“You could’ve talked to me.”
“I couldn’t … I couldn’t let any of this become part of our life together. Everything with you has always felt so honest, absolute somehow, and the past–my past–has always been so wrong and mixed-up. I thought if I could just keep outrunning–”
“I’m not without flaws, I’ve just never believed running away to be any kind of solution. It makes more sense to try and recognize what’s real and what isn’t–what matters and what doesn’t. We all carry around some kind of pain. We all have fears and regrets. Anyone who says they don’t is a liar.”
I take a step closer to where he sits, searching his face for a flicker of something resembling of understanding. “I went back to the house–Aunt Smyrna’s house.”
“And did you find whatever it was you were looking for?”
“Yes ... I think so. I think I did,” I say, and my voice stumbles. “There’s nothing there anymore and maybe that’s what I needed to see. It no longer exists.”
“It’s called life, Stevie. People, places, and experiences change. What we can’t forget we have to learn how best to live with. That’s just the way it works,” he says, and his tone is unmistakably caustic. “So how about we cut through the revelations in psychology and get to your point.”
“I’m saying I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry? Well that’s great. That must be the end of it then. Case closed. Crisis ended.”
He moves to stand in front of me and again the dangerous look is in his eyes turning me cold inside. “You’ve obviously plotted for weeks over this. You didn’t just wake up one morning and decide it looked like a nice day to steal my car and take a drive to the beach–”
“Steal? I exchanged a farm for that broken-down relic,” I answer with a flash of defiance that seems to rise-up from nowhere.
“An unauthorized trade,” he says, and it is obvious something has right then occurred to him. “Where is my car?” His eyes narrow with the question.
“It broke down on some God-forsaken highway.”
“And where is it now?”
An uncomfortable heat floods over my face. “Well, it’s still there. I told you, it broke down.”
“You just left it?”
“What was I supposed to do? I’m not some grease monkey mechanic like–”
“Like I am.”
“I didn’t mean it like that.”
“No, you wouldn’t have,” he says, then pauses. “I’d wager that explains your hasty retreat to Callicoon. No wheels. Were you expecting the keys to the truck?”
“Stop it, Ash–just please stop it. Can’t you understand what I’m saying? I came back for you. I want you.” I surprise myself at having the courage, or possibly the gall, to say it aloud.
He appears unmoved. “How long will it be this time? Until your yearnings for another lifetime return?” The sharp edge of his disbelief cuts deeper than any blade.
“It’s finished. I told you. It’s done.”
“As simple as that?”
“Not simple,” I correct. “Just finished.”
“Stephanie,” he says, his voice softening the tiniest fraction. “I don’t think I can ever trust you again.”
“Couldn’t we just be together without it … without your trusting me … until I prove …”
“No, I can’t. You forget I’ve already done it that way.”
“Then tell me what to do, Ash. Tell me how to fix this.” I reach out toward him, but my hand cannot travel the distance that has opened up between us.
He crosses the room without answering, staring out the window to the darkness beyond.
“I think we should work everything out as quickly as possible,” he says finally, keeping his back turned to me as though to protect himself from my treachery.
“Alright, if that’s what you want I can settle it right now. I’m giving it all to you. I don’t want any of it.”
“Don’t be–”
“I don’t want this farm. I never wanted it. I’ve tried to tell you that but you won’t hear the words.”
“We’ll discuss it when you’re ready to be rational.”
“No, Ash, if you want it over, then let’s have it over. It’s only right that you should have this place. You love it here and I never will.”
“I don’t love it here. I loved ...”
His voice falls away without finishing and although I cannot see his features, I can visualize them clearly in my mind. How can I possibly reconstruct the damage? Patch the cracks and relay the foundation? Recover even some small part of the love and trust I have so recklessly scattered like a fistful of dandelion fluff.
I take a step toward him, again reaching out, wanting so much just to touch him and draw him back to me. “Please, Ash, let’s not hate each other.”
He seems to nod slightly, yet he does not reach out to accept my hand. It is clear his intention is to rebuff me and he stays deliberately out of range. Even his eyes now refusing to meet mine.
“I never left you in my heart … I never did. I just got lost. Somehow I …” my voice crumbles before I can finish, smothered beneath the certainty I have forfeited everything good that has ever existed between us.
“Yeah, well maybe I’m the one who was lost. I thought you were someone else, Stephanie. It turns out I don’t know you at all.”
I want to tell him he is wrong–that I am still the person he believed me to be, except now there are fewer layers. Less complications. The same woman though nothing like her.
But the moment is gone before I can claim it, and when he turns and walks away the void he leaves behind swells up around me, snapping shut like a windowless cage, the air so heavy and tight it is nearly impossible to breathe.
Despite the deadening crush of weariness sunk deep into my limbs like stone anchors, sleep will not come. It remains a shadowy faraway thing impossibly out of reach as the hours limp past.
Curled into a corner of the living room couch, my cheek pressed against the comforting familiarity of the floral print upholstery, I listen hard for any sound indicative of Ash still being here: a squeaking tread on the stairs, water rushing through the pipes overhead, the sound of dresser drawers opening and closing as he packs his clothes. But there is only the quiet scream of deepest night. As if the hours have stopped moving altogether and the world has slammed its doors against me for eternity.
He has said he will leave here in the morning. It is a certainty I understand, but which I cannot bear to consider.
Anything once ordinary has taken on the proportions of the unimaginable and it feels altogether impossible when the sun finally rises; a wash of brilliant light flooding through the living room windows in a cruel deception of what this day will decidedly bring.
It is just past six o’clock when I find myself standing in the kitchen, and it is as if I have all at once forgotten how to proceed with the rituals of a routine day; uncertain of what purpose has brought me here or what it is I should now be doing.
On the chance Ash has managed to leave without detection, I am firm in my resolve to keep my gaze from drifting toward the window that fronts the driveway and the spot where he customarily parks the truck. Every thought, every emotion, impossibly unprepared to look into the face of the vacancy he will leave behind when he is gone.
From the hall comes the distinct sound of Ash coming down the stairs and I feel a wave of relief that comes and quickly goes. I remain rooted to the floor as his tread carries into the front hall, a whining creak indicating he has pulled open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. I try not to watch the image of him carrying his belongings out to the truck which now reels through my mind, but it is too vibrant a picture to be easily blinked away.
I reach for the coffeepot in the cupboard above my head, desperate now for even the most ordinary task–anything that will help to fill the press of minutes straining past.
Again I hear the familiar whine of the outside door opening and I cle
nch my teeth against the sob careening up into my mouth. How did this happen? How have I let this happen?
I am still standing at the sink filling the coffeepot–holding it under the faucet even as the cold water overflows onto my hand–when Ash appears in the doorway. I feel him watching me, but it is an eternity before I succeed in gathering the necessary fortitude to lift my head and meet his eyes.
His closed expression offers no leads as to the content of his thoughts and I am careful not to permit myself even a fleeting glance at the suitcase he holds in one hand. Its existence between us an impossible thing to confront directly, even as the fact of its presence pounds inside my head with an endless howl.
“You left this outside,” he says evenly. And only then do I shift my gaze, stunned to realize it is my own case he grips at his side; the battered black suitcase I have carried home but then promptly forgotten until now.
The import of what he hasn’t yet said hangs between us with the finality of a verdict. I don’t know what to expect and so I expect nothing. The only certitude concrete in my mind–the truth that I can never justly absolve myself for past and present crimes if Ash should walk away now without offering even the hope of eventual pardon.
“I can’t make you any promises, Stevie,” he says, and it feels as if everything inside me has ceased to flow. “I just know I can’t leave you.”
I nod briefly, afraid to speak, fearful of damaging the frailty of someday forgiveness I have detected in his words. I wait for him to say something further, but already he has turned away and left me alone in an indication he is not yet prepared to offer more.
And although I take a step to follow, I hold myself back in the vacant doorway where he has only just passed, leaning my forehead against the painted jamb; feeling the beginnings of warm tears sliding slowly over my face. My heart following the sound of his footsteps as he carries my suitcase up the stairs.
The End
Discussion Questions for The Secret of Lies
1. The theme of a terrible lie protected within a web of secrecy is pivotal part of this novel. How might the story have unwound differently had the truth not been so carefully shielded? What is the significance of the title “The Secret of Lies, both literally and figuratively?
2. How realistic is the sisterly relationship between Stevie and Eleanor? The guilt Stevie feels over what happens to Eleanor is all encompassing and life crippling. How much of her self-imposed near perpetual state of purgatory justified and deserved?
3. Stevie’s discovery of Jake will become the main focus of her summers on Long Island—in particular, that final summer. What is it about this silent boy that figures so predominately in Stevie’s life? That captures her heart and imagination in such a way that she is able to pretend away the ugly drama unfolding around her?
4. What might be the explanation for Eleanor’s taboo behaviors? Is she an innocent teenage girl, or is she fully aware of what she’s doing? Is it deliberate or accidental actions that seal her fate?
5. The ladder part of this novel invokes a distinct change in mood and setting. How does this signify a sense of lost innocence? The end of simple pleasures and the long lazy summers away from home.
6. How did you react to Stevie’s inability to move beyond her feelings of guilt over what happens to Eleanor? Is Stevie too hard on herself? Do you empathize with her? Do you find her continuous spurning of Ash understandable, annoying, or frustrating?
7. What might explain Ash’s tolerance and patience with Stevie’s continued rude and abrasive behavior toward him? What is it that Ash sees in Stevie that makes him think she is worth waiting for?
8. There is a sense that Jake is Stevie’s past and Ash is her future. Do each of these male characters feel suited to their time and place in Stevie’s life? Considering the circumstances of each of these relationships, might she have behaved differently in her behaviors toward either of them?
9. How does Stevie’s position as an advice columnist for the newspaper affect her constant war with guilt and regret? Is it realistic to believe that an emotionally damaged person might be effective in helping solve the problems experienced by others?
10. What role does small town life on a farm occupy in Stevie’s life? Is this setting, which is characterized by hard work and loneliness, important or essential to the story?
11. Were you surprised by the revelation of Aunt Smyrna’s true role in “the secret?” Is she justified in her actions? Does Smyrna consider Stevie a confidant, scapegoat, or unwitting pawn?
12. What parallels might be drawn between Aunt Smyra and Eleanor? How are they different? How do they see themselves through the eyes of Uncle Cal?
13. What end does Stevie achieve by leaving Ash and their home together? What is the greatest damage done by her betrayal? Can and will Ash forgive her? Should he?
14. What scene resonated most with you personally in either a positive or negative way? Why?
Secret of Lies Page 30
