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Behind Every Lie

Page 2

by Christina McDonald


  “Don’t be daft.” She waved a hand in the air.

  I squeezed into a chair across from her, the only place I could comfortably eat as a lefty. My fingers fluttered to my mouth and I nibbled a fingernail.

  Mom gave me the Look, her makeup-less eyes tiny behind thick, black-rimmed glasses. “I’d rather hoped you’d grown out of that.”

  I dropped my hands and twisted my engagement ring instead. I wanted to tell her I was usually better, but she broke into a coughing fit. Her face reddened as she clutched her chest. She pulled a Kleenex from her bag and blew her nose.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Oh, just this bloody cold. Can’t seem to shake it.” She touched a hand to her head and winced. Was her skin tinted yellow, or was it just the restaurant’s lighting?

  “I saw Jacob yesterday,” she said. “He’s moved back home to take care of his dad. Apparently Bill has cancer.”

  Jacob Hardmann had lived across the road from us when I was a teenager. We’d met at the school bus stop when we were twelve. He was my best friend, and once, briefly, something more. But his work as a photographer took him out of the country a lot, and it had been years now since I’d seen him, or really even thought of him.

  “Really?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. “Bill was pretty violent. I didn’t think they got along.”

  “Well, since Barbara died there isn’t anyone else to care for him. Jacob’s a good boy. He always does the right thing.”

  Not always, I thought.

  “So, tell me. How are wedding plans coming along?” she asked. “When’s the big day?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I said vaguely. “We haven’t really planned anything yet. We’re in no rush.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. Liam was already pushing to set a date, calling around for venues, organizing a meeting with the priest in Coupeville.

  Mom adjusted her glasses, her brown eyes suddenly sharp. “Have you told Liam about what happened?”

  I looked at my hands. Shame slid down my spine, cold and sticky, like tapioca pudding.

  “I can’t,” I whispered. This was exactly why I didn’t want them to meet. Liam couldn’t know about my past. What if he didn’t believe me? Worse, what if he rejected me? It was easier to pretend it had never happened. “He’ll think I’m broken or something.”

  When I looked at Mom, her face was uncharacteristically soft. “Darling, I’m not entirely certain one can ever become unbroken, but I do know we can be strong and brave and broken and whole all at the same time. It’s called being human.”

  “Can we please not talk about it?”

  Mom’s forehead creased, her eyes puzzled. She was a stern, stoic physics teacher. She dealt in hard facts and cold truths. She didn’t understand how I could pretend nothing had happened. But I’d learned that if you didn’t let yourself feel too much, you could tuck the trauma into a box, seal it up, and get on with your life.

  “I rather think telling the truth would be a better way to start a marriage,” she said.

  Aunt Lily swept in then, saving me from answering. She was wearing navy stilettos and a drapey linen pantsuit, her silver-platinum bob wrapped in a navy scarf that trailed over one shoulder.

  “Hello, my lovely!” She kissed me on both cheeks. “Look at you! So pretty. And I love your hair that way!” She patted my cropped hair, recently streaked with toffee and bronze highlights.

  Aunt Lily wasn’t my real aunt, but she’d been Mom’s best friend since she’d moved into our neighborhood when I was twelve. They’d both grown up in England, Mom in the north, Lily in the south, and bonded over a love of pinochle and old musicals. Mom was rules and discipline while Lily was laughter and fun. She gave us cake for breakfast, let us watch scary movies before bed, and even took me to get my belly button pierced when I was sixteen, much to Mom’s horror.

  “Where’s Andrew?” She kissed Mom on the cheek.

  “He’s been held up at court. He’ll be here shortly,” Mom replied.

  “Well, this is lovely! It’s been ages since we’ve done anything together.”

  “Too long,” Mom agreed. She turned to me. “Andrew mentioned you’ve moved in with Liam?”

  I bit my lip. Mom had a fantastic poker face, but I still sensed her disapproval. It was there in the lift of her eyebrows, the purse of her lips, like when I dropped out of college to be a dog walker, or when I was fired from my job as a barista because I could never wake up in time, or when I decided to be an artist rather than studying thermodynamics or quantum theory.

  “We’ve been together a year and a half and we’re getting married.…” I trailed off, realizing I sounded defensive.

  “Well, I’m sure he’s lovely. We’ll meet him when you’re ready for us to.” Lily reached for a piece of bread from the basket the waitress had left and slathered a chunk of butter on it. It was too cold, the bread tearing as she stabbed at it.

  I tossed her a grateful smile.

  The waitress arrived, and Lily ordered a glass of champagne, Mom a pint of Post Alley Porter.

  “I, um …” I scanned the drinks menu, my heart kicking into gear.

  “Good Lord, it’s just a drink, Eva! Not a life-or-death decision.” Mom sounded irritated.

  I felt like a deer in the headlights. I knew I was being stupid, but even choosing a drink seemed impossible.

  “How about a vodka cranberry?” Lily suggested kindly.

  “Yes!” I turned to the waitress. “Only no vodka. Just cranberry.”

  I smiled at Lily, relieved she’d made the decision for me. Mom scowled at her. I almost rolled my eyes. They were best friends, but sometimes they were more like an old married couple, right down to the arguments and nagging.

  “Tell us how you’ve been, Eva,” Mom said, putting her hand on mine. “We hear from you so rarely these days.”

  I threw her a surprised look. Mom wasn’t one for physical displays of affection. She had helped me with my homework, made sure I behaved and was polite and didn’t skip school, but hand-holding? Not so much.

  “I’m good. Busy. Lots of work coming up to Christmas, plus I’ve been packing and moving into Liam’s. You should see his house! It’s gorgeous! Here.…” I swiped through the pictures on my phone and held one out to them. “Here’s a picture.”

  “It’s stunning!” Lily exclaimed. Mom nodded her agreement. I smiled, warmed by their approval.

  The waitress returned with our drinks, and Lily raised hers to Mom. I quickly followed suit. “I believe congratulations are in order. To you, Kat, for saving a little girl’s life. We’re so—”

  An elderly lady pushed past my chair, her elbow jabbing into my back. I lurched forward, my glass slipping out of my hand. Ruby-red liquid splashed across the white linen, onto Mom’s lap.

  Mom and Lily both jumped up. An embarrassing red splotch was spreading across Mom’s pants.

  “I’m so sorry!” I grabbed a linen napkin and tried to wipe Mom’s pants clean.

  “Eva, stop! You’re making it worse!” she exclaimed.

  I plopped, impotent, into my seat, cheeks burning.

  The waitress whisked the stained linen away and brought a glass of soda water, which Mom used to dab at her pants, then bustled about relaying the table. A few minutes later we were settled again, fresh drinks in front of us.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again.

  Mom reached for her beer, her eyes filling with something I couldn’t identify. Resignation? Worry? “Honestly, darling, it’s fine. It wasn’t your fault.”

  But it didn’t matter whose fault it was when you blamed yourself.

  Mom smiled at me, and a jumble of emotions filled my chest. Uncertainty. Love. Hope. But just then, my brother rushed in, bursting the moment like a soap bubble. Andrew’s cheeks were bristly with a neatly trimmed beard, glasses glinting in the candlelight. He’d inherited our mother’s shitty eyesight; I’d gotten her pale English skin.

  Mom’s gaze peeled away from mine, brightening at the
sight of him. Andrew murmured something to the waitress, and she returned a second later with a short glass of amber-colored liquid.

  He shed his coat and sat next to me, lifting his glass in a toast and smiling. “To Mom. The Messiah.”

  I looked down at my cranberry juice, wishing I’d gotten the vodka after all.

  three

  eva

  I COULDN’T MOVE.

  Consciousness was a fickle thing, fading in and out. Everything in me hurt, a pain so deep it felt like I’d been cooked in a microwave.

  Time passed. Sounds returned. A low thunking. A rhythmic beeping. Squeaking wheels. A periodic buzzing, material swishing, soft murmuring voices.

  I propelled myself through a viscous darkness, bursting through the oily film of consciousness. My head hurt, hot, jabbing pain bolting around my temples and ricocheting through my body. A phosphorescent glow clung to the edges of my vision. The scent of burning hair lingered in my nostrils; under that, disinfectant and cold, recycled air.

  What happened?

  I tried to sweep through the cobwebs clouding my brain and figure out why the hell I hurt so much. The last thing I remembered was spilling cranberry juice all over my mom.

  Something scratched at the surface of my mind, a fingernail against glass. Muffled voices came from very far away. A low ringing echoed in my ears, punctuated by an exasperated female voice.

  Unconscious.

  Murder.

  Lightning.

  A flash of memory bore down on me like an image emerging from a Polaroid.

  My mom crumpled on the floor. An overturned chair. Light. Then shadows. Then the image disappeared and I was running. And then nothing—the memory was gone.

  I struggled against the weight of my eyelids and moaned. I was in a hospital. A doctor in a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around her neck approached. She was tall, midforties. Ruler-straight body. She had blond hair pulled into a tight ponytail, almond-shaped blue eyes, and cheekbones rising sharply under freckled skin.

  I tried to speak, but my throat was too dry, my tongue glued to the roof of my mouth. She popped a straw in a plastic cup of water and held it to my lips. I slurped greedily.

  “Hello, Eva.” Her voice was soft and comforting. “I’m Dr. Patricia Simm. Your fiancé’s just gone to get a coffee, but he’ll be back shortly.”

  Liam. I exhaled, weak with relief.

  “How are you feeling?” Her voice sounded muffled, as if she were speaking into a ball of cotton.

  “I hurt,” I croaked. I tried to sit up, but the room slithered around me. Pain seared along my skull.

  Dr. Simm helped me sit, then pressed her stethoscope to my chest and listened. “Can you squeeze my fingers?”

  She placed two of her fingers in my palms, and I squeezed, my fingers thick and awkward. She then probed my arms, lifted and bent them at the elbows.

  “Do you feel this?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. There’s a little weakness on your left side but nothing to be concerned about.”

  As she lowered my left arm, I caught sight of a strange pattern on my skin spreading up from a gauze bandage wrapped around my forearm. I pushed the hospital gown sleeve up higher. The visible skin on my arm was covered in pink, fernlike markings, feathery branches stippled with angry red blisters.

  “Wha … ?”

  “Those are called Lichtenberg figures. I know they look psychedelic, but they’re harmless. They trace the path of the electricity that went through your body when you were struck by lightning.”

  Struck by lightning?

  She straightened, flipping the stethoscope back around her neck and smiling wryly. “They’ll disappear in a few weeks. Right now they’re a testament that you survived something extraordinary.”

  I stared at her blankly.

  “Don’t worry if it’s all still a blur—that’s completely normal after getting struck by lightning. You’ve been unconscious since they brought you in early this morning. Your left eardrum burst, so you’re likely experiencing some temporary hearing problems—”

  Liam burst in, crossing the room in two long strides.

  “Eva! Thank God you’re all right!” His hair was standing on end, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His jaw was thick with morning growth, and his eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed. He wrapped his arms around me. “I got the first ferry I could when the police called.”

  I laid my head against his shoulder, feeling safe for the first time since I’d woken. He was wearing one of the tight, Lycra T-shirts he wore for rowing, the slippery material cool against my throbbing ear. I touched my head and winced. A thick bandage covered a tender lump just above my left temple.

  Dr. Simm noticed. “You got a pretty fierce bump to the head, so I’ve scheduled a CAT scan. The burns on your ears are from where your jewelry melted, and we had to cut your shirt off. We have some antibiotics in your IV to make sure those blisters on your arm don’t get infected. We’ll keep you in for observation for a few days, and I want to run a few more tests now that you’re awake, but physically speaking, you’re a remarkably lucky woman.”

  She went on to list the physical afflictions I might experience: Parkinson’s-like muscle twitches, severe headaches, scar tissue from the thermal burns, temporary or partial paralysis in my weak left hand.

  “What we really need to look out for,” she continued, “are psychological issues: paranoia, personality changes, mood swings, memory loss. Even trouble concentrating. All of these we’ll watch for and deal with if they arise. You’ll need to take it easy at first, okay? Lots of rest to help your mind and body heal. And I’ll prescribe you some meds to help.”

  Dr. Simm glanced over her shoulder. I followed her gaze. A man I didn’t recognize approached from the corridor and paused in the doorway. He was of average height and build with a thin mouth and short-cropped, dark hair that showcased tiny ears. His eyes were deep-set in a long, wolfish face, an intense, piercing blue against his pale skin. He radiated a sort of feral aggression that instantly set me on edge.

  “Hello, Miss Hansen. I’m Detective Kent Jackson. I’m part of a task force with the Seattle Police Department.”

  His accent was East Coast, the flattened consonants and distended vowels of Boston. He stepped into the room, his brown leather jacket creaking over a collared blue shirt and dark jeans.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and I knew. Somehow I knew what he was going to say.

  “I’m so sorry to tell you this. Your mother has unfortunately died. We believe she was murdered and we’re investigating it as a homicide.”

  When I opened my eyes, tears blurred the room like a watercolor. Liam’s face crumpled, raw with disbelief. He pulled me tight against his chest, and for a minute the only sound in the room was me sobbing.

  “Miss Hansen, can you tell me what you were doing late last night?” Detective Jackson asked.

  I looked from Liam to Dr. Simm to the detective, trying to conjure my last concrete memory after dinner with my mom. I closed my eyes. Flashes of silvery images danced just beyond my grasp. Mom’s face. A knife. A sharp, white light. Slashes of blood. I pressed my fingers to my forehead, trying to catch one.

  “I can’t remember,” I whispered.

  four

  eva

  “LET’S GET YOU to your CAT scan,” Dr. Simm said.

  The detective looked like he wanted to argue, but she silenced him with a glare. She waved to a passing nurse who entered the room. They unlocked the wheels and pushed me into the corridor, Liam following. The detective stared after us, his brow furrowed as his sharp eyes skewered me, and I turned my head away.

  “Why can’t I remember?” I tasted fear in my mouth, acrid and bitter.

  “Getting struck by lightning can injure the nervous system, causing short-term memory loss,” Dr. Simm explained as she rolled my bed down the hall. “Our brains encode new memories so they can be stored and recalled later, but if you were struck by lightning before yo
ur brain had time to encode a memory and put it into storage, you might have problems recalling it later.”

  I closed my eyes, blocking out the overhead lights. The hospital bed turned left, the wheels humming against the floor as it glided down the hall.

  “When will I remember?”

  “It’s difficult to say, and everybody’s different. Those memories might not come back at all. Just rest, give it time. The good news is you weren’t directly hit by the lightning. I would expect your memories that had a chance to be encoded will return slowly, like pieces of a puzzle slotting into place.”

  After the CAT scan, Dr. Simm wheeled me back to my room. Detective Jackson stood when we entered, his thin lips pulling into an approximation of a smile. His hard, pale eyes glinted in the jaundiced light.

  I stiffened. Liam glowered at him, his hand warm on my back, anchoring me. Dr. Simm ignored both of them. She checked my reflexes and helped me stand to make sure I could walk unassisted, then examined my left arm again. The dead feeling in my fingers was being replaced by a prickly pins-and-needles sensation; the marked skin drummed a fiery beat.

  “I need to check on some other patients,” Dr. Simm said, jotting notes in my chart. “You okay here?” Her gaze was direct, and I knew if I wanted, she’d get rid of the detective. But I needed answers only he could provide, so I nodded.

  “Hello again, Miss Hansen,” the detective began. He rummaged in his coat pocket, pulling out a black pen and a small spiral notebook. He clicked the pen, in and out. Click, click. “Eva, can I call you Eva?”

  I nodded, but Liam shook his head. He pulled himself to his full height. He was a head taller than the detective—bigger and broader too, his chest solid from mornings rowing in the misty lake at the bottom of our yard.

  “This isn’t a good time, Detective,” Liam said. He was using the boomy, authoritative voice he usually reserved for his building sites, low and loud for maximum effect.

  “I understand, but I do need to ask Eva a few questions. Who are you?”

  “I’m Eva’s fiancé. Liam Sullivan.” He extended his hand and the detective shook it.

 

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