The Good Liar

by Catherine McKenzie

  She had asked a few people to direct her to the nearest Internet café, praying such things still existed. She missed her iPhone. She knew this was ridiculous, the least of her worries. But its easy access to everything she needed—everyone—had become so woven into the fabric of her life that its absence felt like a phantom limb.

  The third person she’d approached told her where she could find one. It was located on a seedy street a few blocks away. Ten dollars got her an hour online. She didn’t check her e-mail or search for news of her family. Instead, she set up a new Gmail account and spent the rest of her time looking for a place to stay and at job postings. She answered a few “looking for a sublet” ads and applied for the only positions she seemed qualified for. With her hour dwindling down, she found the cheapest hotel she could, a single room within walking distance.

  She passed a corner store on the way, one that sold cigarettes and burner phones. She purchased a cheap prepaid phone that would allow her to check her e-mail. She bought enough food for dinner and breakfast. Crackers and cheese. A waxy apple. Some cereal and milk. Then she shoved her items into her backpack and went to the hotel.

  The old man behind the counter wrote her passport number down with a blunt pencil in the large ledger that rested on the counter. He never fully took his eyes off the television that was still showing the Chicago coverage. He handed her an old-fashioned key to room number seven. As she held it, her thumb rubbed at the worn-down grooves. Would it bring her luck?

  It was hard to think so when she got to her room. A dirt-caked window. A bed whose lumps were visible from the doorway. A listing dresser made of plywood. A desk fit for a school-age child. The predominant color was brown. Kate thought immediately of bedbugs, then reasoned that if she ended up infested, she had almost nothing to throw away.

  Exhaustion took hold. She put her meager possessions away. And though she desperately wanted a shower, she couldn’t muster the energy to take one. Instead, she lay down on the bed, pulled the covers up over her head, and slept.

  • • •

  A year later, on the other side of Montreal, that was what Kate wished she could do. She was tired, so tired. Both alert with adrenaline and weakened by the less and less sleep she’d had leading up to this day. But she got the boys home without another incident, fed them, and tucked them in for their afternoon naps. Autopilot. It had its uses.

  She circled back to the kitchen, enjoying the silence. Andrea was out at one of her lady lunches from which she’d come home two-glass tipsy and wanting to talk to Kate about why Rick was working so much and did she think it meant anything.

  Hell yes, Kate wanted to say. Maybe not cheating. But, at the very least, that he didn’t want to come home. Instead, she always reassured Andrea. Told her she was imagining things, because what else could she do? But she couldn’t stand another conversation about Andrea’s insecurities. She had to be the least intuitive person on the planet.

  Kate knew she hid things well. Her own husband had never asked her how she spent her time. Never voiced any suspicion. She knew better than to give him any reason to. But still, even if she was a rank sociopath, she put out enough odd vibes that Andrea should be asking questions. She should be suspicious. Not of her husband, who maybe was banging some pliant girl in his office but was probably simply trying to make enough money to keep paying for this lifestyle. But of the woman to whom she’d entrusted her children without so much as a background check.

  Kate paced through the first floor, fear like she hadn’t known in a year catapulting through her body. She wasn’t sure what the trigger was, other than the obvious. And maybe that was the answer? Her stupid plan hadn’t worked. The idea that she could forget what the day was by avoiding screens?

  She didn’t need a screen to remember.

  INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

  TJ: How are you doing today, Franny?

  FM: I’m good.

  TJ: Was that Mr. Ring who dropped you off?

  FM: Yes, why?

  TJ: I’ve been trying to schedule my next interview with him. If you have any influence there, I’d appreciate it if he’d get in touch.

  FM: This is hard for Josh . . . Mr. Ring.

  TJ: I get that.

  FM: Is it a problem? If he drops out of the documentary?

  TJ: Did he say he was going to?

  FM: I’m just wondering.

  TJ: Ask him to call me, all right?

  FM: Sure, I can do that.

  TJ: Thank you. So, I’d like to fill in a few holes from the other day.

  FM: No problem.

  TJ: Why don’t we start with you telling me more about meeting your mother for the first time? What was that like?

  FM: It was awkward at first, but we connected quickly. It kind of felt like . . . You know that feeling you get when you come back to your apartment after traveling? How it smells familiar? It felt like that. Like a place I couldn’t believe I’d been away from for so long.

  TJ: That’s an interesting way of describing it.

  FM: Thank you. I’ve been thinking about that poem, you know.

  TJ: Which poem?

  FM: That one by Tennyson you were quoting the other day. I looked it up.

  TJ: Did you?

  FM: I envy not in any moods / The captive void of noble rage, / The linnet born within the cage, / That never knew the summer woods . . . I love that.

  TJ: It is lovely.

  FM: And I get it, you know? That’s what I was . . . A linnet born within the cage. A linnet is a kind of bird, right? Did you know that? Anyway, I was living in a prison, but finding my mother and all this happening . . .

  TJ: It set you free?

  FM: That sounds bad. I didn’t mean that. Of course I’m not happy my mother’s dead.

  TJ: Of course not. I didn’t mean to imply—

  FM: Can you please cut that part out? I wouldn’t want anyone to think that. Because it’s not true. It’s not.

  TJ: It’s all right, Franny. I won’t use it if you don’t want me to.

  FM: I know you’re going to, okay? Don’t lie to me.

  TJ: Whoa, hold up. I’ve never lied to you.

  FM: Sure. Right. Do you think I was born yesterday?

  TJ: Of course not. Look, here . . . [Shuffling] I’m erasing the last few minutes, all right?

  FM: It’s really erased?

  TJ: Yes, I promise.

  FM: [Muttering] Pull it together.

  TJ: What’s that?

  FM: It’s nothing. Are we back on?

  TJ: Hold on. Now we are.

  FM: So we’re starting again?

  TJ: When you’re ready.

  FM: Does my makeup look okay?

  TJ: You look great, Franny. Ready?

  FM: Yes.

  TJ: I’ll ask the same question again, okay?

  FM: Okay.

  TJ: Can you tell us more about meeting your mother for the first time?

  FM: It was . . . It was perfect. Like the mother-daughter relationship I always wished I’d had.

  13

  HAPPY ANNIVERSARY

  CECILY

  We went to New York.

  After I received Tom’s texts with my hands stuffed into a display case full of sexy underwear, I still went with him to New York for our twentieth wedding anniversary.

  When I got control of myself again, I bought whatever I was holding in Victoria’s Secret, went home, and finished packing. I packed Tom’s bag, too, because he’d texted me an hour later asking me if I could. I was fairly sure that text was a ploy, a tactic to make sure I hadn’t seen the others, that somehow his phone was lying to him and he hadn’t been discovered. Or maybe he was trying to push those texts into the background, hide them from view, which is why he sent a long, rambling one followed by several short ones. Perhaps he was hoping I thought it was some silly joke, something that would be revealed to me on our romantic weekend, and I was wai
ting for him to enlighten me. Have a ha-ha moment.

  I’ve often wondered since then whether Tom thought I was stupid. I never would’ve believed that before, but after a lot of thought, it’s the only explanation I can come up with. That he must’ve assumed I wouldn’t know what the texts meant. That I was so in love with him I’d trust whatever lie he was preparing to spin. That because he’d behaved uncharacteristically—or so I thought, but what the fuck did I know?—he could convince me I was the one causing the problem by misinterpreting his obvious joke. That the problem wasn’t the fact that he’d let some other woman suck his dick, but with me.

  Stupid, stupid. I felt so stupid. How could I have let this happen? How could I not know? I needed something, more information, better information, something to keep me occupied. So, before I did the packing, I checked his personal e-mail to see if I could find any further evidence, but there was nothing there. He’d texted me from his work phone—the only phone he had, that I knew of, anyway—and he mostly used his work e-mail even for communicating with me. He was the president of the company, after all. He could do what he wanted, apparently. And I didn’t know how to log on to his work e-mail—password protected, he always told me, for security reasons.

  Who could it be? Who, who? I sat down on the edge of our bed, surrounded by the clothes I was supposed to be packing, and thought and thought, cycling through the women we knew like a child reciting the alphabet. Allison from down the street? No. I’d actually seen him wrinkle his nose at her once when she wore an unflattering dress to a party. Bea from the office? He didn’t think she was very intelligent, and maybe that wasn’t insulation against her prettiness, but it felt like it was. Carol from the kids’ school? He might be interested in her, but I’d overheard her saying she found him annoying, and she hadn’t even blushed when she realized I heard her, just gave me a challenging look like she knew I agreed with her, deep down.

  And so on. I never had any instinct. No name stood out as likely. It was all unbelievable.

  I know some people in my situation would’ve felt as if they were to blame, that it was some kind of reflection on them, but I didn’t. I felt like an idiot for not knowing it was going on, but not that it was my fault. I was surprised, though. Not because of the act itself; I always knew cheating was a possibility. I’d had my own opportunities I’d turned away from, and so I knew, I knew, it was something that could happen to me.

  No, it was the carelessness. Tom, who was always so, so meticulous, who never made mistakes, not ever, had made a major one. And because of this, I couldn’t help but feel like he wanted me to know. That he wanted me to find out but couldn’t find the words, couldn’t bring himself to make a decision, and so let a thoughtless moment do it for him. I’d always made it clear to Tom that if I found out something like that, it was the end. There’d be no forgiveness, no going back. If you want to end things irrevocably, I’d said more than once—in a mocking tone, in a joking way, the way couples do sometimes, but he knew I was serious—then cheat on me. Cheat on me and tell me. Now he had, and there I was in the place in which I always said I’d know exactly what to do. And you know what took me by surprise?

  My lack of certainty.

  “These are pretty,” Cassie had said, startling me.

  She was holding the camisole and underwear I’d bought. She had a shy look on her face, as if she was thinking about the nice things she might wear for a man one day, someday soon.

  “They are.” I rubbed my hands across the silky fabric, then swept everything on the bed into my suitcase without taking the time to fold anything.

  “Mom!”

  “What?”

  “It’ll get all wrinkled like that.”

  “Probably.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Sure I am, honey.”

  I tugged on one of her braids, holding myself in check. I felt the first prick of hate for Tom, then, for making me lie to our daughter.

  “I hope you have a stupendous time,” she said.

  “Word of the day? I like it.”

  Cassie smiled and gave me a quick hug, then darted out of the room, embarrassed.

  I sat back on the edge of the bed and stared at the wall until Tom came home.

  • • •

  Before our date, I told Teo I needed to go home and change, but I also wanted time to do something I haven’t been doing enough of in the last couple months—visit the Rings.

  We’ve spent a lot of time together in the last year, our two broken families blending into something resembling one. Being together was simple because there didn’t need to be any explanation. If someone cried, they were comforted. If someone needed to be distracted, there were enough petty squabbles and video games and chores to accomplish the task. If Josh didn’t feel like cooking or facing the freezer full of prepared guilt dinners the neighbors left, he knew they could always find a meal with us and vice versa. There were others who joined us, other families we knew from before who were also affected, but we were the core. For months and months and months.

  Something shifted a while ago, slowly at first, then more rapidly. There were fewer dinners, fewer game nights or spontaneous drop-bys. Maybe it was a sign of healing, an inevitable change that meant things were improving. I’m not sure what started it, though things felt noticeably different during our last two evenings together, with Franny there. But that wasn’t Franny’s fault; it was us, our chemistry that wasn’t working as well when we didn’t need it so much. But when I saw their names hanging on the wall this afternoon, I realized I hadn’t seen them in weeks.

  They live a few blocks from us, their brick colonial built on a similar plan to ours, so there’s always this moment of disorientation when I enter it. The colors are slightly off, the furniture not quite where I would’ve put it. But I don’t end up inside the house today. Instead, as I park my car, I see Franny leaving the house, one of the girls’ hands firmly in each of hers, like they belong there.

  I reach for my seat belt to unclip it, but something stops me. Maybe it’s the normalness of it all, but why should that bother me? Where else should Franny be right now? This is her family, and a woman should be with her family in times like these. Maybe it’s as simple as the fact that, on some level, I blame her for being here instead of her mother, and thinking this makes me ashamed. It’s not Franny’s fault her mother’s gone, and, if anything, Franny’s loss is greater than mine. I lost a friend—she lost a parent. A future.

  So I don’t get out of the car. Instead, I watch as the girls climb into the back seat of the minivan. Franny checks the girls’ seat belts, doing all the things a mother should. Doing all the things their mother should be doing.

  When it hurts too much to watch anymore, I drive away.

  • • •

  Teo takes me to The Angry Crab on North Lincoln, a deliciously messy eating experience I’ve always loved. I don’t tell him it was one of the places Tom and I went with the kids. As the familiar bouquet of steamed shellfish and garlic fills my senses, I push those thoughts down, the memories that feel fresher than they have in a while, and decide to order something different from what I’d usually have, hoping the unfamiliar will make this evening less weird.

  If this is a date, and I suppose it can’t be anything other than that, it’s the first I’ve been on in more than twenty years. Tom and I met in college, and I’m not sure we ever had a real first date. Does inviting me to his dorm room to watch a movie count? The last time I felt this awkward was a few months before that, when my roommate set me up with her boyfriend’s roommate and we all went for beers at a pub. I’d been worried that night, too, about what I should wear, and how my body fit into my clothes, and whether I’d be able to keep up my end of the conversation. Only this was Teo. He’d already seen me at my worst. Shaken, terrified, covered in dust and God knows what else.

  We find a table and each order Dungeness crab in “grumpy” garlic butter sauce, making sure to pile up on napkins. It’s a BYOB re
staurant, and Teo had the foresight to bring a six-pack of a great IPA I haven’t tasted before.

  “I’m glad I didn’t get too dressed up,” I say as we dig into our bags of crab. A trail of spicy steam rises from the food and tickles my nose. The acoustics are terrible, so I have to lean toward Teo to catch much of what he says.

  “I should’ve brought you somewhere nicer.”

  “What? No. I love this place.”

  He grabs a cracker from the table. “Tell the truth, now, or I’ll use this on you.”

  “You going to keep that for our next interview?”

  “Now there’s a thought. You are a tough nut to . . . crack. Ugh, that’s terrible.”

  “It is.”

  He opens up the body of his crab and takes a pull from his beer. He’s dressed in a slightly nicer version of his usual uniform—the blue-gray shirt is a button-down, and the jeans have a darker wash to them. The forest-green sweater he’s wearing over his shirt complements the rest of it, which I almost tell him, then don’t, because I have no idea how to do this, be casual with a man. Flirt with him.

  “But seriously,” Teo says. “Is this place okay? We can go somewhere else next time, if you want.”

  “Next time, huh?”

  “I think you made me blush.”

  “I do love this place; I don’t need anything fancier. And as to whether there’ll be a ‘next time,’ why don’t we see how this evening goes and then decide?”

  “That sounds like a good plan.”

  “I am curious, though.” I bite into my own crab claw and nearly moan in pleasure. It’s been too long since I ate something this good, despite the best intentions of my neighbors. “What makes you think I like fancy restaurants?”

  “Didn’t you used to run a fancy restaurant?”

  “I did.”

  I look down at the label on my beer. Brewed right here in Chicago, it says.