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Seven Lies (ARC)

Page 43

by Elizabeth Kay


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  and I walked to the tube station in the rain, and I sat in a carriage full 31S

  of families in dripping anoraks and with condensation clouding the

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  windows and I felt hopeful. Because this was good news, wasn’t it?

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  Here was the reunion, the remedy, a way to rebuild what felt so broken.

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  I knew exactly what was going to happen. I could picture her face

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  when she discovered what had happened to Emma: her shock, her sad-

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  ness. I could see her boiling the kettle and ordering takeout and then

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  deciding that tea wasn’t the right tonic, not for this wound, and opening 06

  a bottle of wine instead. Audrey would fall asleep quickly— the antibi-

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  otics, the painkillers— and then we’d unpack this sadness together.

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  But it wasn’t quite so straightforward. Because I went to the phar-

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  macy, as instructed, and discovered that it had closed an hour earlier

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  than we’d expected. The sign on the door was accurate— Fridays: 11

  8 a.m.— 7 p.m. — but somehow the messages had been mixed, the infor-12

  mation muddled. I called Marnie. I said that I’d continue to hers, collect 13

  the printed prescription, and find another pharmacy. She started to

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  panic— because what if there was no other pharmacy, no way of finding

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  the right medication tonight?— and I reassured her that everything would

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  be fine, and I envisaged a moment, sometime later that evening, when

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  she would instead be comforting me.

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  I boarded the next train and by the time I reached her station there

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  was a sprawl of gray across the sky, the buildings, the tarmac. I followed 20

  my ordinary route to her apartment, through the passageway and past

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  the small row of shops. And all of those steps, all of those moments,

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  were positive. These were my places, the path to my people. I cried

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  briefly— which isn’t unusual for me at the moment— but it was in a

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  strange, sort of cathartic way.

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  I met your neighbor in the lobby. Do you remember the man with

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  the briefcase, rushing off to work the day you were born? He had just

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  returned from the office and was standing in the doorway, pulsing his

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  umbrella into the street to shake off the droplets. He acknowledged me

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  with a small smile and an even smaller nod.

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  Jeremy greeted me with a quick wave.

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I felt like I belonged.

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  I knocked on the door and she opened it and she seemed pleased to

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  see me.

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  “You’re here,” she said, and she smiled.

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  She was wearing dark jeans and a cream T- shirt, slack at her hips but

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  snugly cuffed around her upper arms. Her hair was scraped into a loose

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  bun and, as always, the shorter strands had fallen loose at the front. She 08

  looked beautiful.

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  “I’m so sorry,” she said. “They said eight o’clock. I’m sure they said

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  eight o’clock.”

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  The flat was impeccable: the floors were shining, and the surfaces

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  were cleared of all debris, and I didn’t recognize a single thing that had 13

  belonged to Charles.

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  “Is something the matter?” she asked, and she leaned in close toward

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  me, as though to get a better look. “Have you been crying?”

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  I suppose I must have nodded.

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  “What is it?” she asked, ushering me into the living room.

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  Audrey was lying on a yellow mat on the floor, wearing only a nappy

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  and with her cheeks flushed and pink.

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  “Here,” Marnie insisted. “Sit down. What’s going on?”

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  She stood in front of me and I looked at her black leather belt and its

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  gold clasp and I tried to concentrate. I wasn’t crying anymore, but my

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  eyes were sore. I wondered if they were red or framed by black smudges.

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  I sat on the sofa and hugged a gray cushion to my chest.

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  “I’ve had a terrible week,” I said. “ Emma . . .”

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  I didn’t know how to finish the sentence, but then I didn’t need to

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  say anything further.

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  “No,” Marnie said, in a breath. “Oh, God. When? What happened?

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  Why didn’t you call me?”

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  “I found her.”

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  “Jane!”

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  “On Monday.”

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  Marnie paced her living room, running her fingers through her hair,

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  circling the coffee table. It had wooden legs and a glass top and, when I 02

  looked closely, I could see that there were small smears— fingerprints

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  and watermarks, white rings from mugs and glasses— spread across the

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  surface.

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  “You should have called me,” she said. “I’d have come straight over.

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  I can’t believe this. How did they . . . Have you told your mum?”

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  Marnie shut the doors to the balcony and then pulled the curtains

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  over the glass. The room felt suddenly smaller, without the noise of car

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  horns and voices on the sidewalk below.

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  It was just us.

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  “She’s barely there,” I replied. “It felt as though she disappeared in-

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  stantly the moment I told her. She wouldn’t look at me after that. She

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  wouldn’t listen to me. She was still sitting there, just as she’d been a

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  few minutes before, but she was completely gone.”

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  “Oh, Jane, I’m so sorry.” Marnie sank down onto the sofa beside me.

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  “It makes sense,” I replied.

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  “It doesn’t make sense,” Marnie said. “I mean . . . how does it make

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  any sense at all?”

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  “She’s always adored Emma, hasn’t she? And whether it’s the de-

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  mentia or . . . What does it matter? She’s never be
en there to support

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  me before.”

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  Marnie secreted a small squeak from the back of her throat. “What

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  an awful thing to happen,” she said. “This is terrible. I mean . . . You 24

  poor thing. This must have been such a shock. Have you been at work?”

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  I shook my head.

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  “You’ve been at home? All week? By yourself? Why didn’t you . . . ?”

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  She grabbed my hands and her fingernails were painted in pink polish

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  and they were so long that they tickled at my skin as she warmed my

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  knuckles between her palms. “I could have been there,” she said. “I

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  could have taken care of you. I hate thinking that you’ve been going

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  through this on your own.”

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  “It’s not so bad,” I said.

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  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, slapping me on the arm. “It’s crazy

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  to be on your own after such a . . . such a trauma. I’m always— I’ve al-

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  ways been— just at the end of the phone. You should have called. But

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  that doesn’t matter now. I’m here. I’m here. I’m always here. When is

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  the funeral? Will your mother come? Do you need help organizing it?

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  Or with her place? What can I do?”

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  “I’ve agreed to clear out her flat tomorrow,” I said. “They have some-

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  one new moving in on Monday. I hoped it wouldn’t be such a rush, but

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  they’re in such demand— they’re so cheap, you know, and— ”

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  Audrey began to whimper and within seconds she was screaming.

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  Her little face was a painful red, her little fists clenched and pounding 13

  at the floor, her feet flailing in the air.

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  “Oh, I know, I know,” said Marnie, rushing to pick her up. “I know

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  you feel awful, my poor little darling.” She bounced Audrey on her hip,

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  spinning slowly, facing me and then turning away, but never looking my

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  way. “I know, I know.” She held the back of her hand against Audrey’s

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  forehead. “Oh, my little one, you’re burning up again. What time is it?”

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  She glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, its thick roman numerals,

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  its thin metal hands. “Yes, let’s take something to sort this fever. And

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  Mummy will get that prescription for Auntie Jane and we’ll have you

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  back to your normal self in no time.”

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  They disappeared toward the kitchen.

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  “Jane,” she called, “will you look for one that’s open?”

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  I told myself to stay calm, to be patient, not to read a truth that

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  wasn’t there into the sense of abandonment that was filling my lungs,

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  the panic that was crackling through me. I forced myself to do as she’d

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  asked, and I found only one pharmacist open nearby. It was just a few

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  miles from the flat, but it wasn’t close to a train station and there were 30

  no bus stops in that area, either. I could hear Audrey squalling, Mar-

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  nie’s incessant platitudes— “There, now. Don’t cry. Mummy’s here”—

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  and I felt a rage building within me and I tried to suppress it.

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  “Well?” she said as she came back in, and she frowned as I explained

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  the problem, that it would take me over an hour to get there— I’d have

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  to walk most of it— and perhaps even longer to get back.

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  “Oh, this is ridiculous,” she said. “We’re in one of the biggest cities

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  in the world and I can’t find a fucking pharmacy that’s in any way acces-

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  sible. Okay. Right. I’m going to put her down and then I’ll have to do it 06

  myself. I’ll drive. That’ll be quicker. And you’ll stay here with Audrey?

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  Is that okay?”

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  I nodded.

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  “Good,” she said. “Give me a few minutes.”

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  They went upstairs and I turned on the television and I tried to find

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  something that I wanted to watch, and there were so many choices but

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  nothing that felt even vaguely appealing. I went to the fridge and there

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  was a bottle of white wine, so I opened it— I didn’t think she’d mind—

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  and poured myself a small glass. I looked through the cupboards, trying

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  to find a DVD or a book that appealed, but I couldn’t concentrate prop-

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  erly. Five minutes passed. And then ten. I stared into the black of the

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  television screen, a dark void in the center of the fireplace.

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  “Okay,” said Marnie, rushing back in. “She isn’t asleep— I’m so tired

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  that I can’t quite believe either of us will ever sleep again; she’s totally 20

  wired— but at least she’s calmer now. The crying’s stopped and that’s a

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  start.” She rushed around, gathering her purse and her phone and the

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  car keys and pressing them into her black leather handbag. “I think that’s 23

  everything,” she said. She dragged her trench coat from the wooden peg

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  in the hallway and pulled it over her shoulders. She pointed up the

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  stairs. “Will you check on her in a few minutes? Make sure that her

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  temperature’s dropping? There’s a thermometer in there: one of those

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  ones for the ears. If she gets too riled- up, try feeding her. It’s in the fridge 28

  if you need it. Her change bag is underneath the stairs, but I think there’s 29

  everything in her room already. Right. I’m off. I’ll be back in no time,

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  half an hour at most. We’ll talk properly when I’m back. I’m so sorry,

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  Jane. I won’t be long.”

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  E L I Z A B E T H K AY

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  I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t think of anything to say. I felt the

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  most incredible disappointment and I thought I might feel angry, but I

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  didn’t. I was simply sad.

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  So I came up here, to your bedroom.

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>
  And I started to tell you this story.

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  Because it’s something that you deserve to hear.

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  This, after all, is the story of how you came to be, of your life, and

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  the people that led us both to this moment. It was meant to be a story

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  about your father, about his inadequacies, about his death. It was meant

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  to be a story about your mother, about her brilliance, and all the little 11

  ways that our love has sustained us both. It was meant to reassure me,

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  to remind me, to make this evening feel less unforgivable.

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  But it wasn’t and it hasn’t.

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  Chapter Forty- Two

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  here are plenty of things that make you feel worse when they

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  ought to make you better. Takeout, for example. It feels won-

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  derful in the moment: the sharp tomato base of a pizza, acidic mango

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  chutney with a poppadum, crispy- duck pancakes. But it weighs heavy

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  within you. It never feels quite as good afterward as you thought it

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  would before you ate it. I had anticipated that my conversation with

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  Marnie would follow a very different path. I didn’t expect to feel so

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  much worse afterward.

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  Because I thought I knew her. If you’d have asked me, I’d have said

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  that I could accurately predict her response to just about any conversa-

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  tion. I could tell you, for example, that she’d like her burger cooked

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  medium- well, extra cheese, and yes, please, to tomatoes. I could tell

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  you that she’d roll her eyes if you asked about her parents, no matter

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  who you were, no matter what your question. I could tell you that she’d

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  deliver her copy after the deadline you’d set, but that it’d be no more

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  than a few hours late. I could tell you that she wouldn’t call you back,

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  and not to bother leaving a message, because she was unlikely to ever

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  listen to it. I could tell you that she couldn’ t— absolutely wouldn’ t— eat 29

 

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