell my half of the house to Tom and move to an on-the-cheap apartment in the suburbs. A suburb.

  I’ll do whatever I have to so long as Isabel is raised to know that real strength and real love come when you stop putting yourself first.

  I am crying the next time my phone rings. Because it’s Andy calling again. Not Walter, not George. It’s Andy, who won’t help me—can’t—and now I think I finally understand why.

  I don’t answer.

  He sends a text:

  U = full of shit.

  He’s right. I don’t reply.

  I fall asleep some time in between worrying about Isabel and feeling sorry for myself. I wake up just after seven o’clock. I drink all the juice I can find. I take a shower. The bottom of the tub is waxy from Isabel’s crayons. Her bath toys are at my feet. I get clean and get out, in case the phone rings.

  I brush my teeth. I put on a robe. I take a prednisone. And then I steel myself to take Avonex.

  I sit on the toilet, open my robe, expose my left quad. The stiff one. The gimp. I rub an alcohol pad on a spot high up, where I don’t think anyone will be able to see it. I wait for it to dry. I take a breath. I stretch the skin. I try to pop the intramuscular needle in; it doesn’t go all the way. I take it out and try again. Same result. The third time, I press. It fucking hurts and layers of tissue crackle as they’re punctured, a horrible sound. When the needle is in to the hilt, I depress the plunger. When I take the needle out, it draws blood.

  I press a gauze pad to the site and sit for a moment. I fucked it up; it’ll bruise. I am sweating, and my hands are shaking, but really, it wasn’t as bad as I remember.

  I clean up the bathroom and go back to bed before the fever comes and the rest is just as bad as I remember.

  * * *

  “Gina?”

  I open my eyes. I’m shaking again; my whole body this time. I’m in my bathtub; the water feels cold. It probably isn’t. A warm bath is what always gets me through these nights. I’m near certain I ran it.

  I have no idea why Ray Weiss is the one who helps me out of it.

  18

  I wake up from a nightmare, the covers wrestled off. I don’t remember much about the dream except that it was dark, or dark blue, and that I was trying to find my way through a series of rooms with plateaued floors. I kept having to get down on my knees to feel for the wet, slippery edges, which was infuriating—because for once I could actually feel my fingers, but not the edges. I wanted to stop, but I couldn’t. And I was so afraid I would fall. It was hard to breathe; I felt like I couldn’t, or maybe I shouldn’t.

  If dreams are the brain’s way of solving wake-time problems, I’m obviously fucked.

  Still, good news: as in the dream, I can feel my fingers—no shit!—all except the last two on the right. My head hurts, but not terribly; the ache is peripheral, in the brain-shell. And, hell yes: my claw foot is gone.

  My fever broke in a major sweat some time ago, my hair and tank and underwear now cold soaked. I am nauseous, but also hungry. I am sick from Avonex, and getting well from the prednisone. I feel like shit, but so much better than yesterday.

  I swear I smell coffee, though I certainly don’t crave it. I need bland. I need fizz. I need the food form of Alka-Seltzer.

  First, though, I need my phone. I’m disappointed to find no missed calls, but I’m glad I didn’t miss Walter.

  I sit up, and I’m sure I can make it to the kitchen for a box of saltines and a juice box.

  I sit right back down when I see the sliding glass door to the back deck standing open.

  I didn’t set the alarm last night. I didn’t even lock the doors. In case, well—in case George came around.

  I look over at the door. Did I open it? There’s a tiny, rational part of my brain that thinks so. Yes, rational; yes, the tiniest part.

  I drop and army-crawl to the closet. I get my Ruger. I make sure it’ll fire.

  Adrenaline is a painkiller and I clear the place room by room, quickly, my gun ready as I buttonhook each doorway, my moves textbook tactical. I keep my back to the wall and I close each door behind me when I exit. I don’t find anybody in Isabel’s room or the bathroom.

  “George?” I call out, though there’s nobody in the living room, and he wouldn’t be the one to run the TV news on mute.

  “George?” I call out again, in the kitchen. There’s hot coffee in the pot. Not my brother’s morning M.O. either.

  “George?” I call once more down the hall, the question as logical as the possibility.

  The front door is locked. I’m the only one here.

  So yes, I may have slept, and yes, I must have gone sleepwalking.

  I angle back toward my bedroom and I think I must be nuts, my overblown emotions driving a tac operation just because I’m home alone.

  Then I get back to my room, and I have a clear view out to the deck, and in the early-Sunday sun, I see Ray Weiss sitting in the dove’s nest. He’s got his head back, eyes closed. His hands around a mug of coffee.

  What the
fuck?

  I get back, out of sight. My focus switches from situation-aware to self-aware and here I am, a white tank and bikini underwear—now sweat through. I have no idea what happened to my robe.

  I crawl back to the closet and pull on a T-shirt. I find a pair of jeans. Then I remember, just a glimpse: last night. The bathtub.

  Then I don’t know what to do. Be mad? Thankful? Play it true? Cool? I don’t know what he’s doing here, but now he knows. He must know.

  I button my jeans. I leave my gun and cock my attitude.

  I slide the door open some more.

  “Good morning.” I say this with no surprise, no resentment, no warmth.

  “Morning,” Weiss says, trying to make a sudden and fluid exit from the nest, which I know is impossible. I make it more awkward by watching him without saying anything.

  When he gets his feet on deck and the coffee mug level he asks, “How are you feeling?”

  It’s a valid question. But. “I’m fine.” Of course.

  “That’s good to hear. I—when I got here last night? I wasn’t so sure.”

  I don’t remember letting him in. “I don’t remember,” I say, crossing my arms, “inviting you.”

  “Your front door was open. I called for you. I heard the water running. And you, well, you were, I heard you moaning—”

  “And you came in? What if I’d had company?”

  “It wasn’t that kind of moaning.”

  “What, you’re a moaning expert?”

  He looks down at my feet. “I know addicts.”

  “This is just a hangover.”

  “It’s not my business.” He takes a last sip of coffee, says, “I’ll go now, since you’re obviously okay.”

  I block the door. “Why did you stay?”

  He looks at me and he’s too close; I back off.

  “Because you asked me to.”

  I don’t remember that, either.

  He brushes by me, barely, the hair on his arm. He says, “I hope you don’t mind, about the coffee. I made a pot, in case you wanted some—”