The Good Liar

by Catherine McKenzie

  “It’s okay.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “Let me go find Daddy, all right? You stay here?”

  “Can I play in the basement?”

  “Of course you can.”

  I watch her scuttle off. I take out my phone and make a call.

  “This is Franny, leave a message.”

  “Franny, I’m at Joshua’s house. Where are you; what’s going on?”

  I end the call and text her.

  Where are you?

  I watch the screen, waiting for a bubble to form, to show me that she’s writing back. I see it after a moment. Then it disappears. Reappears. Appears again. Then, finally, a text.

  Have you spoken to Joshua? Franny writes.

  Not yet.

  Tell him I’m sorry, okay?

  Sorry for what? I’m going to call you.

  I don’t want to talk right now. Just talk to Joshua. He’ll explain everything.

  Why didn’t you tell me what was going on?

  The bubble appears again, leaves, appears. But no text comes.

  Franny?

  I wait and wait, but there’s nothing.

  I tuck my phone away and walk up the stairs. I can hear Emily crying in her room. I should go to her, but I need to find Joshua, I need to understand what’s going on. How could he be marrying Franny? She’s so different from Kaitlyn, and her daughter, and too young, and what could they possibly have in common?

  I stop at the top of the stairs. I feel winded, panic gripping at my chest.

  I lean against the wall. It’s been years since I’ve been upstairs in this house, but not much has changed. The same pictures, the same hamper full of children’s clothes at the end of the hall. One of the bedrooms was an office, but I assume it’s where Franny’s been staying since she moved in. Or is she sleeping with Joshua now? How did I let that slip by without noticing? Not that it was my job to monitor this house, this family, but yet, it kind of is. It was.

  “Joshua?”

  “In here.”

  I open the door to his bedroom. The blinds are drawn, the bed in disarray. I get a sudden image of Franny sleeping between these sheets, occupying the place Kaitlyn used to. I feel sick to my stomach.

  Joshua’s sitting at his desk, his back to me, his face half illuminated by the glow of the computer screen.

  “Joshua, what the hell? You scared me half to death, and then when I get here Emily and Julia are freaking out, and they told me you and Franny are getting married. Is that true?”

  “Yes. At least it was. I don’t know anymore. I don’t know anything anymore.”

  Joshua’s shoulders start to tremble. I step forward and put my hands on them. He’s still wearing the shirt he slept in, wrinkled and soft, and his hair’s matted down. The last time I saw Joshua like this was in the first days after October tenth.

  “Joshua, I’m at a loss here; can you please tell me what’s happening?”

  “Was Tom having an affair?”

  My stomach knots again. “Why are you asking me that?”

  “Is it true? Was he?”

  “Yes, but I don’t . . .”

  He turns his chair around. His skin is pale and mottled.

  “I found some e-mails. Or, I should say, Franny did. She showed them to me.”

  “Franny? How does Franny know about Tom? Why are we even talking about this?”

  “Did he tell you about the affair?”

  “No, I . . . I found out by accident.”

  “And do you know who he was sleeping with?”

  “He didn’t say. And then . . . Oh, no, Joshua. Whatever it is you’re thinking, it’s not true. It’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is, Cecily. You can read it for yourself.”

  He turns and pulls the screen toward us. It’s open to a Gmail account, Kaitlyn’s Gmail account. Joshua stands and guides me gently so I’m sitting in the chair.

  I don’t want to look, I don’t want to look, at the end of everything, I don’t want to know this. But my eyes are not mine to command, and so I read.

  And now I know.

  28

  WINDING A SPRING

  KATE

  Riding the bus back from Montreal to Chicago was like winding her life back onto the coil she thought she’d escaped from.

  Saying goodbye to the twins had been hard. Kate didn’t tell them she was leaving. But Willie sensed something was off and started crying when she tried to put him to bed. Kate felt the tears spring into her own eyes. But she pried Willie’s arms from around her neck and laid him back down in his bed. She soothed him as best as she could until he drifted off to sleep.

  Then she went downstairs and packed up her things. She wrote a final post on IKWYDLS.com as she waited for Andrea and Rick to get home from their event. I’m going back to make things right, she wrote. Wish me luck. There was a flurry of replies, mostly against her returning. Kate found their caution comforting. Going against the grain felt right to her. Even when the friction was created by the liars and cheaters who populated this website.

  Andrea and Rick arrived home around eleven. Kate sat on the edge of her bed and listened to them moving around. When she was sure they’d gone upstairs, she slipped out the back door with everything she owned on her back. The last thing she did was remove the stack of cash she’d stashed in the basement ceiling. This time she left a note. Not an explanation but a goodbye. A thank-you.

  At the bus station she moved with purpose. She was afraid; she wanted to bolt in some other direction, but she couldn’t. She’d been so selfish. This was the only way she could think of fixing any of it.

  A hazy day on the bus. Jolts and jumps and fractured sleep. She felt the beginnings of a migraine coming on. The fingers of it gripping at her brain, pushing at her optic nerve. She took some pills she’d lifted from Andrea’s medicine cabinet, something she used for anxiety. That put her into another blurring space, one where she didn’t have a real grip on time or her emotions. Every bad choice she’d made in her life seemed front and center.

  She tensed up further at the border. Had the connection finally been made between her two selves? She needn’t have worried. The border guard came onto the bus, no scanner in sight, and barely looked at her passport. Within minutes, they were on their way.

  And then she was back in Chicago. It was Halloween, night coming on early. She saw children in costumes, adults holding their hands as she should be holding her daughters’. At the bus station, she changed her money for US dollars and hailed a cab. She directed it to Evanston. Even before the cab pulled off I-94, everything was familiar. The smells. The lights. The way the houses looked against the night. Orange pumpkins and costumed children lugging bags heavy with candy.

  It was lovely. Perfect. Why hadn’t this been enough?

  She paid the cabbie and stood outside the house. The cold bit at her nose. But that wasn’t why she was shaking.

  There wasn’t a pumpkin outside, but the lights were on. She could imagine the activity inside; she’d seen it often enough. All she had to do was walk up the front steps like children were doing all around her, ring the bell, and none of this could be taken back. She’d cause more havoc, more hurt, more pain. The alternative was impossible to weigh.

  Her feet made the decision for her. Her hand rose and pushed the bell.

  The front door opened.

  Cassie was standing there. “We’re not— Omigod, omigod. Mom!”

  “What is it, Cassie? And what did I tell you about—”

  Cecily appeared. When she saw Kate, she turned white. Kate stepped forward to hold her up.

  “Don’t touch me!”

  Kate recoiled. “I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry.”

  “How can . . . ?”

  A group of happy kids ran past the house, their parents calling after them to wait up.

  Cecily stepped back. “You need to leave or come inside.”

  “What?”

  “If you don’t want the whole world to kn
ow you’re alive, come inside right now.”

  Kate stepped inside. Cecily closed the door quickly behind her. Kate was overwhelmed. There in the entranceway surrounded by boots and hooked coats, she felt dizzy. Cassie and Cecily stood there, echoes of each other, both casual in jeans and warm sweaters. Staring.

  “Thank you—”

  Cecily held up her hand. “Do not say that. God, I don’t even know why I care. Why should I protect you? What the fuck, Kaitlyn? What the fuck?”

  “I can explain.”

  “There’s no way you can explain any of this.”

  “You’re right. I probably can’t.”

  “You’re alive. My God. You’re alive.”

  “I’m alive.”

  Cassie’s eyes were wide, and she looked as if she was trying to speak. She leaned against her mother. Cecily put her arm around Cassie’s shoulder. Her eyes narrowed at Kate.

  “You ran away?”

  “I ran away.”

  “Stop doing that.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Cassie, go upstairs.”

  “But Mom—”

  “Go upstairs right now. Do not tell your brother who’s here. Tell him to stay in his room. And do not text anyone or call anyone or do anything online.”

  “Mom—”

  “Do it now, Cassie.”

  Cassie looked frightened by her mother’s tone. She turned on her heel and ran up the stairs. A door slammed.

  “How dare you?” Cecily spat out the words.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop saying that. You were my friend.”

  “I had to go, Cecily. I can’t explain it; I just had to.”

  “Because of Tom?”

  “What? Omigod, no. Not . . . You know about that?”

  “I know about that. I know about that now.”

  Kate backed up until she hit the front door. “I’ll go.”

  “You’re not getting off that easily. You, what, ran away, let us all think you were dead, and now you’re back? What the fuck is going on? Why are you here?”

  “Franny Maycombe. She’s the reason I came back.”

  “Seriously? I should’ve known you were capable of doing something like this when I found out you hid her from us. How could you do that, Kaitlyn? How could you not even tell me that you had a daughter? After everything I shared with you?”

  “But I didn’t. That’s why I’m here. Franny’s not my daughter.”

  “What?”

  “I swear to God. I’ve never seen that woman in my life.”

  INTERVIEW TRANSCRIPT

  TJ: Thanks for coming in again, Franny. It’s been a couple weeks. How are you?

  FM: I’m fine. I’m good, actually. Really good.

  TJ: I’m glad to hear that.

  FM: I’ve been thinking about our last conversation, you know.

  TJ: You have?

  FM: Yeah, like, a lot. And I just want to make it clear that my family—my adoptive family—they have nothing to do with this. Nothing to do with who I am today or what I’m about.

  TJ: I find it interesting that you’d say that.

  FM: I’m not sure what you mean.

  TJ: Well, everyone’s a product of their family, aren’t they?

  FM: I don’t think so.

  TJ: Why not?

  FM: I think you can, you know, overcome your family. Like, there are people who had terrible childhoods, just the worst, but they’re out in the world acting like normal people. They’re not drug dealers or whatever. They have jobs and families and they’re doing things. Normal things. So they didn’t get caught by their circumstance.

  TJ: Is that what you did?

  FM: Maybe. I mean, I don’t want you to think my adoptive parents were bad or anything. They didn’t, like, abuse me. But like I said before, there was always this different thing about me in that house, like I was a guest who stayed too long, like I should be looking for somewhere else to live.

  TJ: Are you sure about that?

  FM: Of course I am. I mean, my sister even said that to me when I was a junior in high school. Like she expected me to move out right after graduation, even though she hadn’t, because then our parents didn’t have any responsibility for me anymore.

  TJ: That sounds cruel.

  FM: She was cruel. I’m telling you. That’s why we don’t talk anymore.

  TJ: Yes, well, that’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about.

  FM: What do you mean?

  TJ: We’ve spoken to Sherrie.

  FM: What? Why would you do that?

  TJ: It’s standard background procedure.

  FM: What gives you the right?

  TJ: You did, actually. When you signed the release to do the documentary, you gave us permission to speak to any member of your family who would agree to speak to us.

  FM: No one told me about that clause.

  TJ: You had the contract for two weeks. You were encouraged to speak to a lawyer, to have them review it.

  FM: I couldn’t afford to do that.

  TJ: I’m sorry, you should’ve said.

  FM: I wish you hadn’t done that.

  TJ: Spoken to Sherrie?

  FM: Yes. She . . . She said bad things about me, didn’t she?

  TJ: I wouldn’t say that, exactly—

  FM: She’s always been a liar. And she hates me. You know that, right? I told you. I just told you how mean she was to me.

  TJ: That doesn’t quite add up—

  FM: I knew that if she had the chance, she’d find a way to screw this up for me.

  TJ: Screw what up for you?

  FM: My life. She just wants me to be miserable because she’s miserable.

  TJ: Again, I don’t think that . . . Don’t you want to know what she told me?

  FM: It’s just all going to be lies. She’s a liar. She has been since we were kids. Always saying I was the one who hit her or took her toy or whatever. You name it. The names she would call me.

  TJ: Yes, the subject of names did come up.

  FM: What do you mean?

  TJ: You tell me, Franny. Or should I say Eileen?

  PART

  III

  CECILY

  It took me six hours to get home on October tenth. When the immediate threat was cleared, they started running the trains, one at a time, packed to the gills as if we were in Tokyo. Police in riot gear checked each of us as we got on, searching through our purses, verifying IDs. It took forever and reminded me of a book I’d read years ago called Jessica Z., about a young woman struggling to find her place in a world where acts of terror had become quotidian. Was this just the beginning, a complete shift in the way we had to live now, or was it simply a gas explosion as the rumors on the platform said?

  When the doors to the train finally closed, I realized Teo was still with me. I hadn’t thought about it as we shuffled through the line, but it was doubtful we were going to the same place.

  “Is this your train?” I asked.

  “Close enough.”

  “You didn’t have to come with me.”

  “Sure I did.”

  Our arms were by our sides, our hands inches from touching. I laced my fingers through his. My hand had spent so much time in his that day, what did a few more minutes signify?

  The train rattled past our changed city and on and on until it was out. It was a one-stop shop, the police officers told us on the purple line, running all the way to Linden, which meant we went right through downtown Evanston without stopping. It was unbearably hot and eerily quiet. No one was speaking; they were buried in their phones, hitting “Refresh” on their news feeds. I couldn’t bring myself to look. I didn’t want to know the details, how many dead, how many missing, who else I knew who wasn’t coming home. I didn’t want the confirmation that Tom was where I knew he was; his failure to answer any of the messages I’d sent him after Cassie’s question was all the confir
mation I needed. I kept my phone in my pocket, my eyes fixed on the back of the person standing in front of me, and tried not to think too much about what I’d have to face at home.

  When we got to Linden, Joshua was there. He was standing in front of his minivan, one of a long line waiting like parents in a school pickup line. He was scanning the crowd, up on his tippy-toes, not wanting to miss anyone. I dropped Teo’s hand and waved at him frantically.

  “Joshua! Over here.”

  Our eyes locked for a moment, but then he continued his scan.

  And that’s when I knew. He wasn’t there for me. He was there for Kaitlyn. Kaitlyn! She was as lost as Tom.

  My knees buckled.

  29

  THE LEAST COMPLICATED

  CECILY

  Tom and I never spoke about the texts again. When I woke up the next morning in our hotel room, he was gone. He’d left a note—out for a run, then coffee, I’m sorry—and didn’t return for several hours. When I could drag myself out of bed, I climbed into the large marble shower and stood there until it felt like I was drowning, as if every pore in my body was waterlogged, my skin turning into an angry prune. I still didn’t know how to process what had happened, but I felt dirty, contaminated. I wanted to scour every inch of skin off my back, and my insides out, too.

  As I scrubbed and scrubbed, I started to question everything that had happened in the last six months between us. All the times I’d cuddled up to Tom in bed. The times when we’d had sex. The small intimacies every couple has. Was it all tainted now?

  Was six months enough? Should I go back a year? Two? How much of my life did I have to readjust? Tom didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t ask so many things. The lack of details was killing me, and yet I knew better than to make a list of particulars, because Tom would tell me, and then instead of speculation, I’d have facts. Somehow I knew the facts would be worse than anything I could imagine, even though I had a good imagination.

  When I started envisaging Tom’s tongue trailing over someone else’s skin, I got out of the shower and wrapped myself in the oversize bathrobe like a hug. I kicked the blankets Tom had slept in into the corner. I didn’t need any more reminders of him. I picked up my phone. There were messages from the kids with questions about missing soccer equipment, whether something was in the laundry. My mother asking if we were having a good time, Kaitlyn wondering if we could meet for lunch on Monday. I’m shocked at the gall of that now, knowing what I know, but then I was happy to hear from her. I almost called her to talk about what had happened because I needed someone else’s voice in my head other than my own.