There Will Be Lies

by Nick Lake

  The way that the land is interrupted, like this

  but then starts again, as if nothing had happened, in the same shapes and the same shades of red, only now higher, and rising into the mountains of Colorado.

  It’s not a lesson in the force of water. It’s a lesson in endurance and continuity, a break in everything, a pause in the conversation of existence, and the thing about pauses is that they don’t last. That’s the lesson of the Grand Canyon. And okay, yeah, I read a lot and I know the word “caesura.” So sue me. And if you don’t know what it means, look it up.

  Anyway, for quite a long time I just stand there and stare.

  I feel like I’m hallucinating.

  Like time has stopped.

  Like I’m in a crack in the world.

  A crack in time.

  Then, suddenly, the moment is gone, and it’s just a load of red rock. I look down, and I think about the secret heart of the world, and how I always thought that by coming here, I could see what was below the surface, below the earth’s skin, and somehow understand something about it.

  Do I see the secret?

  No. I see a few tents, pitched by the ribbon of river. A donkey making its way down a snaking path below us, some tourist swaying on its back. There’s nothing. Nothing under the reality, under the rock, under the dust.

  The world just ends, and then a few dozen miles away, it starts again. It’s a gap. That’s all. And, at the same time, that’s the whole point and meaning of it.

  That things stop, fall away—and then rise up again.

  And I’m not stupid, I get that this relates to me. That there’s been a crack in my life, of devastating force, but that doesn’t mean it can’t start again, miles away, in a slightly different way—mountains instead of desert, cold instead of warmth. But this isn’t anything I didn’t know already.

  Okay, I say. We can go.

  Yeah? Mexico?

  I guess.

  She looks at me, then sweeps her hand, taking in the whole majesty and grandeur of this massive divide in the very earth with just one little gesture. It isn’t what you expected?

  I think for a moment. It is, I say. But at the same time it isn’t.

  And again, you know—I could be talking about my life.

  Chapter 75

  We fill up with gas at Grand Canyon Village and then drive back down on 68 and 180, like we’re coming out of some kind of ancient rite of passage ritual—forty days in the desert—and returning to the fold of mankind, of civilization.

  Coming down from the high places.

  The sun is setting to our right—sunsets are amazing in the desert. Red light washes the flat horizon and the single squat mountain rising from it, pink clouds stretch forever in still-blue sky. Cacti catch fire, like torches, burning. Everything is colors that, if you painted them, would seem made up, stupid.

  Looking at it, you could almost imagine that the Scotland (Mom) used to stitch was real too—those purple heathers, those emerald-green hills.

  I lie back in my seat and just watch the sun go down, till there’s only a glow off there in the distance, like there’s a massive party, floodlit, going down just around the curve of the earth, and then the desert closes its vast eye and

  Boom

  it’s night, like I said right at the start.

  We have to pass through Flagstaff again—or rather by it, because we don’t dare go into the town. We just follow the road south in the darkness, toward Phoenix and Mexico beyond. Retracing our steps. Revisiting the scene of the crimes. At one point we pass a police cruiser sitting in a side street, a cop in the front seat, and for like five minutes I’m convinced it’s going to follow us and run its siren, make us pull over, but it doesn’t.

  It’s just gone, just dust, behind us. We’re outlaws, on the run. Why not? It’s not like I know who I am anymore anyway.

  Past Flagstaff we ease down, through greens and blues, back to the all-red palette of the desert, and then we pass through Phoenix and keep going south, on the wide highway through the low endless sand.

  Pretty soon after that, (Mom) puts the heater on—it’s amazing how the warmth leaches out of the land as soon as the sun goes. It’s something to do with moisture in desert climates. Did I say that already?

  Oh and I’m giving up on this (Mom) in parentheses thing. It looks weird. So from now on I’m going to just say Shaylene. Okay?

  A couple of hours past Phoenix and we’re deep in the desert now, well on the way to the Mexican border. I don’t know how we’re going to get through it without passports, but I figure Shaylene will think of something.

  We need a motel, she says as I am thinking this. Just for tonight.

  I nod.

  Watch out for a cheap one, she says. One where they won’t ask many questions.

  I don’t know exactly what I’m looking for, but I scan the side of the road as we drive—a little town flies by, more like a village really, a couple of brightly lit gas stations. A chain motel, very modern, which doesn’t look right.

  Then, maybe fifteen minutes later, I point. There’s a rundown place ahead, just off the highway, a broken blue neon sign on its roof that reads APACHE M T L, with a wooden picture of a Native American next to it, old-fashioned racist-style, with a tomahawk in his hand and a feathered headdress, for real.

  Shaylene slows, signals, and swings the car off the road and into the cracked, weed-filled lot. There are lights on in some of the rooms of the two story, L-shaped motel, so apparently it’s open for business. Another neon sign, this one green, flickers above the door, and it says ROOMS $30. I can feel the vibrations running through me, from the cars flying past on the highway.

  You stay in the car, says Shaylene. Your CAM thing…

  Yeah, I say. I get it.

  Shaylene goes inside. For a moment I think about getting out of the car, just hitching a ride south. But I wouldn’t even get to the side of the highway before Shaylene came out again, with my foot like this, and anyway, where would I go? There’s nowhere.

  Five minutes later Shaylene comes back. She’s got a key in her hand—it’s hanging off a piece of wood with another cartoon Indian on it. Second floor, she says. Number 22.

  She helps me out of the car, then slings a long bag, like a tennis bag, out of the back, and I follow her. The stairs are difficult; she puts a hand under my arm and I shrug her off. Then we walk along the little exposed corridor, like a long balcony, past a decaying shelf with some battered paperback novels on it, which I figure have been left behind by other people staying here, and a vending machine selling candy, to Room 22. From up here, there’s a clear view of the highway—it’s dark now and where the cars cross in front of us, it’s a bright zone of white sodium light, then on either side, trails of red dim into the night, as the cars speed away north and south.

  I try to imagine what it must sound like, so much speed and light. But I can’t.

  While I’m looking at the cars, Shaylene has unlocked the door, and she taps my arm to tell me to go in. The room is like something out of an old movie—woodchip door; brown blanket on the bed, black hairs on it; cracked mirror; dirty curtains. A fan slowly paddling the thick, sluggish warm air. And a Gideon bible on the nightstand. You can feel everything very slightly vibrating with the passing vehicles.

  I gaze around the room. It’s gross! And there are probably roaches! But still, it’s better than the nice clean new condo in Flagstaff where the Watsons were staying, where I could be right now … I bite my lip. I’ve made my choice. I peer into the bathroom—there’s an avocado-colored tub, stained yellow inside. The kind of shower curtain people get stabbed through, in movies.

  Shaylene turns on the TV. A couple of anchors are talking, sitting at a desk with fake scripts in front of them, and then it cuts from the studio to a picture of me, taken in the FBI office, next to a driver’s license photo of Shaylene.

  She turns it off again.

  Chapter 76

  Well, says shaylene.

&
nbsp; Well, I say.

  If I could make everything right I would, she says.

  I have literally no idea how to reply to this. Shaylene has sat down on the edge of the bed and I am still standing in the middle of the room, in the slow wake of the fan. The thin curtains vibrate with the passing traffic.

  I wanted a baby so badly, she says.

  And they had several, I say.

  Yes. It seemed so unfair, and I—

  It seemed unfair that they had kids and you didn’t, so you took one of theirs? Like it was freaking arithmetic? That’s the moral attitude of a crack addict.

  It was a moment of madness, she says.

  But you planned for it. You were wearing a nurse’s uniform.

  She shrugs. She can hardly deny it.

  I know what I did was wrong, she says. To your parents—

  What about me? I say.

  What do you mean?

  This is a question so big it encompasses the universe, who I am, everything. I sit down on the floor. You took away reality, I say. I mean, before, I knew who I was. Who you were. I knew that I read books and you stitched, and we watched TV with the closed captions on, and every Friday we would have ice cream for dinner. I knew you were my teacher. You taught me sign. You taught me to read and write, and to type faster than any secretary. You kept me safe. I knew everything about you. I knew you liked the smell of lavender but not the smell of vanilla. I knew YOU WERE MY MOM.

  I’m still—

  Still my mom? Please.

  She sighs. I was going to say, I’m still the person who did those things.

  A tear begins to roll down her cheek. She looks shrunken, like a fruit that has dried up inside, making the skin collapse on itself. I knew it was wrong, she says. I wanted to undo it, right away. Take you back. But I knew they’d arrest me. I hated myself. But then … then I was fixing you dinner and I dropped a spoon, and you smiled. And I fell in love.

  Just like that?

  Just like that. And so quick, I knew you were smart. I could see it right away—the way you looked at things, the way when I mentioned a car, a tree, whatever, you would look toward it. I could just see what you could accomplish, if only you could communicate. Because of course you couldn’t speak and you didn’t know what I was saying. So I started to teach you sign. And if I wasn’t totally in love before, I was then.

  Why?

  Because of you. Because of your soul. Your personality. You were just amazing. You talked about everything. Animals, bubbles, the moon—I’d take you out in your stroller, and you’d point up at the sky and make the sign for moon, and I’d say, don’t be silly, it’s daytime, but then I’d look up and I’d see it, this pale crescent. You were always right. If you said you saw something, you saw it. You used to ask me for hugs. Can you imagine that? You’d be watching TV, and then you’d turn to me and say, hug, and you’d get up and run over with your arms out. I don’t know. I can’t explain. And you can’t imagine it. Maybe one day, when you have a kid of your own. You were just … you were like an open window. With light on the other side.

  I just look at her.

  I knew your birthday, she says. And I didn’t want to change it. Maybe six months after I … took you, it was your third. I made a chocolate cake—that was your favorite. You always said, I want brown cake. So I made it, and we did the candles, and we ate cake. Just the two of us. You had chocolate all over your face. We were both stuffed. But then you asked for more. I said, okay, and I got the fork and took a little piece, and said, here’s a little bit. And you looked me dead in the eyes, and you didn’t even pause, and you said, no. A big bit. And then you just smiled and smiled.

  She is smiling too, remembering—smiling and crying, at the same time.

  Once, she says, I took you to the park. You were scared of the slide—it was bigger than the ones you’d been on before—so I said I would take you with me. I slid down, with you on my lap. You wanted to do it over and over. You were so happy. And then, walking home, your little hand in mine … the way you reached up to take it when we had to cross the street … I don’t know. It was like it brought something to life, in here. She touches her chest. It was almost painful, how much I loved you. Do you know what I mean?

  Yes, I want to say, but I am crying now too, looking away, as if I can erase what she has just said, erase her love. I go into the bathroom and shut the door, and for the longest time I just sit on the side of the bath, my head in my hands. I count the stains on the wall—maybe blood, maybe something worse. There are fifty-four.

  When I have done that I come out again. Shaylene is curled up on the bed, but sits up when I open the door.

  You saw those books we passed? I ask. You know, left by other guests?

  I see the pain on her face—the disappointment that I’m not saying, I don’t know, that I forgive her, or I love her, or something. But she pushes it down, quick, like someone pressing a drowning person back down into the water. Her face smoothes out, water ripples going still, no sign of the struggle below. She smiles, half convincingly.

  Guests? she says. I think they call them victims here.

  I mime a bellyache from laughing so much. I don’t think my face is looking so happy because she stops smiling.

  Yes, she says. I saw them.

  I might go get one, I say. It’s been ages since I have read anything, and there’s no way I’m just sitting in this scuzzy motel and TALKING to Shaylene all fricking night. What’s she going to do, tell me again how she couldn’t have a child of her own, and that makes everything all right? And some candy, I add. You have cash?

  Sure, she says. She reaches in her pocket, takes out some money, and hands it to me. Don’t be long, though, she says. I can tell she’d like to come with me, to not let me out of her sight, but at the same time she knows she can’t. She knows she can’t demand anything of me, after what she’s done. And … be careful.

  It’s the corridor outside, I say. What could possibly happen?

  She shakes her head. Sorry.

  You want candy? I ask. We haven’t stopped to eat, for reasons that are 100 percent obvious, and she must be hungry too.

  Okay, she says.

  What do you want?

  I don’t mind. Whatever.

  My mind flashes back to ice cream for dinner. It seems like a different world now.

  Shelby, she says.

  Yes?

  I was scared. You were going to be eighteen. I didn’t want you to leave me, to go to college. I knew the truth would come out. That’s why I …

  She pauses. And I understand something—why Coyote came along when he did. Because of my birthday. Because things were building up to an explosion anyway.

  So he brought along some TNT.

  But you won’t ever leave me, will you? says Shaylene. There are tear tracks on her cheeks.

  No, I lie.

  She smiles. Good.

  She opens the door for me and I limp on out of there, and I don’t know then that it’s the last time I’ll ever stand in a room with her, like everything is normal.

  Chapter 77

  I scan the books on the shelves and end up picking some little airport thriller, with a picture of a stack of cash on the cover, dripping blood. There’s a review on it, says it’s “Pure escapist thrills.” That sounds like what I need right now.

  After I choose the book, I hobble along to the vending machine. I’m shivering a little in the cold air. I can see moths flitting around the broken, flickering fluorescent lights set on the walls. Everything else, apart from the highway, has disappeared—whisked away like a magician’s trick—WHOOSH—by the Arizona night.

  I get a Payday for Shaylene and a Mars and a Snickers for me. I feed dollar bills in, and corkscrews of metal spiral outward, making the candy bars drop into a trough at the bottom. Like unavoidable fate, turning, pushing you forward, till you fall.

  I turn for the room. That’s when I see movement—dark, quick—in the parking lot below.

  I s
top. I watch.

  Armed police, holding assault rifles, are heading toward the motel stairs. In a circle.

  A circle that’s tightening, getting smaller and smaller.

  Chapter 78

  I don’t like to use my voice. I prefer to speak with my hands, if I have to speak.

  But my hands can’t talk through walls so I can’t warn Shaylene.

  I see one of the police spot me—he points up and for a moment time stops, as they point their guns at me. A couple of them, closest to the stairs, start to run.

  The phone, I think. They had my phone. I may not have USED it, but I don’t know how these things work. Plus, I realize now, I DIDN’T TURN IT OFF. How hard would it be to set up a trace anyway? Use cell towers to triangulate, or whatever it’s called. Yes, that has to be it. They must have watched us, driving down south, a shining dot on a map.

  Easy. Like playing hide-and-seek with a little kid. I picture those circular screens in submarine movies, the cone sweeping around, making the moving dot pulse, blip, blip, blip.

  Worse, I think: suddenly I am sure the cop car we saw in Flagstaff, on the way here, was watching us, marking our passage. Biding their time till we stopped. Till we were in a place where there weren’t many people, unlike, say, THE GRAND CANYON.

  Waiting till we were at a deadbeat motel, our guards down.

  I take a very deep breath, and I focus all my strength on my diaphragm and my chest—I have to make this LOUD, like nothing I’ve ever said before, because usually I am all about speaking as quietly as possible, so people don’t hear what I sound like.

  Then I push the air out, over my vocal cords. You don’t have to think about how to do this, but I do. What I do have to think about is what to say, what word to use. In the end I go with the simplest one.