The First True Lie

by Marina Mander

  In the morning I think I’m on vacation and instead the alarm goes off—and keeps blaring on and on and on. What a rip-off. When Mama has nightmares, she says it’s not even possible to sleep in peace in this world, and that’s what I think too. Other times she says the pills have stolen her dreams, that sleep is just an inky-black nothingness, and she wakes up confused and doesn’t know which way is up. Sometimes she makes coffee without putting in the water, or else the coffee.

  “Don’t talk to me, don’t ask me for anything. I don’t know anything about anything this morning.”

  When I get up, I get up, but inside I stay horizontal. I’m walking upright, but inside I’m still dreaming, snug as a bug in a rug, inside the second skin of my pajamas. Even my pores are like a million closed eyes. I dream about an enormous hand that gently rubs me all over. I warm myself up all on my own, while my tingling legs begin to move because obviously I’m running late.

  “Hurry up.”

  More words adults are always saying.

  “C’mon, hurry up and get a move on, we’re going to be late.”

  They’re the ones who ought to hurry. I’ve got all the time in the world, I tell them that. Anyway, I always get up and do everything that needs to be done. I know exactly how to do it by heart, just like I know the national anthem, “Fratelli d’Italia, / l’Italia s’è desta…” I don’t need anyone to tell me how the rest goes.

  1

  So today I make do on my own.

  Never mind that Mama hasn’t gotten up. I get up anyway. I get ready on my own.

  It must be because of the pills for allergies or for nostalgia, one or the other. Sometimes Mama takes a lot and sleeps more than usual. Or maybe it’s narcolepsy, like what happens to the cat’s brain. I should ask the vet about it.

  She says that sometimes the pills have strange effects, but she also says I shouldn’t worry, that everything’s okay. “Sometimes I have trouble getting out of bed, but it’s normal. With this cold weather who wants to be exposed to the cold, to get out from under the covers?”

  Anyway, I have to get moving, and I make sure my hair’s not messy before I leave. I tiptoe out to the elevator. I say hi to the man from upstairs.

  “You’re going to school on your own today?”

  “Yes.”

  The elevator buttons pulse like my heart, which has started to beat really fast, like it’s trying to get out but can’t.

  “Yes, I do now, yes.”

  I act proud. Maybe I really am proud to be doing things on my own. Or maybe I’m ashamed because I’d rather be getting into the shiny car of a shiny dad with all the dad accessories. But at the same time I’m embarrassed to be embarrassed because if Dad vanished into thin air—another one of Mama’s expressions—it’s not our fault. Maybe she’s right: Feelings are complicated, especially early in the morning. Maybe it’s not important. So then I smile and clear out. That way I don’t mess up.

  At school, everything’s normal. Everyone’s ready to follow along with the lesson, despite the pillow marks on our faces, the gunk in our eyes, the yawns we barely manage to swallow. The morning carries on as usual, and as usual I pass the time by inventing stories in my head. Soon it’s almost noon and my tummy begins to grumble because it’s annoyed and can’t take anymore. Then the bell goes. When I leave, I pretend to be in a hurry. I ask a guy out front for the time.

  “Quarter past one.”

  I smile politely. “Are you waiting for someone?” I ask.

  “Yes, my son, Giovanni. Do you know him? Perhaps he’s in the same class as you?”

  “No, we have some Matteos, some Davides, a Chris, and even a Samantha with an h, but no Giovannis.”

  “Do you want a lift?”

  “No, thank you. I really must be going now.”

  Pretending to be in a hurry gives the impression that you’re important. If no one is waiting for you, what do you care about being in a hurry?

  The flower woman pops out of her flower hut, which stands on the corner like a guardhouse. She’s ugly and smells like flower stems that have been left in the water too long, in rusty metal vases like the ones on the grave of Mama’s dad, my grandpa.

  “My, my, how impressive, walking home on your own now. You’re quite the little man.”

  Why doesn’t she shut up? Little man is another term I can’t stand.

  Like I can’t stand the flower woman.

  “What have you got against the flower woman?” Mama would ask.

  “She ate the goose.”

  “You’re still going on about the goose? C’mon, stop thinking about it.”

  Mama and I won a duck at the fair by throwing colored rings onto bottle necks that spun on a kind of merry-go-round. We kept it at home for a while, but then the duck turned out to be a goose and Mama gave it to the flower woman so she’d keep it at her house in the country.

  “The goose will be much better off in the open air, you’ll see.”

  The elevator is broken, or else the old man has left the doors open and it got stuck on the fifth floor, as he often does. Mama says he’s got problems in his head. Sometimes she says, “Poor man.” Sometimes she says, “Old fool.”

  It depends what pops into her head. If she’s carrying groceries or bottles, she usually says “old fool.”

  I take the stairs: seven flights, 254 stairs. I count them every time. Today I stop at 166. It doesn’t make any sense to hurry if no one is waiting. Mama will still be in bed, dazed and sleepy. Or maybe she’ll have come back around. I start climbing again, taking the steps two at a time, the even numbers, with my right foot. If I manage not to put a foot wrong, Mama will be fine for sure. I hear Blue meowing behind the door. He always does that when he hears me coming. He’s happy I’m here.

  Mama and Blue come toward me.

  But Mama’s not here. It’s just Blue.

  The apartment has a dark look to it. I walk straight down the seemingly endless hallway, hearing the dull thud of my steps on the carpet. After passing the row of framed drawings on the wall, old boats floating in a sea of rippled paper, I go into Mama’s room. Nothing’s changed.

  Everything is the same as it was this morning. No movement at all.

  The room is wrapped in the gray-blue half-light of winter and worn curtains. Mama is wrapped in the covers. Has she changed position or was she already hunched up like that?

  What should I do?

  I adjust the covers for her. She’s curled up in a ball as she sleeps. Maybe she’s cold.

  I ask her if she wants anything.

  “Are you cold, Mama? It’s really cold outside, you know.”

  She doesn’t answer.

  “Please, Mama, answer me. Why don’t you say anything?”

  I try shaking her, but she doesn’t react.

  I didn’t expect her to. She seems completely lost inside herself, inside a dream so deep and far away that she’s not showing any signs of life. You never know, though.

  Maybe Mama is dead.

  I’ve never seen a dead person, so I’m not sure what they look like. Actually, I did see one once beside the highway, but it was covered by a sheet, so I really only saw a sheet, and it didn’t make much of an impression. All the cars slowed down to look, but there wasn’t anything to see. Mama and I were going away for the weekend. So was everyone else, probably. We signaled, tick tock tick tock, and rejoined the flow of traffic. Mama turned on the radio; the deejay was talking bullshit. Maybe because he hadn’t seen the sheet. We had the sun in our faces, a strong, cocky sun that didn’t have anything to do with a dead body.

  Now Mama is covered up too. The only part that’s not is her face on the pillow. Her hair is messy. It looks like the hair of the woman in that famous painting that has something to do with spring, or maybe summer, but hers is like the branches of a tree that’s grown upside down, like roots without the ground. What should I do? Maybe I should comb it. It’s always better to have your hair tidy. What should I do? Should I wait a little longer,
or ask for help right away? I can’t ask for help. If Mama is dead, I can’t tell anyone. If I tell, they’ll take me to the orphanage.

  This is terrible.

  I don’t want to go.

  I don’t want to be a complete orphan.

  Anything else would be better.

  Better to say that Mama’s left.

  Or else say nothing and act like it doesn’t matter.

  Better to find a way to make do. It can’t be that difficult. Better to try to survive.

  Better to keep it a secret and smile.

  Better to use my imagination, to make myself come up with something special. Better to hope it will all just be over soon.

  Better to do three thousand push-ups in a row, seven flights of stairs on one leg, long division in my head.

  Better to bury Kolly the koala.

  Better to think about what’s better.

  Better to believe that in a little bit Mama will be much better.

  Is it true, Mama, that in a little bit you’ll be better?

  But if Mama’s dead, what could be worse?

  I have to pay attention to details and remember not to cry. If I start crying, I’ll say that a fly flew into my eye—or no, I’ll say it was a stag beetle—or else a stag deer, same thing. That way they’ll think it’s a joke and won’t make a big deal about it

  We’re sitting on the bed, Blue and I, and we don’t know how to act.

  Blue trots back and forth and pokes his head here and there, wrinkling his nose as if he’s hunting for something. He steps on the faded flowers of the bedspread, sniffs Mama, scratches with his paw, and makes a little hollow in the sheet. He gets a claw stuck and looks at me with wide-open eyes.

  “I don’t know what to tell you, Blue, I’m sorry. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  Suddenly a gigantic nothing starts to swirl and grow in my brain. My brain is a blank notebook that’s never been opened, has nothing written in it, and there aren’t even stories coming into my head. There aren’t even lines where I can hang any words I come up with. The nothing that’s flooding my head and fogging my vision won’t let me do anything. A huge expanse of nothing like ice—Santa Claus has passed by, but the falling snow has wiped out his tracks. Blue has soft little pads on the bottom of his paws. He doesn’t leave any tracks. The reindeer have disappeared. There are some mounds in the distance, maybe they’re igloos, ice-cube houses. I feel really cold. I’m afraid of houses made of ice cubes.

  Santa Claus doesn’t exist. I’ve known that for a while. There’s a white stuffed toy, a polar bear drifting on an iceberg, that doesn’t know whether it’ll reach land. You see the image everywhere.

  I feel stuffed myself.

  “Dr. Foster went to Gloucester, in a shower of rain.” He stepped in a puddle and now we’re all in fucking shit.

  I can’t call the doctor. Time passes, I don’t know how much.

  On autopilot, I find myself back in the living room. Blue and I squeeze up together on the sofa. Under his fur Blue is teeny-tiny. I go into my room. Blue follows me. I throw myself on the bed. I get up, go back to where I was before on the sofa. I look in Mama’s dictionary for what it says under the word death, to see if there are details, more detailed details, something to make me understand what’s happening. The dictionary is so heavy it’s hard to pick up.

  It says: the end of the life of a man, animal, or plant.

  That’s what it says, and then a dash: accidental, sudden, slow, immature—then a semicolon, etc., etc. This is to say it says nothing. It’s not true that you can find answers in books.

  And then to drop dead, to die a sudden death, dead tired, extremely tired, okay. Okay, I’m dead tired too, but I don’t believe I’m dead. In books people never die for real, and not in the movies either. I let the dictionary fall to the floor. It drops dead too, its pages thrown open at the letter D like a cowboy shot down by Indians: You’ve got me, you dirty bastards.

  We go into the kitchen. Blue circles me like the stupid ballerina in Grandma’s music box. He seems fake too. His stiff whiskers are like her lace tutu. I put a pizza in the microwave. In a few minutes the pizza heats up and comes back to life. I burn my tongue on the mozzarella, and the tip goes numb. I stick it out to show Blue, but he’s not interested. He’s also numb, and only wants a piece of pizza. Eating and sleeping, that’s all Blue is interested in. I’ll do what he does, even if I also have to go to school and do homework. If Mama is dead, I’ll even have to do the grocery shopping, to bring food home for the family. I look for her purse to see if we have a little money to get by. We have a lot, actually, so there’s that. There’s also her bank card. I’ll have to find her secret code. I’ll have to practice with money because I’m not very good at it. I get confused by all the zeros, which seem like bubbles, impossible to hold on to. There’s also her cell phone. I turn it off. Mama doesn’t like me digging around in her bag, but I don’t have a choice.

  If she doesn’t hurry and wake up, I just—I don’t know.

  If she saw me now, she’d yell at me, but she doesn’t see me, doesn’t think about me, doesn’t want me. She couldn’t care less what it means to be an orphan at my age. She’s got her own problems, things I wouldn’t understand. Her problems are bigger because she’s bigger. I’m only a child, or an only child; it’s the same thing, it just depends on how it comes out. Sunset over the Black Sea or the Red Sea at Night, depending on how you look at the painting.

  I don’t know what she sees. Adults can go away if they want; not me. I don’t have anywhere else to go. I’m stuck here with her and her endless sleep at the end of the hall. I activate my periaudio, but I don’t hear a thing; it’s quiet as a grave. A periaudio is how bats hear when they’re finding their way in the dark. It’s a system for not smashing your face into obstacles, or at least for not doing it too hard, but this time I can’t get it to work. I’ve got to stay with her even though she’s stopped talking and listening to me. I’ve got to look after the cat, who’s always hungry, and look after myself too.

  Maybe Mama is a bitch. A bitch and an asshole. All adults are bitches and assholes. Jerks. Stinkers. Shitheads. Idiots. Retards. Stupid assholes. Shitty, stinking assholes. Pricks. Morons. I hate them.

  It’s like the hate in dreams, where if you hate something you really hate it, like having jerks toss piles of fucking shit in your face, and if you like something you really like it, like whole ocean liners full of hot chocolate and whole afternoons with Antonella. I can’t do anything; I hate, hate not being able to do anything. But what can I do?

  Please, Mama, I’m begging you to tell me what to do.

  I feel like crying. I don’t know if it’s right to cry, but I think in situations like this it’s normal. A normal child would cry, so I cry as much as I can. No one can see me anyway. Hot water gushes from my eyes while the polar bear on its cold slab is carried away by the current.

  When all of my tears run dry, I turn on the TV.

  “Sometimes stupid shows help me not to think.”

  Let’s hope Mama is right.

  On TV a famous chef is giving cooking lessons. He beats eggs in front of a group of women wearing evening gowns who copy everything he does, batting their eyelashes a lot and clattering their bracelets against the pots. I could make a cake for Mama, for when she wakes up. For teatime, she says, because that’s what Grandma used to say. But a cake’s too complicated. Instead I’ll make baked apples for her; it’s not hard.

  All the recipe needs is apples, sugar to taste, water, and lemon peel.

  They’re good to have when you feel bad. Even if the smell smells like the hospital.

  I’ve only been in the hospital once, when I had bronchopneumonia. The nurses—old hags with scuffed shoes—came in the night and replaced my cookies with apples. Mama couldn’t believe that nurses would steal a kid’s cookies.

  I cut each apple in fourths and sprinkle sugar over them. The apples float in the pan like icebergs, like sinking ships, like the Tit
anic. When they’re ready, I pour them into a bowl, wait for them to cool a bit, and carry them in to Mama. I try not to trip on the carpet in the hall. The bowl clinks against the plate as if my hands were shaking.

  I leave the bowl on her bedside table because Mama doesn’t want baked apples right now.

  A book called Enduring Love lands on the floor with a thud. Mama doesn’t notice. On the cover is a picture of a hot-air balloon with people in it, rising into the sky.

  The phone rings. Mama doesn’t hear it.

  The phone is sitting on the floor and the cord is all twisted.

  “Mama went out. Yes, later. Bye.”

  I cross my fingers because I’m telling a lie.

  “It was Giulia, Mama. Don’t you want to talk to Giulia?”

  Giulia is Mama’s friend, the one she spends hours with complaining about everything. Giulia complains about everything too, but she’s happier. It seems like she only does it to keep Mama company. They talk about men a lot, usually not nice things.

  “You don’t have to tell me. Remember who you’re talking to,” they say to each other.

  A couple of Sundays ago we took a trip to the country with Giulia. Giulia’s not bad even though she does have red fingernails, which I don’t like.

  “Look, you’ve got red fingernails like a chicken.”

  She didn’t get offended. She even laughed. “That’s because I am a chicken!”

  There were chickens in the courtyard outside the restaurant where we went to eat.

  “Don’t touch the chickens. They’re dirty. And wash your hands.”

  There were also different-colored rabbits, so soft you wanted to pet them.

  “I’ll never eat rabbit again,” I swore, “never again, and not horse and not even lamb.”