Never Tell A Lie

by Gail Schimmel

  ‘And you remember,’ April continues, ‘the bus was full and someone had to sit with me. And one by one, everyone climbed on. And then there were only three places left, the one next to me and two together. And you and Beth got on the bus, and you were chatting and laughing and I knew you’d go and sit together and then whoever was behind you would have to sit with me, and they might freak out. And then you paused, and you kind of looked around and took in the situation. And I saw you touch Beth on the arm and nod towards me. And Beth rolled her eyes and went and sat down in one of the two seats away from me, and you came and sat with me. And you said, ‘Don’t worry, April. This too shall pass.’

  ‘This too shall pass’ is one of my dad’s stock phrases. He brings it out whenever there basically isn’t anything he can do about a situation, which is any situation involving emotions. But the fact that April remembers this shows me that it is a genuine memory. It is very likely that I would have said this to her as she faced . . . well, whatever it was she faced. It’s also likely I would have said it even if I had no idea what had happened but just wanted to make her feel generically better. And, whatever it was, it clearly has passed.

  ‘It just gave me so much strength,’ says April now, touching my arm. Her hand feels like a butterfly, unsure and light. ‘I just kept saying it to myself again and again. And eventually, it turned out you were right. It did pass. And it still helps me now.’

  ‘Things do,’ I say. ‘But I’m glad that it helped you.’ I try to say this as if I absolutely remember the incident. ‘And look at you now,’ I say. ‘You’ve done so well. You’re so gorgeous. Everything worked out.’

  April is about to reply when Bronwyn taps her glass again. ‘Okay,’ she yells. ‘Time for a swoparoo! Change groups. Pronto!’

  I squeeze April’s arm, and then turn to see who my new partner will be.

  Chapter 8

  Across from me, Linda has turned from speaking to Michelle to speaking to Steve. And Michelle is already leaning forward to speak to April across the table. I feel a strange stab of jealousy, like April is mine and I don’t want to share her. But then I realise that I’ll be talking to Joshua now. I feel almost nervous, like I’m still at school and he’s still the hot guy.

  ‘My memory of you is easy,’ I say, before he has to admit that he doesn’t remember me.

  He laughs. ‘Just one memory of me! I’m gutted.’

  I blush. ‘No, no.’ I stumble over my words. ‘I remember a lot about you. But the one memory stands out.’

  ‘Tell me?’ He’s smiling like a boy about to receive a gift.

  ‘I sprained my ankle,’ I say. ‘And you carried me to the sick room. Like a hero.’

  ‘I remember that,’ he says. ‘I had such a crush on you after that. Every day I would go home and promise myself I would ask you out the next day. And then I’d lose my nerve completely. I was such a dork. And then you started going out with Dustin and I wanted to kill him.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ I say. ‘You did not have a crush on me.’

  ‘I did. I was obsessed. I lay awake at night plotting how I could bump into you. My mom thought I was coming down with something.’

  ‘I had a crush on you too,’ I say, laughing. ‘A really big one.’

  ‘But you went out with Dustin!’ Joshua actually looks pale. I can’t help laughing again.

  ‘Yes, he asked me. And it seemed easier because I knew you didn’t like me back.’

  ‘But I did! Oh God, I can’t believe this,’ says Joshua. I can’t actually tell if he is genuinely upset or amused, because he’s laughing but he’s also looking really shocked. ‘It could have played out so different.’

  ‘It could have ended terribly, like all those high school things did, and we’d be sitting here cringing,’ I say.

  ‘Or we could have lived happily ever after and be sitting here with five children and a . . . a . . . herd of Labradors.’

  ‘A herd of Labradors?’

  ‘Or parrots maybe. I don’t know. I don’t know what you’d prefer. Whether you’re a dog sort of girl or a parrot sort of girl. All that missed knowledge. I could cry,’ he says.

  ‘I’m kind of glad not to have five kids,’ I say. ‘Just the one is hard enough. And could we maybe have settled for one or two Labradors?’

  We both start laughing. ‘So,’ I say. ‘What memory would you have shared of me?’

  ‘Probably the same one,’ says Joshua.

  We clink glasses. My tummy feels fizzy; I never thought I’d feel this again. I’m not really sure how to handle it; where the conversation should go next.

  Luckily, the strident tones of Bronwyn interrupt us again. ‘I’ll leave you all to share your memories with your whole table now,’ she yells. ‘Tables of two, maybe you can . . .’ She suddenly seems at a bit of a loss. ‘Swap? Sit together? Whatever.’ She pauses a moment, looking suddenly vulnerable. Then she perks up. ‘Starters will be served in five minutes, people.’ She touches her cleavage, as if she’s worried it might have escaped.

  I glance across at where Stacey is sitting with Marissa. They are deep in conversation. I don’t know if they’ve even taken part in Bronwyn’s ice-breakers. I turn back to my new-old friends.

  Linda and Steve seem to be sharing Steve’s memories with the table. ‘Tell them about the art teacher, Steve,’ says Linda, nudging him with her elbow.

  ‘So, the art teacher . . . What was her name? Big, very red hair? Anyway, we had to do pictures of each other’s faces. We were in pairs. D’you remember?’ He doesn’t really give us a chance to answer, but I actually do remember this project clearly. I was paired with a girl called Samantha, and she had the most terrible acne. The teacher kept saying, ‘Look closely. Look at all the colours! Capture all the colours in your friend’s face. Don’t be afraid of using green or blue or yellow.’ I wasn’t afraid of green or blue or yellow. It was all the red that was bothering me.

  Steve continues. ‘So, she wanted us to use all the colours we could see in each other’s faces, and me and Edwin Tshabalala had been put together, predictably, and all the colours that she had put out were pink and peach and reds and blues and greys and greens. So we looked at each other for a long time, and then eventually we called her over and said that maybe we needed a wider range of colours.’ Steve starts sniggering at this point, as does Linda who has heard the story already. ‘So,’ he says, struggling to catch his breath, ‘so, she brings us one brown pencil. One! And then . . .’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘Then she takes all the other colours away.’ He’s laughing again. ‘We drew pictures that ended up looking like Easter eggs.’

  Linda and Steve are both guffawing so hard that they are propping each other up. But I am appalled by the story. I feel uncomfortable all over. If something like this happened at Django’s school, there would be such an outcry. I’m retrospectively ashamed of us all.

  ‘Did anyone say anything?’ I ask. ‘Did any of us realise how wrong it was?’

  Steve’s still laughing, but he stops when I ask. I think he can see I am upset. He reaches over and squeezes my hand. ‘No, Mary,’ he says. ‘No one noticed and no one asked. That’s how it was back then. It wasn’t like now. Although . . .’ He starts to chuckle. ‘Although the teacher did look rather nonplussed by our Easter egg drawings.’

  The waiter delivers starters – ubiquitous focaccia and salad for the table, and once we have all served ourselves, the talk drifts. Sometimes we talk as a group and sometimes I chat to April and Joshua only. As the evening stretches on, other people get up and wander around – finding old friends to catch up with, moving seats. By the time the main course is served – a choice between spaghetti bolognaise and spaghetti arrabbiata – Bronwyn’s carefully drawn up seating plan has mostly disintegrated. But our table remains. We’ve all stood up to greet other people, and spent a minute or two catching up, but we keep returning. There is something in the dynamic of the six of us that works, even though we weren’t particularly friends at school.
/>   Of the six, it is April that I keep coming back to. She’s funny, in a self-deprecating way that I like; and everything we talk about, we seem to agree on. It might be that we both have kids the same age, and I find myself telling her a bit about my struggles with Django. She listens intently, sharing some of her own experiences and asking questions that make me think. I notice that she never tells me what she thinks I should do; she asks. And she is interested when I respond. I feel good talking to her. Even when she asks about Travis, and I repeat ‘car accident’ and then move on, she knows better than to push me; she just nods. ‘Awful,’ she says, and asks more about Django.

  By the time the evening ends, it feels like I have made a whole new group of friends, and the feeling seems to be mutual, because we all swap phone numbers and hug each other like we’re each other’s nearest and dearest. It’s late when we end – about 2 a.m. – and I’m anxious to get home to my dad. Stacey and Marissa don’t seem able to say goodbye to each other; they are both crying and hugging as I stand nearby, waiting. I’ve called the Uber and it’s probably outside, and Stacey’s acting like a teenager. April waits with me, a small smile on her face.

  ‘I guess they’ve done some catching up,’ she says. ‘Let bygones be bygones after what happened at school.’

  ‘You remember that?’ I’m surprised. I only know about it because Stacey has told me; I wouldn’t have had a clue at school.

  ‘Of course I remember,’ says April. ‘It was huge.’ She laughs. ‘God, all that drama. To think we have to navigate our kids through that. I can’t bear it.’

  I laugh and spontaneously hug her. ‘I’ve really loved seeing you tonight,’ I say. ‘I hope we can get together again?’ I don’t mean for it to come out as a question, but it does.

  ‘For sure,’ says April warmly.

  Finally, Stacey is ready, and we climb into the Uber, Stacey stumbling slightly. She’s had a lot to drink.

  ‘Who was that?’ she says, indicating April, who is waving from the pavement.

  ‘April Short,’ I say. ‘April Goldstein now. You must remember her?’

  ‘Name rings a bell,’ says Stacey, yawning. ‘Good night?’

  ‘It really was,’ I say. ‘You?’

  Stacey squeezes my hand. ‘It was so cathartic, Mary,’ she says, slurring slightly. ‘Thanks for understanding that I needed to be with Marissa.’

  ‘No problem,’ I say, squeezing back. ‘I’m glad that it was good.’ We don’t speak more on the ride, both caught up in our own thoughts.

  At home, Stacey goes straight to the bedroom, knocking her elbow against the doorframe as she disappears down the passage. My dad is asleep on the couch amidst a sea of dirty plates, DVD covers and a half-finished game of Monopoly. He looks so peaceful, and kind of vulnerable. I stand watching him for a moment, almost how I watch Django when he sleeps. My dad has been through so much, with everything he’s done for me. I lean down and kiss his forehead, but this wakes him up.

  ‘What?’ he yells, sitting up quickly and bumping his head hard against mine.

  I leap back, cowering, instinctual, before I quickly pull myself together. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ I say, rubbing my head. ‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.’ He looks over at me, taking in my stance, and my shaking hands.

  ‘Oh, baby,’ he says. He gets up and walks over to me, putting his arms around me. ‘Oh, baby, you’re okay.’

  I hug him back, glad that Stacey went straight to my room and hasn’t witnessed this.

  ‘I know, Daddy,’ I say.

  ‘So,’ he says, stepping back a bit to look at me. ‘Have a fun time? Make any friends? Meet any men?’

  I laugh. ‘You’re incorrigible,’ I say.

  His eyebrows – bushy and smattered with long white hairs – shoot up. ‘You met someone,’ he says.

  I blush, because Joshua’s face has inexplicably appeared in my mind. ‘No,’ I say. ‘But I had a lovely time and maybe I made some new friends. Or old friends. I’m glad I went.’

  ‘See, I told you,’ he says, although he hadn’t told me anything of the sort.

  ‘Thanks for watching the boys,’ I say. ‘I’m sure that Stacey would thank you too if she was sober enough to stay standing. You’re hands down the best, Dad.’

  But there’s a coil of unease in my stomach as I look at him. He got a postcard from my mother after she is supposed to have died. And I have to ask him about it. Soon.

  Chapter 9

  I wake up thinking about April. The others too, but it is April that my mind circles back to. There was something really relaxing about her company. Something I haven’t felt for a long time. I glance at Stacey, who is gently snoring next to me. Stacey’s a good friend. I like her. She’s been there for me through a lot. But there’s not that extra something; that feeling of deep connection. Last night, I had that with April. I sigh. The problem is that I know myself well – I’m not going to have the courage to get in touch with her and arrange to do something. Once, I might have been that person, but not since I met Travis. And certainly not since he died. Now I’m a person who sits back, scared of rejection.

  I swing my legs off the bed and feel a slight headache as I sit up. I guess I drank more than I thought. As I’m about to stand up, both boys come barrelling into the room and leap on the bed, knocking over the photos I keep on the bedside table: one of my father, several of Django, and one faded print of my mother holding me when I was a baby – a different one from the one I found in the books. It’s always been next to my bed. When I was a child, I stared at it for hours, trying to will her back to life. That picture carried all my hopes and fantasies and pain. I straighten the picture and I think of the other one, lying with that postcard in the drawer of the bedside table. I have to find out what it all means. Stacey groans and pulls the blanket over her head.

  ‘Come on, boys,’ I say. ‘Let’s leave Stace to sleep and go get some brekkie. Django – take your retainer out – you look like a rabid rugby player.’

  By the time a pale Stacey has emerged and eaten, gathered up Aiden, thanked me and left, it’s almost eleven. I let Django choose a movie on Netflix, and finally get a chance to lie down. I haven’t checked my phone since I woke up, so I do so now, my head resting on a pile of scatter cushions, my feet buried in the warmth of the duvet. Usually if I leave my phone for a long time, there might be a missed call from my dad (which there is) and possibly a WhatsApp from Stacey when she got home (this one thanks me for ‘everything’) and maybe a few posts from Django’s school WhatsApp group and the WhatsApp group for the road that I live in (and, indeed, Jayne wants to know if the boys have rugby on Monday, Chantelle wants to know what’s in the Afrikaans test, Val down the road wants to know if it’s just her power that is off, and Eric has told her that it is indeed just her, and she has expressed her frustration with a strongly worded message saying, ‘Oh botherations’).

  But today there is more. On the group Linda made last night, she’s posted a whole lot of photos she took at our table. I don’t know if I’m the only person who does this, but I look at myself first. Is my neck looking saggy? Are my crow’s feet showing? How was my hair? I’m surprised to see how good I look – I usually hate myself in photos. But I’m animated and smiling in all the pictures. There’s one of me deep in conversation with Joshua, our heads almost touching; and another where it looks like I’m explaining something to April, my hands gesturing, and she’s laughing. There are others, but I save those two to my phone. They make me happy.

  I’ve also got a message from April. I feel a tingle of excitement as I open it.

  I loved catching up last night. How about coffee on Wednesday at 11, at the Exclusive Books in Rosebank?

  I love this message. I love the way that she hasn’t done that thing where you say, ‘Let’s do coffee sometime’ and the other person then says ‘Yes!’ and then nobody ever follows up on it. Also, she seems to have listened really well to me, because I talked about how I sometimes work at the coffee shop at Exclus
ive Books in Rosebank. And I like the decisiveness of her approach. No nonsense going back and forth with ‘What suits you?’; just a firm and clear instruction. But mostly, I like that she wants to see me again enough to set a time and place, because I wouldn’t have had the courage to do it myself.

  I reply with a thumbs-up emoji, and I say, I would love that. See you then.

  I grab my Moleskine from where it’s lying next to my bed and write the appointment in. I can’t help myself, I put a smiley face next to it, and then I go back to my messages.

  There’s one more, and this one is from Joshua. It’s oddly formal.

  Hi Mary. Joshua Botha here. Would you like to have dinner with me next Friday night?

  Good God – I’m being asked out on a date. I didn’t even know people still did that – Stacey’s given me the impression that it’s all swiping left and right and having one-night stands with men with strange fetishes, feeling like crap the next morning and then starting all over again. I haven’t dated since Travis died, and obviously didn’t date while I was married to him – whatever he thought – so this is completely new territory.

  I message Stacey because that’s what I always do.

  Joshua Botha asked me on a date.

  Stacey’s response confirms what I thought.

  A date? How high school. Remember to cyber stalk him beforehand. And wear nice underwear. Now please excuse me, I need to vomit again.

  I laugh. She’s presuming that I’ll go.

  I phone my dad.

  ‘So,’ I say. ‘Thanks for last night. I’m really grateful.’

  ‘No problem,’ he says. ‘I love time with Django. Despite his ridiculous name. Anytime.’

  I smile. My dad won’t miss any opportunity to have a go at me about Django’s name. My dad likes a good sensible name. A good sensible Irish name, he would explain. Like Irish people have had for centuries, and why should that change just because they left the homeland? Names like Mary, he will say. That is apparently the pinnacle of what a name should be: plain, saint-like and something Irish aunties have been called for centuries. These are, of course, all reasons why I hate my name. When I was a teenager, struggling to find my identity, I always felt weighed down by my name. Plain old Mary. Or worse, Mare. I wanted to be called Camilla or Imogen or Valentina. Names that could give a person wings, take them on an adventure. What hope did a girl called Mary have, except to get married, have babies and do the dishes? I still wonder, if I’d had just a slightly more exciting name, whether maybe I wouldn’t have settled so often.