If I Lie

by Corrine Jackson

  He lands on whatever channel Mr. Breen tells him. A reporter stands in front an unknown village in a nondescript desert. She’s shouting to be heard over the background chaos of distant RPGs and gunfire.

  “Initial reports say the Marines have located Lance Corporal Carey Breen of the 1/6 Battalion. Breen went missing back in February when his unit was taking heavy fire during a patrol in Marjah. With no hostage demands, many had suspected he was a POW of local Taliban forces. Breen’s condition is unknown at this time, but we do know he’s suffered from multiple gunshot wounds. . . .”

  I don’t hear any more. The picture switches to the green-black night-vision camera, and there’s Carey. I grab for support and find Blake. I walk into his arms without another thought. He holds me so tight I can’t breathe, and we stare at the TV, devouring the first sighting we’ve had in months of our best friend.

  Several Marines bear Carey on a gurney and another holds an IV in the air. He’s strapped down and most of him is covered, except for his face. He’s lost weight like he hasn’t eaten in ages. His eyes are closed and he’s unmoving.

  “He looks dead,” I whisper.

  Blake hushes me. “He could be sleeping. We don’t know.”

  The shot switches back to the reporter who doesn’t seem to know anything else.

  “Nobody. Just a customer,” Blake says into the phone I forgot he was holding, obviously not wanting to explain why I was at the shop. “What are they telling you?”

  The Marines would have sent a liaison to their home to preempt the news reports. My father had acted as that liaison before, calling upon a local Marine’s family to let them know their son or daughter wasn’t coming home.

  Blake listens for a moment. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” he says, and hangs up.

  “What did they say?” I ask, desperate.

  “Not much.” He sets me aside and tears about the shop, grabbing his jacket, rolling the large doors closed, and shutting off machines and lights as he goes. “They’re flying him to the hospital in Landstuhl. The Breens are hopping a flight to Germany and will meet him there.”

  At the front door, he finally notices I’m not behind him. “Q, I’m sorry,” he pleads. “I have to go now. They need me. I swear I’ll call you the second I hear anything.”

  The panic in his voice releases my feet from the floor. I follow him out and watch him run for his truck. His tires burn rubber as he peels out of the parking lot without a backward glance. My legs feel like they might give out as I climb into my Jeep.

  I see Carey’s face again.

  He’s alive.

  A thousand prayers are answered.

  He’s alive.

  My phone rings, and I answer without checking the caller ID. My father says, “Quinn?”

  I start crying. “Dad, did you hear? They found Carey. He’s alive!”

  “I heard. Baby, listen . . .” Something’s off in his voice. The happiness that should be there isn’t. “You had a message here at the house from the hospital.”

  No, no, NO.

  “It’s George.”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Day one: George is on a ventilator.

  Mostly he sleeps. He looks weak and helpless, not like George at all.

  I read to him. I talk to him.

  And I tell him about Carey. About growing up with Carey and loving Carey and believing I’d still know Carey when I’m eighty. And I confess how worried I am because nobody will tell me how Carey’s doing since he was found, and the news is full of fluff and speculation and short on real reporting.

  What I know:

  A) Carey is alive.

  B) George is dying.

  C) Life just isn’t fucking fair.

  Negative to balance the positive. Salt with the sugar.

  Sometimes I’m not sure if George can even hear me. I wonder if it would be okay to tell him Carey’s secret, but I don’t. George would understand that I’m leaving that confession to Carey, now that he’s been found.

  When I’m sure George is sleeping, I work on his entry for the Library of Congress. Anything to keep busy while my head spins in circles about everything I don’t know. George wants me to finish this, and I won’t let him down. Surprisingly, even after all this time, he has few photos among his belongings at the hospital. Those I’ve seen him with were from other patients. He’s spent hours sorting and organizing them so people wouldn’t forget what these men and women have sacrificed.

  Who will remember what George has done?

  * * *

  Day two: Blake stops by.

  He stands in the doorway, shuffling his feet, while he updates me on Carey’s status in Landstuhl. Three surgeries in a matter of days. He’d taken two bullets—one to the chest and one to the leg. Without proper treatment, he’d picked up an infection. Things are “touch-and-go.” More doctor-speak for he may still die, and don’t get your hopes up.

  Blake tells me all this, the whole time standing as close to the door as he can be without leaving the room. I wonder if it’s George’s impending death, the steady beeps of his heart monitor, and eau de antiseptic that bothers him so much. Or maybe he still thinks I hold out hope for us, now that Carey is back.

  I just don’t have the energy to care.

  When Blake leaves, I glance up to find George watching me, fully aware. Who knows how much he’s heard, but it’s enough. Unable to speak around the tube in his throat, he raises his brows. That Blake?

  “Yeah. That’s Blake.”

  He waggles his brows at me, and I laugh a little, shaking my head.

  “I know, right? They don’t make ’em like that anymore.”

  He points at his own chest and scowls.

  I roll my eyes. “Quit fishing for compliments.” He smiles, and I take my seat with my feet on the bed where his leg should be. “Did you hear what he said? About Carey?”

  He nods and makes a gesture like holding a phone to his ear.

  “No. Nobody’s called.”

  He scowls.

  “It’s okay. I didn’t expect them to. Honest.” It’s the truth, though that doesn’t mean I’m not disappointed. After all the years Carey and I were friends, the Breens haven’t dropped me so much as a text. If not for Blake, I would be getting my news about my best friend from CNN.

  I change the subject because George and I have an unspoken contract to avoid sappy, maudlin topics. When he’s awake, like now, we keep things light. Nurse Espinoza dropped off some flowers for him a few hours ago, and I make a big deal of this, trying to make him blush. He looks caught between telling a dirty joke and wanting to chuckle. The tube prevents either.

  Eventually he drops off to sleep, and I’m left staring out the window at the black night. I don’t even know what time it is.

  My body sinks into the chair, weighted by misery.

  * * *

  Day three: More of the same.

  The doctors remove the ventilator at George’s request.

  He tries to convince me to go home in a series of grunts and rude gestures. He’s decided he doesn’t want me to see him like this. Not by myself.

  I hold his hand. That’s what we do when things are bad.

  He sleeps. A wise man, he knows when it’s time to give up on an argument.

  * * *

  Day four: Mom shows up after I’ve eaten a cafeteria dinner of limp lettuce someone thought would make a good salad.

  She doesn’t knock, but pokes her head through the open doorway. When she sees George sleeping, she tiptoes in and whispers, “I thought you might want some company.”

  My eyes well up.

  This isn’t about me, but fuck, none of it has been. She’s the first one to offer a little kindness, though, and I scrub my face to hide the effect that small gesture has on me.

  I point to the free chair, and she moves it closer to mine. We speak in hushed tones by the light of the muted TV.

  “How’s he doing?”

  I shake my head, biting my
lip. She reaches over to squeeze my hand.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “He means a lot to you.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s mutual, you know.” At my questioning look, she adds, “When he called to invite me to your party, he spoke very highly of you.”

  “He would,” I say with a small smile.

  “How did the two of you meet?”

  Where to start? I’m stunned by how normal the conversation is. Maybe it’s the hour and the dark. Maybe I’m just too worn out to feel the rage she stirs in me. I start at the beginning, from the day she left me at my grandmother’s.

  It takes hours. Hours in which George sleeps and she listens.

  I have things to say. Things I’ve saved up for six years.

  And I say them all.

  * * *

  Day five: My voice goes in the wee hours, sounding ugly and raw.

  That’s when she takes over.

  “I love you, Sophie. If I could take it all back, and take you with me, I would. I made a mistake.”

  She tells me how her life was changed by that decision. Uncle Eddy reenlisted at some point. Despite everything, she became a soldier’s wife again. Then the cancer hit. This is his third time in remission in six years. And she’s been through it all alone because she lost every single friend she ever had when she walked out on our family.

  I hear my father’s voice again.

  Sometimes a moment defines you, defines how people see you the rest of your life.

  That day she left me at my grandmother’s—that was my mother’s moment, and she didn’t realize it until it was too late.

  She doesn’t make excuses. That would be insulting, and I think she knows it.

  As the sun peeks through the blinds and the hospital begins to wake, she finally says, “I need to tell you something. Something that will upset you, but I think you deserve to know the truth.”

  And that’s when she tells me how she’d realized she’d made a mistake leaving with Uncle Eddy, and how she’d begged my father to see me in those early years. She reveals how he refused to let her see me, making sure I was never home when she came, and how he threatened to move me away from Sweethaven if she tried to see me without him. He told her I hated her. And she confesses that she let herself believe him because it was easier to think I hated her than to admit how she’d failed me.

  She broke his heart, and my father hated her so much, he took me.

  And that, I realize, was my father’s defining moment.

  I’m not sure what to say to my mother. She’s stunned me, and yet so much of it makes sense. I can’t excuse her, but as she speaks, I remember times my father shuttled me off to my grandmother’s or Carey’s without notice. I thought he wanted to get rid of me, but the truth has more layers.

  My mother leaves to refill George’s plastic pitcher of water, and I watch her go with a more open mind. I’m so exhausted, I don’t know what to feel. Outside, a crow flies past the window before disappearing into the trees.

  George makes a noise, and I stand to check on him.

  He’s not asleep like I thought. His watery gray eyes are wide open and staring right into mine.

  It’s not at all like the movies—there’s no dramatic music or doctors running in the room—but I know.

  One crow, I think. One for sorrow.

  “George,” I say, squeezing his hand.

  He doesn’t respond. Nurse Espinoza enters the room and checks the myriad of machines they’ve hooked to his body. She warned me how this would go. George doesn’t want to be resuscitated, and they won’t take measures to save him. When our eyes meet, she nods. Without a word, she turns the volume off so we won’t hear George dying, one blip at a time.

  I turn my face away for a moment, digging for strength.

  Then I pull myself up onto George’s bed, and I lean my face next to his. I talk to him about nothing. I tell him I love him. I thank him. I promise to make him proud. I say how proud I am that he’s my family.

  A sound comes from deep within his body and rattles from his throat.

  He gasps for air.

  I kiss his cheek.

  Good-bye, friend.

  Chapter Thirty

  The day after George dies, CNN reports Carey’s condition as stable. He will return home.

  Relief mixes with grief in one deep well. I cry.

  My mother takes charge. She’s a soldier’s wife, despite all that’s happened, and she keeps everything together when I fall apart. Like a well-heeled general, she moves me from one place to another with supreme efficiency. Not even my father gets in her way. He disappears into his study and doesn’t come out, even when she temporarily moves into our house, sleeping on the couch and putting meals on the table when she can coax food into me.

  I never see them exchange more than two polite words.

  George has no family. Pierce Whitney, an old friend of his, introduces himself as a lawyer from Raleigh and the executor of George’s will. George arranged his funeral long ago, planning it right down to the guest list (Nurse Espinoza is to wear a short dress and sit in the front row next to me) and the music he wanted played (none of that weepy, sentimental bullshit).

  I don’t give the eulogy.

  I can’t.

  Instead, Private Don Baruth and a series of soldiers from every armed force march to the podium. Each has a favorite George story, a favorite George joke, a favorite moment that was so George. Nurse Espinoza holds my hand, and we share a smile as the music comes on.

  And hearing it, I choke, causing heads to turn.

  My entire body shakes as I hunch over, tipping my face into my hands. My mother’s arm comes around me, and I can feel her leaning over in concern.

  A few uncomfortable titters start up from the far corner as people begin to pay attention to the lyrics of the rap song playing through the church. I collapse in a fit of giggles, gasping for air, and I don’t care when people stare.

  Somewhere, somehow, George found a song to play just for me.

  The rapper repeats, “Yo Mama” for the fourth time, and I’m crying and laughing at the same time.

  Fuck, I’m going to miss you, George.

  * * *

  At the cemetery, seven soldiers fire three times each, giving George a twenty-one-gun salute. The honor guard removes the flag from George’s casket, folding it in perfect creases until it forms a triangle.

  Pierce says George asked for the flag to go to me, so when a member of the honor guard bends down to hand the folded flag to me, I take it.

  The Marine’s voice is clear and calm. “On behalf of the President of the United States and the people of a grateful nation, I present this flag as a token of appreciation for the honorable and faithful service your loved one rendered this nation.”

  A lone bugler plays taps.

  Later, I find out that George left his estate to me, including all of his photos and equipment.

  I do not feel worthy of either honor.

  * * *

  One night, about a week after the funeral, my mother decides it’s time for her to go home. She can’t leave Uncle Eddy alone any longer.

  I’d returned to school days ago, and I only have a month or so before I graduate. Like a robot, I go through the motions, attending classes and doing homework and taking tests. What else is there to do? Blake ignores me for the most part when he actually comes to school, and I no longer have the desire to fix what’s broken between us.

  Then at dinner on my mom’s last night, she says, “Come live with me.”

  I drop my fork, staring at her, wondering if she’s kidding. She swirls her glass of wine, peering into the ruby liquid as if to divine my answer there.

  “Mom—”

  “You’re going to college in the fall, so it would only be a few months. But I want the chance to know you again, Sophie.”

  I have no idea what to say. My thoughts barely look ahead to putting on my pajamas at the end of the day, let alone what I will b
e doing in a few months. Nothing is easy between us.

  Her blue eyes plead. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking. It might be a good thing to have a change of scenery.”

  She leaves, and for the first time in weeks, I am alone in the house with my father.

  A short pause follows my knock on his study door before he calls, “Come in.”

  He hides behind his desk with a pile of folders laid out in front of him. Things have changed: I’ve changed. I’m no longer afraid of him hating me. After all, it was never me he saw when he looked at me. And I am more than a poor copy of her.

  I set a covered plate of food on the desk. “Mom left this for you.”

  He shoots me a questioning look.

  “She’s gone,” I say. “Back to Uncle Eddy.”

  We have tiptoed around this conversation for days. Maybe for years. Without a chair to sit in, I stand. Rather than retreating, I walk the perimeter of the room, trailing my fingers over the books on his Wall of War.

  “What’s on your mind, Quinn?” he asks, leaving the plate untouched.

  He watches me warily, and I drop my hands to my sides. I won’t fidget like I’m the guilty party. “She told me she tried to see me. That you wouldn’t let her see me.”

  Such a strong Marine, my father. He does not betray his emotions the slightest. His voice remains calm and even. “And? You expect me to apologize for that?”

  “No.” I shake my head. That would be like holding my breath until the sun stopped shining. I don’t even expect answers. “I just wanted to know if it was the truth.”

  “I knew this would happen. Your mom shows up, and you think she’s some kind of hero. She’ll disappoint you. That’s why I kept her away.”

  “Then it is true.”

  A muscle works along his jaw when he clenches his teeth. “I did what I thought was best.”

  “Did you, Daddy?” I ask. I hug my arms about my body. “Because from where I stood, I thought you hated me.” I start crying. “Do you know how much I’ve hated that I look like her? Do you think I didn’t know what you’ve thought of me these last months? A slut just like Mom?”