Behind Every Lie

by Christina McDonald

  He babbled on and on about a vacation to Vancouver and his plans for extending the greenhouse, and then I lost the thread of what he was saying. I couldn’t concentrate on his words.

  I tried to remember the psychological symptoms Dr. Simm had told me I might experience. Was trouble concentrating one of them? Why was Liam talking about Vancouver? I seriously couldn’t give any less of a fuck what he did with the greenhouse.

  I staggered to the bathroom to pee. I flushed and turned the faucet on, letting the cool water run over my wrists and splashing it on my pink cheeks. I used my damp fingers to smooth my disheveled hair.

  The feel of my fingers on my hair called up a memory so powerful it twisted something in my stomach. I was sitting on the floor at Mom’s feet in a bedroom I didn’t recognize. Mom was sitting on the bed as she slowly, steadily pulled a brush through my long hair. Delightful chills chased up my neck as the brush scraped over my scalp. When she finished, I asked if I could brush her hair. We switched places, her on the floor, me on the bed, the brush in my hands.

  I could hear my child voice in my head: “Why’s your hair yellow and mine’s red?”

  “Red hair is caused by an MC1R mutation found on chromosome sixteen,” she’d replied.

  “What’s a moo-tation?” I asked.

  She’d blinked at me like she’d suddenly realized where she was. Her face softened. “It means when you were a baby, a fairy kissed you right here.” She tapped me on my nose. “She knew that redheads are the warriors of the world, and it would make you brave and brilliant and bold. Her kiss turned your hair red.”

  It was such a trivial memory, but it opened a floodgate. White pain sliced into my heart, tears blurring my vision, turning the bathroom to a pastel watercolor. I cried and cried and cried.

  When I was finished, I stared in the mirror at my puffy face, my eyes glossy with moisture, my lips twisted and bloodless. Who was that woman in the mirror? Was that Laura? Because this other woman, Eva, didn’t recognize her at all.

  I splashed cool water on my throbbing eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm myself. Back in the kitchen, Liam was checking his phone, his forehead furrowed. When I came in, he set it on the island, sweetly not commenting on my bloated face and puffy eyes.

  I staggered to my chair at the island and sat heavily. My glass was nearly empty, so I refilled it and took another glug of wine.

  “What’s that sound?” Liam asked, tilting his head as he listened. I didn’t hear anything.

  Liam left the kitchen, but returned a second later. “Did you leave the bathroom faucet on?”

  I tried to say I didn’t think so, but couldn’t get the words out right. “Don thshso.”

  Liam threw me a strange look. “It’s fine, I’ve turned it off now. Do you want to go to bed? You look pretty wiped out.”

  What I really wanted was to gather everything I felt and bury it somewhere I never had to think about again.

  Liam’s phone buzzed, and he checked it again. I wanted to ask if everything was okay, but the adrenaline that had carried me through the past few days had seeped away, leaving me empty and drained. The walls seemed to slip and slide around me, an odd shuffling of images stacking and shifting.

  I couldn’t face another moment awake. I lowered my head to the cool island surface, a shadowy blackness stealing across my vision.

  “Eva?” I heard Liam’s voice from very far away. “Babe, are you okay?”

  My head was thudding, a thickening, soupy mess. My mouth tasted like the smell of freshly poured asphalt. My fingers felt detached from my body, floating light as a feather. And then Liam’s strong arms were lifting me, carrying me like a child up the stairs, to our bedroom.

  I closed my eyes, falling toward sleep the way a stone sinks into water, hard and fast. My last thought before darkness folded around me was the realization that my brother had the key to Mom’s house.

  Andrew would’ve easily had access to her tea canister.

  thirty-one

  eva

  MY DREAMS WERE DARK and terrifying. I was running toward a frozen lake edged by a black winter forest. Someone’s breath was on my shoulder. I stepped onto the ice, skidding across the surface. Footsteps slapped behind me.

  Suddenly a crack cut the air, sharp as a whip. The ground beneath me disappeared and I slid into the lake, icy water filling my nose and mouth.

  “Help!” I screamed, thrashing to stay afloat.

  Somebody was there, the faceless man from my nightmares. He grabbed one of my arms and pulled. Hard.

  POP!

  My arm snapped out of its socket, and he reached for the other one.

  “No!” I gurgled, water filling my mouth.

  He grabbed the other arm and tugged until it popped off too.

  I was sinking, fear and outrage filling me. Fingers tangled in my hair, and for a second I thought he’d save me. But then I realized he was trying to yank my head off.

  I woke with a start, my heart pounding like a winged beast.

  I sat up too fast, the dream tumbling from my shoulders. A tsunami of pain stormed into my head.

  “Ohhh …” I pressed my hand to my temples, my stomach roiling.

  I peeled my eyelids open. The blankets on Liam’s side of the bed were already pulled up, tucked in. The pillow was straightened in his efficient, organized way.

  What the actual fuck had happened to me? I felt like I’d been poisoned. A blurry memory of finishing off a bottle of wine, then the floating sensation of being carried upstairs crashed into me.

  I’m never drinking again.

  Like I hadn’t said that before.

  The bedroom curtains had been pulled open, shadows tangling along the dove-gray walls. I had that prickly, itchy feeling that someone was there, watching me, standing just outside my window perched in a tree, maybe, or on the drainpipe. I knew it was stupid, totally insane, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  There’s no one there, I told myself.

  Fear eventually beat nausea, and I pulled myself out of bed and over to the window, peering out, just to make sure. The balcony was empty. The tree just beyond the bedroom empty. So was the drainpipe, the yard, the lake beyond. A handful of dead leaves shivered in the breeze. The sun was already high in the sky, white clouds skittering by.

  How long had I been asleep? I had to call the lawyer, and then Detective Jackson. I guzzled a glass of water and some painkillers and made my way down the stairs.

  I stopped abruptly when I reached the landing.

  The living room had been demolished. Couch cushions were on the floor, torn and vomiting cotton fluff. The crystal vase where Liam kept his black roses was smashed, slivers of glass glinting in the sunlight. Crushed purple-black petals were scattered across the floor. A wall clock had been ripped from its mounting above the stone fireplace and shattered against the hardwood. The books in the built-in shelves had been torn from their positions by the fireplace and scattered.

  Liam came out of the kitchen, a mug of tea in his hands. He was dressed in a navy suit, his tie draped around his neck, but he hadn’t shaved, his jaw dark with growth. Liam rarely went a day without shaving. He was very particular about his appearance. He visited a fancy barber in Seattle every second and fourth Friday of the month. He wore designer clothing and ordered expensive cologne direct from France.

  But now he looked gray and haggard.

  He didn’t smile when he saw me. His expression hovered somewhere between uneasy and upset.

  “What happened?” I gasped.

  Liam’s mouth flapped open, then closed. He lifted his shoulders, casting his eyes over the mess. He blew out a long breath while shaking his head. “You happened.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You went crazy last night, Eva.”

  “I did this?” Guilt surged as what I’d done hit me full in the throat. “I-I don’t remember. Last thing I knew I was in the kitchen watching you cook. And then you carried me ups
tairs.”

  Liam nodded, his blue eyes shadowed. The fine lines around his eyes were more pronounced than usual. “But you woke up. You came downstairs and said you had to go see the detective. You were obviously exhausted and pretty drunk so I tried to stop you. You went absolutely ballistic.”

  His words bolted down my spine.

  “I’m sorry,” I whispered.

  “You were pretty pissed at me. And you said you were scared of this Sebastian guy. I swear, Eva, I didn’t even recognize you.”

  I sank onto the steps and pulled my knees to my chest, remembering how I’d started to pass out in the kitchen, my mind drifting in and out like the tide. I dug my fingers into the thick pile, gripping it to keep me in place.

  “I don’t know what to say. I’m so, so sorry.”

  His forehead was creased with that intense look of concern that’d become familiar lately. He handed me the mug of tea and knelt in front of me. He tugged the zipper of my hoodie up, pushing the hair from my forehead.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not the greatest,” I admitted.

  “Well, I’ve organized some things that might help. Come look.” He helped me to my feet and tugged me around the broken glass to the front door. He pulled it open. The sunlight sliced through my retinas, too bright for my fragile brain. I shaded my eyes and squinted in the direction he was pointing.

  “Motion detector floodlights. I’ve installed them at the front and the back of the house so if anybody approaches, we’ll see them. I’ve also changed the locks and put in a dead bolt and a chain on all the doors: front, back, and the one in the garage. And, best of all, I’ve called an alarm installation company. They’ll be here tomorrow. I got the premium package: video monitoring, two-way intercom, panic buttons. Everything you need to feel safe. And it’ll all be hooked up to their central monitoring system.” He smiled, looking proud of all the manly things he’d accomplished. “What do you think?”

  “Wo-wow,” I stuttered. I took a giant sip of scalding tea, trying to give myself time to answer.

  Liam threw his arms up in the air and pulled away from me. I’d offended him. “What’s wrong? You said you were scared. You said you were afraid someone’s been following you. I wanted to help. I just want you to feel safe.”

  “You’re right.” I rushed to fill the space widening between us. “This is great. Thank you.”

  He pulled me inside and threw the new dead bolt shut, slid the chain into place.

  I should’ve been grateful he’d gone to all this trouble to make me feel safe. Liam was a nurturer. He liked taking care of me, and I’d never minded before. In fact, maybe—no, definitely—I’d encouraged it. He made me feel safe and cared for; it was one of the things I loved about him. Paying the bills, organizing life insurance, planning our meals, getting my kiln and pottery wheel set up in the garage, and driving me to and from work—he was so much better at these tasks than I was.

  So why did this bother me so much?

  Standing in the middle of the overly bright living room, all secured with locks and bolts and alarms, the sickening heat chugging out of the fireplace, I didn’t feel grateful. I just felt unsettled.

  I stared outside at the lake. It was a peculiar shade of gray, reflecting the ominous clouds hovering in the sky. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remember what I’d done last night. A shutter had fallen over my mind.

  “I can’t remember.” Nausea churned in my stomach, my breath coming in shallow bursts. Panic narrowed my vision to pinpricks. I stumbled backward, away from him. “Liam, I can’t remember any of it!”

  He reached for me, his face a mask of pity. “It’s okay.”

  I shook my head. “No, you don’t understand! Maybe this is what happened at my mom’s! Maybe I snapped. Maybe I went crazy and accidentally …”

  My legs went weak and I collapsed onto my knees, my eyes squeezed shut. I was shaking so hard my teeth were chattering. When I opened my eyes, my distorted reflection shimmered in the shards of the crystal vase shattered across the hardwood floor.

  thirty-two

  kat

  17 years before

  OVER THE NEXT EIGHT YEARS, I learned that time is an intractable thing, barreling on no matter how broken our hearts or minds. At times I wanted to curl up and die. To just give up. But my children demanded I live, and so I did. I could not allow bitterness to wear me down.

  Mike and I settled in Seattle with Eva and our son, Andrew. I went to university and became a high school physics teacher. We were mostly happy, I certainly cannot lie about that.

  Eva easily forgot about her life before America. Only now is research about childhood memories becoming clearer: children can remember events before the age of three when they’re small, but by the time they turn seven, those memories are lost, sometimes forever, in the neurons of their developing minds.

  No, I did not worry about Eva. I, on the other hand, would never forget.

  * * *

  “Eva, stop faffing about!” I shouted up the stairs. “You mustn’t dally or we’ll be late for school!”

  Eva slunk down the stairs, the hallway light glinting off her hair. She’d dyed it a horrific black after we’d moved out of Mike’s house last month, as if she were in mourning.

  “What is this?” I waved at her outfit: a form-fitting T-shirt and a short blue skirt with long fringes that swayed when she moved. On her feet were shiny black lace-up ankle boots. “We just bought you new trousers and that lovely pink sweater-vest.”

  “You chose it, Mom. I didn’t. I don’t want to dress like I’m fifty.”

  I scowled. I didn’t dress like I was fifty. I punched my arms into my coat sleeves, trying not to feel foolish.

  “Brilliant,” I muttered. It was too late for her to change. “You look like a bloody lampshade.”

  Her hand moved to her mouth, her teeth worrying at her nails. I grabbed her hand and examined the ragged nails.

  “Look at this! You mustn’t bite your nails, Eva! Do I need to make you wear gloves again?”

  I tried to be understanding, but honestly, it was such a filthy habit! Last year she’d chewed her nails so badly one became infected. Nothing I did got her to stop—foul-tasting polish, cutting them short, manicures, gloves. She hated the gloves the most.

  “No!” She folded her hands under her armpits. “I’ll try harder, Mom, I swear. Do you have gum?”

  I rummaged in my handbag and handed her a new pack of Trident.

  “Thank you.” She slid her coat on, grabbed her backpack, and headed for the door.

  “And it’s Mum, not Mom!” I called after her. I grabbed my keys from the hallway key rack. “Don’t forget Dad’s picking you up from school today. You’re staying at his house this weekend.”

  Her eyes darkened. At twelve years old, she was in the fever of prepubescence, her emotions a wild bevy of ups and downs. Or perhaps it was simply our divorce at the root of these flashes of petulance. Either way, Eva was no longer as eager to please as she’d been when she was small. We rowed frequently, and sometimes it felt as if we would draw blood. It rather seemed like a familiar text had turned into hieroglyphics without warning.

  “Can’t I stay here?” she whined.

  “Certainly. If you want to help me paint and unpack.”

  She looked at the boxes still stacked in haphazard groups around the house. After years of not touching the money Rose had given us, I had withdrawn the funds necessary to purchase our new home. I had no other choice, really. I hadn’t saved enough during my marriage to Mike to afford a house, and now I was on my own again.

  Quite a lot of work was needed on the three-bedroom Queen Anne–style house. But I loved it: the homey shutters on the windows, the sloping front yard and white picket fence, the decorative wainscoting and carved crown moldings. Mostly I loved that it was mine and mine alone. I no longer depended on a man for my security, and I swore I never would again.

  “Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll suffer t
hrough Dad’s for the weekend.”

  I rolled my eyes. Eva was a champion sulker.

  “You might have fun. He’s chuffed to bits you’re staying the whole weekend.”

  Eva slid her backpack over her coat, and we headed outside. Water was coming down in sheets from the sky, standing pools gathering on the pavement. We both groaned.

  “Shall I drive you to the bus stop?” I offered.

  “Yes, please!”

  We got in the car and I pulled onto the suburban street, glancing in my rearview mirror every few minutes, an old habit I could not shake, even though I had never seen any sign of Seb in Seattle. Eva fiddled with the radio, landing on a rather appalling electro beat.

  I winced. “It sounds like a record skipping.”

  “What’s a record?” she asked. I looked at her, horrified. Was she serious? I opened my mouth to ask, but she turned the music up, blocking me out.

  “Why isn’t Andrew coming over to our house this weekend?” she asked after a minute.

  I turned the music down. “You were both here last weekend. You know it’s every other weekend.”

  “Andrew’s almost always at Dad’s,” she pointed out.

  “He’s still in school near there. It’s just easier.”

  “Is it because I’m not his real daughter?” she asked quietly, teeth at her nails again.

  I gave her a stern look. “Eva, that’s absurd.” I swiped her hand away from her mouth. “Your dad loves you and Andrew equally and you know it. It doesn’t matter if you’re biologically his or not. You’re his daughter in every way that’s important.”

  I had told Eva from the time she was small that her own father had died in a fire when she was a baby. But since the divorce, she’d been questioning Mike’s love more and more.

  “Hey, look, there’s Jacob!” Eva brightened, pointing at a lanky, dark-haired youth in a jean jacket walking on the sidewalk. “Mom, pull over. Let’s give him a ride.”

  I recognized the boy as one of our neighbors and did as she asked. Eva was already rolling the window down and calling out to him. The boy had one of those utterly ridiculous bowl haircuts, the ends tatty and uneven, as if he had cut it himself.