The Good Lie

by Robin Brande

  I covered it with my other hand. “None of your business.”

  “Your boyfriend give it to you?”

  “What boyfriend?” I asked.

  “The one you’re obviously holding out for.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Leave her alone,” Posie said.

  I closed my book in exasperation. “Can I please get my work done? I know school comes easily for the genius—”

  “You should talk,” Jason said.

  “—but some of us actually need to do our homework. Stay here and bother Posie.” I gathered my books and escaped.

  Jason followed me to the living room. He tried to sit right next to me on the couch, but I drew my legs up to create space between us.

  I glared at him. “Jason, what?”

  “What the hell is going on with you? Do you hate me now or something?”

  I hoped he couldn’t see me shaking. Why do some people have to be so direct? “Of course I don’t hate you. But you can’t expect me to be excited about you coming over here in between sexcapades.”

  “Are you saying you want to date me? Because all it takes is a word—”

  “No! I already told you that.”

  “Then what’s the problem?” he asked. “You can’t have it both ways. You can’t tell me to go away then act all jealous when I do.”

  I groaned. He just didn’t get it. “I don’t have time for this.”

  “Fine.” He stood up and strode to the front door. “Sorry I ever touched you, Aimes. I had no idea you’d freak out like this.”

  “I’m not—”

  But the door slammed before I could finish.

  I sat there for a few minutes trying to regain my brain. Forget it. There was no way I’d be able to concentrate on homework anymore. I left it on the couch and returned to Posie’s room.

  She looked up from the play she was trying to memorize, took one look at my face, and smiled in sympathy. “Complicated, isn’t it?”

  “Incredibly.” I plopped onto my bed.

  “You still love him?

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  I laughed pathetically. “No.”

  Satan Was Called the Deceiver

  [1]

  Henrietta Parse, the court-appointed custody evaluator, called me at Posie’s to set up an interview.

  “I’d like to see you alone first,” Ms. Parse said, “then maybe later with your mom and then your dad, okay?”

  “I have to talk in front of my dad?” Toni Margress hadn’t mentioned that.

  “I like to see the family interact,” Henrietta Parse explained. “It gives me a better feel for the situation.”

  “I really don’t want to see him.”

  “It will be short—half an hour? You can manage that, can’t you? Just a casual get together. I’ll be there with you—nothing will happen.”

  Posie gave me a ride to the woman’s office in midtown.

  “When do you want me back?” Posie asked.

  “How about an hour?”

  “Good luck,” she said. “Be brave.”

  Henrietta Parse was in her fifties, a short stout woman with crooked teeth and a friendly smile. Her frizzy red hair was overdyed and overstyled.

  “Lizzie.” Her hand was warm to shake. “Come sit down.”

  She clasped her hands together on top of her desk, on top of my family’s file. She smiled a crooked smile. “So. How are you today? How was school?”

  “Good,” I answered warily. My eyes fell to the open bag of cheese puffs on the credenza behind her. That explained the orange tint at the sides of her mouth.

  “Listen, I know you don’t know me, and I’m going to be asking some pretty personal questions after a while, but I’ll try to make it as painless as possible, okay? In cases like these the judge wants to get a whole picture of how things stand—you understand?”

  I nodded and glanced at some of the toys in the corner behind her desk. Male and female dolls that I assumed were anatomically correct. He touched me with his pee-pee. He touched my poo-poo. I hoped she wouldn’t be embarrassing me like that.

  Henrietta Parse opened our file. “You’re . . . sixteen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And—is this right— already a senior in high school?”

  “Yes.” I heard the sin of Pride creeping into my voice. I tried to strangle it.

  “That’s pretty impressive, isn’t it?” Ms. Parse asked me.

  I shrugged with what I hoped was genuine modesty.

  “How are your grades?”

  “Good.”

  “Just good, or especially good?”

  A twinge of my lips, but I wouldn’t smile. This wasn’t afternoon tea. “Especially good, I guess.”

  “If I want to talk to one of your teachers about how you’re doing, who should I talk to?”

  I considered this. Was it better to name a hard teacher or an easy one? A gruff one—to put her off—or a friendly one?

  “Mr. Kuhlman, I guess. He’s my Honors English teacher.”

  She wrote that down.

  “How about friends? Which one would represent you best?”

  “I guess Posie.” Stop saying “I guess”—you sound like an airhead. “She’s a senior, too. I’m living with her and her mom right now.”

  “Oh, yes. I called you there.” Ms. Parse wrote that down. “Now,” she said, getting down to the meat. “I’ve read your mother’s petition for custody.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And I see that there’s an allegation that your father has sexually abused you.”

  Here we go. “Yes.”

  “Can you tell me about that?”

  And so I did. She was easier to talk to than I expected. I spun out my whole tale and was able to answer some follow-up questions without a lot of difficulty.

  “What do you think your father would say if I asked him?”

  “He’d deny it.”

  Henrietta Parse nodded. “I suppose so. Now, you said when you were five you had to have an operation? On your bladder?”

  “Yes.”

  “And in preparation for this, or something, the doctor took a sample somehow and had that tested and he found sperm?”

  “Yes—the lab did—that’s what my mother told me.”

  “Okay. Do you remember anything about that yourself? About any sexual contact that might have occurred?”

  The lies continued. “I remember my dad used to come to my room at night to tuck me in, and he always liked to lie down next to me. I don’t really remember much about it, but I know one time I was crying and he said I had to be quiet—” God forgive me, it is such a sin to lie. “—and if I did he’d give me this life-size doll I’d been wanting.”

  “And did he?”

  “Give it to me? Yeah. I named her Susie.” What I didn’t add because it would make me look like a freak was that I used to pray every night—and I mean pray, with sweat beading up on my forehead I was begging so hard—that God would bring her to life and turn her into a real live sister for me. It was good enough to get Mikey a few years later. I forgave him for being a boy.

  Ms. Parse nodded while she wrote. “Do you remember anything else from that time?”

  We had dates. I liked those. “No, I guess that’s all.”

  Then she had a zinger for me. “Do you suspect any abuse of your brother?”

  “Uh, no,” I answered quickly. I caught up with my breath. “I mean, I don’t think so. I think he’d tell me.”

  Sweat, sweat, sweat. Maybe I should have said yes. I didn’t know what the best strategy was anymore. It was hard to keep all the lies straight.

  Henrietta Parse considered me. Her face was kind and easy to look at because it wasn’t too beautiful. I returned her smile, shyly on my part to show I didn’t want to talk about these things, but that I appreciated how gently she was going about it.

  “Are you sexually active, Lizzie?”

  Another sneak attack, but I was happy
to announce, “No. Not at all.”

  “Never?”

  “Never. I’m a virgin—unless you count my father, which I don’t. I believe I’m still pure in my heart.” I sat up straight and gave her my honest opinion. “I don’t think you can lose your virginity to someone who takes it. You have to give it away.”

  “That’s very wise,” she answered, and I listened for some hint in her voice that she was humoring me. I didn’t find it, but that didn’t mean anything—she did this sort of thing all day long.

  “Not on birth control?” Henrietta Parse continued.

  “No.”

  “Ever?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  “No, I wish.”

  That brought a smile. “Have you ever?”

  “Not really.”

  “No wonder you do so well in school, hm? Nothing to distract you?”

  “I guess.” Stop saying I guess! “I mean, yes.”

  “So,” Ms. Parse said, “what are your plans after graduation?”

  “Go to school here, I gue—uh, go to school here.”

  “Are your parents going to pay for that?”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Have you asked them?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  It seemed obvious, but I answered. “Because my mother can’t afford it and I assume my father hates me now for coming forward with all this.”

  She wrote that down and a few more paragraphs besides. When she finished she clasped her hands on top of the file again and said, “Okay, Lizzie, I think that’s it for now. I might ask you some of these same questions in front of your parents, okay?”

  “Please don’t ask that one about college. I don’t want to put them on the spot.”

  She must have found it curious that I was more worried about talking about college money than my father’s sexual abuse, but Henrietta Parse just smiled in consolation and said, “I can’t promise that. Sorry. But you’re a poised young woman, Lizzie, and I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  She stood to signal the interview was over. At the door she took my hand in hers once again, and this time sandwiched a warm hand on top. “Thank you for coming in. I really appreciate it.”

  “Uh, sure,” I stammered. “Okay. I guess I’ll see you again?” I guess I’ll keep saying “I guess” another thousand times.

  “Yes. Soon. I’ll call you to set it up. Shall I call you at your friend’s—what was her name?”

  “Posie. Posie Sherbern. This is her.”

  Posie stood and showed what a truly poised young woman looked like. She took Henrietta Parse’s hand and looked her straight in the eye and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

  Henrietta glanced at her watch. She bit a chunk of lip. “Do you have a few minutes?” she asked Posie.

  “Certainly.”

  “Why don’t you come in and chat with me for a minute? That will save me a call.”

  Posie lifted an eyebrow to me to see if she should make up an excuse and beg off. I shrugged. “Might as well.”

  While waiting for Posie to emerge I studied some of the plaques on the wall. I guess (stop!) I hadn’t realized Ms. Parse was Dr. Parse. A psychologist. I thought she was just an evaluator.

  There was no one around—no receptionist, no secretary. I wondered if Dr. Parse was a one-man band. She probably lived off these court-ordered evaluations—maybe she didn’t have many clients.

  A girl and her mother arrived to prove me wrong. The girl was about ten, I’d guess, a little chubby, but sweet-faced and desperately shy. She wouldn’t look at me for anything. She kept her head down, gazing out through the screen of her bangs. She never let go of her mother’s hand.

  I felt awful. Here was a girl who had obviously had real trouble. She didn’t have to make it up like I did. But then I thought of Mikey, and pictured him sitting there holding my hand, waiting to go tell the psychologist exactly what our father had done. I was doing the right thing. I knew that.

  Dr. Parse’s door opened and Posie stood there graceful and mature and offered her hand first, along with a “Thank you for your time.”

  Dr. Parse smiled and said, “No, thank you.” Then she saw the girl waiting with her mother and chirped, “Jasmine! How are you?!”

  “So what did she want to know?” I asked as soon as we were clear of the building.

  “The ins and outs of Lizzie.”

  “Can you be more specific?”

  Posie unlocked the car and slid in. “You know, the usual—who are you sleeping with, what drugs are you on, what are the issues with your parents—probably the same stuff she asked you.”

  “She didn’t ask me about drugs.”

  “I told her you were a goody-two-shoes, just like me.”

  “Did she ask anything weird?”

  Posie tapped the steering wheel with her forefinger while she thought it over. “No, not really. Oh, I forgot, she did ask me if I thought you would make up things to help your mom in the divorce.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you didn’t really like either of your parents that much. I told her about your mom running away—she took a lot of notes on that.”

  “Great.”

  “What? It’s true. It was going to come out.”

  “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know. I want my mom to look better in this than my dad.”

  “Believe me, your mom would have to go a long way toward hell before she beats child molestation.”

  “I guess you’re right. So do you think she believed me?”

  “I assume so,” Posie answered. “She didn’t act like she didn’t.”

  [2]

  About a week later Posie handed me the phone. “Call her.”

  “Who?”

  “Angela. She’ll want to know about the custody evaluation—especially the part with your parents.”

  The in-home interview had been . . . historic.

  “Jesus Christ,” Angela said at one point in my recital and I winced but didn’t feel I could ask her not to take the Lord’s name in vain.

  It wasn’t my father’s constant interruptions to point his finger at me and bellow, “Thou shalt not bear false witness!” and “Satan was called The Deceiver!” that amused Angela Peligro as much as my father’s mock heart attack at the end. Henrietta Parse had dialed 911 herself while my mother mopped my father’s brow with a cold washcloth. He was in heaven, getting all her attention like that. I waited until the phone was free, then called Posie for a ride.

  “He’ll pay,” Angela concluded. “A guy like that won’t last a day once it hits the papers. If he’s clutching his chest now he’ll be paying out his ass tomorrow. I’ll send a demand as soon as the custody hearing’s over—again, assuming your mother wins.”

  “She will,” I said. “My father looks bad.” I meant that in two ways. He had made a fool of himself in front of Henrietta Parse with his Moses-like proclamations and his eyes rolling back as he tried to work himself into cardiac arrest.

  And he really did look bad—physically. His skin was sallow and papery. His breath smelled horrendous. Someone from his office should have told him he reeked. I wondered if he let himself go on purpose, to seem that much more pathetic. But I think he really was pathetic. I think he had lost his grip.

  I heard Georgia’s voice in the background. Angela smothered her hand over the receiver, then came back on.

  “Gotta go, Liz. Sorry—my new priest molest is here. Fuck if they don’t keep on coming.”

  “Good lu—” I started to say, but Angela had already rushed off.

  “What’d she say?” Posie asked.

  I shook my head. The world was a wearying place.

  “She had to go. More misery for you to read about in the papers.”

  “Sometimes I can’t stand it anymore,” Posie said softly.

  “Then stop reading about it. It only depresses you.”

  “I can’t stop. I have to know.
”

  Fuck if they don’t keep on coming.

  Love Drunk

  [1]

  Mrs. Sherbern doesn’t really do Thanksgiving. Or Christmas, for that matter. Or Easter.

  Posie thinks it has something to do with Mr. Sherbern not being there. For as long as Posie can remember, her mother has always ordered Mexican food for all the major holidays, and she and Posie sit in the family room, eating off TV trays, watching a string of romantic movies and having a good cry.

  My mother invited me for Thanksgiving, but Charles was going to be there, so no thanks. I had no idea how my father spent it, and I didn’t care.

  We began our Thanksgiving movie marathon at the Sherbern house around noon and finished close to midnight, taking breaks here and there for chips and salsa, chimichangas, and ice cream sundaes to soothe the salsa burns in our mouths. We all wore our favorite slack around clothes—sweatpants and sweatshirt for me, stylish pink flannels and fuzzy pink socks for Posie, slacks and a sweater for Mrs. Sherbern. We kept the Kleenex box between us and wept over The American President, and then Sleepless in Seattle, followed by You’ve Got Mail, culminating in Gone With the Wind. And there it was, Criterion Number Two, Rhett sweeping Scarlett into his arms and lugging her up the stairs.

  Why can’t life be more like that?

  [2]

  I am so pathetic. I admit that.

  I must have been love drunk from all those movies, because next thing I know it’s almost one o’clock in the morning and I’m dialing Jason’s cell.

  “Hello?” Groggy. Irritated.

  “Um . . .hi.”

  “Lizzie?”

  “Yeah.”

  He cleared his throat. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing.” I swallowed the dry hunk of fear in my throat. “I was just . . . thinking about you.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Want me to come over?”

  “No!”

  Jason groaned. “Lizzie, what are you doing?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Well, call me back when you do. I’m sick of this.” He hung up without waiting for my response.

  I tapped the phone against my teeth.

  Make up your mind, I reasoned with myself.