Tell me to Lie

by Charlotte Byrd

  I finish one cup of mint tea and quickly follow it up with another. The hours spent in the car have chilled my body to the bone and I’m having a harder time than usual warming myself up.

  I search the cabinets for something yummy to eat. I go past the dry granola and the power bars and skip over the chocolate candy and sour lemon drops.

  Then, at the back of the cupboard I find last year’s marshmallows. They are thick and oversized, big enough to put on a stick to make s’mores. I impale one with a fork and turn on the lower right hand burner. I watch the marshmallow melt and get darker around the edges as I move it up and down to even out the heat distribution. When it’s a nice shade of brown with edges that are almost black, I blow on it to cool it off and then bite into it.

  I’ve never shared a marshmallow with Nicholas and I wonder about his technique. Does he wait for it to brown all over or is he one of those super patient people who will keep it just far enough from the flame to melt the inside without toasting the outside? The one time I’ve ever had one of those, it practically melted in my mouth. It was the most delicious thing I’ve ever had but as soon as I finished it, I also realized that I did not have the energy or the dedication to make them this way.

  “What if I looked into his ex-girlfriend’s murder?” I ask myself, biting into another marshmallow that’s soft and chewy on the outside and hard and cold on the inside. “Maybe that would give me a glimpse into why the FBI is connecting those two crimes?”

  I go into it knowing full well what it is that I have to do but not wanting to do it.

  I haven’t been to my mother’s house in a long time. Frankly, I thought that maybe I would just go through the rest of my life never seeing her again. A part of me was hoping I could, but another part gnawed at my conscience.

  She is the woman who raised me and even though I know she could have done a better job and I blame her for the fact that she hadn’t, I can’t help but still find some love for her.

  It’s so easy for others to say to just cut out the toxic people from your life, but it’s a very difficult thing to do.

  The people that get entrenched the deepest are those who are tied to your childhood. They are those who raised you and those who you cannot erase because that would mean erasing every part of who you used to be.

  My mother is no different. She is selfish and self-absorbed and yet occasionally she gives me these glimpses of love and I allow myself to sustain life on them. It’s not healthy and sometime in the future, I will finally commit to some therapy and force myself to examine everything that I have been burying deep inside. Today is not one of those days.

  Today, I’m coming to her for answers. I need her help but I can’t ask her for it directly.

  She is the type of person who will take every advantage and if she knew that I needed her for something, she would make me pay dearly for that information, partly to get me back for abandoning her and partly just out of spite.

  I show up without warning. If she’s surprised, she doesn’t let it show when she opens the door.

  Instead, I walk right into the middle of the conversation with her telling me about the next door neighbor and how obsessed she is with her tree.

  They had a friendly relationship up until now but apparently my mother’s healthy tree somehow got in the way. The neighbor has decided that the tree is a hazard and needs to be taken down but my mother hired a tree doctor and confirmed that it is, in fact, healthy and should live for decades more. When the neighbor insisted that she take it down anyway, my mother fought back.

  I wasn’t aware of this argument but she quickly catches me up while insisting that I heat her up a frozen dinner of macaroni and cheese. We fall into our old traditions so easily that I have to physically stop myself from folding her laundry and putting it away while we talk.

  “Listen, I need to talk to you about Owen’s ex-girlfriend.”

  “Oh, you mean the one that Owen thinks your boyfriend killed.”

  I feel anger start to rise up to the surface, but I take a deep breath to keep it at bay.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about what happened in California?” she asks.

  14

  Olive

  When I ask her for help…

  She thinks this question is going to take me by surprise but, of course, it doesn’t.

  I knew that she would never give me an answer free of charge, so to speak. If I want something from her, I have to give her something in return.

  “I met my biological mother,” I say sternly, looking straight into her eyes.

  “So, I guess you know now,” she says with a smirk. “And you’re what, mad at me?”

  “Not so much mad but disappointed. Why did you keep this from me?”

  “I needed your respect. Kids need to respect their parents and there was no way you were going to listen to anything I said if you knew the truth.”

  I search her face for any inkling as to whether or not she is telling me the truth. Is she being serious?

  “You lied to me about being my adoptive mother because you didn’t think I would respect you?” I ask. “Don’t you know that you get respect when you earn it?”

  “Well, that’s where I went wrong with you. I was always too lenient and that’s why you turned out the way that you did.”

  I shake my head and look down at the pile of laundry on the edge of the bed. It’s hard to tell whether it’s clean or dirty and smelling it doesn’t help matters.

  “So, how is she? Is she everything you could have wanted?”

  “She is…quite wonderful actually.”

  “Oh, yeah, then why the hell did she give you up?”

  “She didn’t. Her father took me away from her when she had an emergency C-section and she spent years looking for me. And he paid you a very generous amount to keep your mouth shut, didn’t he?”

  This conversation is going well off kilter but I can’t help myself. Sometimes, the right thing has to be said even if it’s at the wrong time.

  “That is not what happened,” my mother insists but the expression on her face says otherwise.

  An emptiness comes into her eyes, the kind that’s difficult if not impossible to blink away. She tries but instead I see a small tear form somewhere in the corner. So, there it is, huh. Perhaps she is human after all.

  “You got Owen arrested, didn’t you?” she says, clearing her throat and with one move erasing every last hope of humanity within her.

  I don’t know how much she knows but I have nothing to hide.

  “He attacked me, pretty badly. He stalked me. Tried to rape me. Probably wanted to kill me.”

  My mom laughs and waves her hand as if I have just said the most unbelievable thing.

  “Oh, please, you’ve always had such a flair for the dramatic.”

  There has never been a statement that has been less true. Even as a kid, I hardly ever told stories, and made them up even more rarely. Tears come to my eyes but I push them away.

  “Tell me about his girlfriend,” I say, pressing my nails into my thigh to stop myself from crying.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything. Everything.”

  “They were in love, or thought they were. Then they broke up. Or maybe she broke up with him. Then he heard that she was dating someone else, your Nicholas. He heard stories about him, about how dangerous and volatile he could be. He didn’t want her to get hurt. He followed her a lot, trying to protect her. It didn’t work, I guess.”

  The nonchalant way that she states these ‘facts’ send shivers up my spine. There is some truth in the story but she has reconstructed most of it in such a way that it's hard to tell what’s true and what’s false.

  On the far end of the dresser, there’s an extensive collection of pill bottles and Mom grabs one. Unscrewing the top, she dumps a few into her cupped palm. I want to stop her but I don’t want to make this night even worse. She will just fight me on it and then refuse to tell me anything
else. No, this is one battle I won’t engage in tonight.

  I watch her down the pills and wait for her to continue. But she doesn’t.

  “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  She shakes her head.

  “Nicholas didn’t do this.”

  “Owen thinks he did.”

  I shake my head.

  “Is there anyone else who was there?”

  Mom lifts her chin in the air and thinks about it for a moment.

  “Well, I’m sure you’ve talked to Pink Eye already, right?”

  I furrow my brow. When I ask her who that is, she just starts to laugh.

  “C’mon, you must remember Pink Eye. He and Owen were best friends back then. He’d know more for sure and if he’s not locked up somewhere, I’m sure he’ll be the one to convince you that Nicholas is bad news.”

  “Pink Eye? That’s his name?” I ask.

  “Yep, pretty dumb, huh?” She smiles. “He got pink eye when he was a kid and the name stuck somehow. They were really close once. Robbed a lot of people together, but then he just disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  “Don’t know. I asked around a bit all of those years ago, but no one from that old neighborhood knows a thing. He wasn’t even there that night that Owen got arrested.”

  I stare at her, thinking through everything that she’s saying. I wonder if she even realizes the gravity of her own words.

  If Pink Eye was Owen’s best friend from back then and then suddenly he just took off, disappeared, maybe he was the one who killed Owen’s girlfriend?

  She reaches for a packet of potato chips and flips on the television.

  “Are we done here?” she asks. “My show is starting soon.”

  “But I have so many more questions now,” I protest.

  “I don’t care.” She shakes her head, ushering me toward the door. “I’m done talking.”

  “Okay, okay, I’m going,” I say, throwing my arms up. “One last thing, though.”

  She rolls her eyes but doesn’t kick me out quite yet.

  “Do you know where I could find Pink Eye?” I ask. “Or his real name?"

  She stares at me for a while before she blinks. “No idea.”

  “No idea where I can find him or his real name?”

  “Both,” she says and shuts the door in my face.

  15

  Olive

  When I help her…

  The following morning, I accompany Sydney to a shop for her bridal dress. I’ve never been to one but have seen more than my share of them on television.

  The boutique is spotless and outfitted in every possible color of creme. The floor is made of marble and there’s a pedestal in the next room with a large three-panel mirror where the bride can stand and look at herself.

  Under normal circumstances, this would be a joyous occasion to share with my best friend. But this day is covered in ominous clouds. Sydney is not getting married for the right reasons, in fact she’s getting married for all of the wrong ones.

  I’ve tried to talk to her about this before and I want to say something again but now is not the right time. She knows exactly how I feel and re-stating all of those things will just make her feel worse about herself.

  No, now she needs me to be a friend and that’s exactly what I intend to do. A tiny, size zero sales associate dressed in black, from head to toe, approaches us smiling from ear to ear with her pearly whites.

  She asks Sydney a million different questions about the kind of dress she wants to get. I wait for her to waiver and hesitate but she comes right out and tells her she wants something with a mermaid cut that accentuates her hour-glass figure. The sales associate sweeps her over to their inventory against the wall and somehow peruses through the piles of identically colored dresses to pull out the ideal contenders.

  While I wait for Sydney to get changed, I lose myself in research on my phone. My mother said that she had no idea what Pink Eye’s real name was but someone has to, right? I go through Facebook and look at every person who Owen is friends with. Most of them don’t have the privacy settings set up so it’s easy for me to peruse through their friends list and look for any identifiable names.

  When I get started, I think that I might actually stumble onto someone named Pink Eye but I quickly give up that notion. After Sydney comes out in one dress that makes her look so beautiful I practically tear up, I turn my attention back to the phone and start contacting every one of his friends with the same prewritten message.

  Hi, my name is Olive Kernes and I’m Owen's sister. I am looking for an old friend of his who used to go by the name of Pink Eye. It’s very important that I get in contact with him. I hope you can help me. Do you happen to know his real name? Or a current address and/or place of employment?

  I write the message from my profile to make sure that they can confirm that I am indeed his sister and not some law enforcement officer.

  When Sydney is on her fifth dress, I put down my phone and give up on the fact that I will get a response this quickly. Not everyone is obsessed with social media, Olive, I say to myself but that doesn't mean you won’t find him.

  “I think I like this one the best,” she says, straightening out the Vera Wang dress that hugs her body in just the right places, giving her the outline of a goddess.

  “You look…amazing,” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hand.

  “Thank you,” she mumbles.

  The saleswoman looks for the tears that almost all brides get in their eyes when they find the perfect dress, but Sydney doesn’t have any.

  “Would you like to purchase it now?” she asks after a moment.

  “Do you think I should bring my mom here first?” she asks me.

  “Wouldn’t she get upset that you were already here with me?” I ask with a shrug.

  “She doesn’t have to know.”

  The saleswoman and I exchange looks.

  “So, you’re going to go through all of this again?” I ask for both of us. “Why didn’t you just bring her here right from the start?”

  “Eh, you know why.” Sydney throws up her hand. “You know how she is. I wanted to decide on the dress in a normal, supportive environment and then fight her on it and ignore every negative thing that she says about it.”

  I shake my head and smile.

  “Oh, you think that’s funny?” she asks, also starting to laugh.

  “Kind of. A little,” I admit. “I guess the thing that I find the funniest is how fucked up our moms are.”

  That’s when we both start to crack up. It might be the tiredness or the glass of champagne that’s finally hitting us, but somehow the day feels like it has been saved just a little. Maybe it’s not so bad after all, especially given that we have each other.

  “So, what do you think I should do?” she asks me when we start on our second round.

  She’s still wearing her dress, though she’s no longer standing on the pedestal.

  “About what?” I ask.

  “About my mom.”

  I look at her and lose myself in her bridal glow. Even though her groom is far from magical and their relationship is a house of cards, maybe there is some way that this dress can make up for everything.

  “Don’t bring her here,” I say. “This moment is perfect. You found your ideal dress. You look beautiful in it and you love it. You’re practically glowing, for crying out loud.”

  She laughs and twirls. The saleswoman runs over to take the glass away from her but there’s no need. Sydney is practically walking on air and there’s nothing that she can do that will bring her back down to earth.

  If she brings her mother here then she will ruin everything and make Sydney feel like shit again. And she deserves a lot more than that. She deserves only the best and I hope that one day she will find a man who appreciates everything about her as much as I do.

  “I love you, Olive,” she says, throwing her arms around my shoulders.

&nb
sp; “I love you, too, Sydney. Thank you so much for sharing this moment with me.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” she whispers into my ear. “Under any other circumstances, I’d probably raise the glass for you to find the same happiness as I have but I want to spare you the misery.”

  “Oh, c’mon, please don’t say that.” I pull her closer to me.

  She puts her head on my shoulder and starts to sob. The saleswoman quickly swoops in and takes both glasses away from us so that I can use both of my hands to hold her.

  “You’re going to be okay, Sydney. And if you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.”

  Instead of responding, she just continues to cry. I wish I could make things better but the more I talk the worse it gets.

  Even though I don’t convince her of what a terrible idea it is to marry James, she does agree not to sully the moment by bringing her mother here. After changing back into her clothes, she pulls out her wallet and puts the whole ten-thousand dollar dress on her credit card.

  “Wow, you must have one hell of a credit limit,” I joke.

  “It’s American Express,” she says.

  I furrow my brow, not sure what that’s supposed to explain.

  “There’s no limit but you have to pay the whole balance at the end of the month,” she explains. “Besides, Mom checks the bills so I’m sure that I’m going to hear about it early tomorrow morning.”

  Walking out of the bridal boutique, I get a notification that I have a new Facebook message. It’s actually about the sixth one but I haven’t had a chance to read them quite yet.

  This one is from one of the first guys I contacted on Owen’s friend list.

  Yeah, I know Pink Eye. Wow, what a blast from the past. His real name is Robert Bortham. I have no idea where he lives or what he’s doing now.