Whispers and Lies

by Joy Fielding

  “Okay. Lie down, with your head at this end, and your feet … here. That’s good. I want you to be really comfortable. You’re going to enjoy this,” Alison said as if she wasn’t sure. “Now, you get cozy, and I’ll bring all the stuff I need in here.”

  “The cucumber slices are in the fridge,” I reminded her, closing my eyes, my fingers darting about my neck, feeling for hair.

  “You didn’t have to slice them,” Alison called back from the kitchen. “I would have done that.”

  I heard her rifling around in the fridge, heard the tap running, listened to the sounds of cupboard doors opening and closing. What was she looking for?

  In less than a minute, Alison was back. “We’ll start with the exfoliating masque.”

  “Is that with a que or a k?”

  She laughed. “The expensive one.”

  “Oh, good.”

  “Okay, so close your eyes, relax, think pleasant thoughts.”

  I felt something cold and slimy being spread across my face, like molasses on a slice of bread.

  “This might feel a bit weird as it starts to harden.”

  “Feels weird now.”

  “You won’t be able to talk,” she warned, slathering the product around the outlines of my lips. “So it’s best if you stay still.”

  Did I have a choice? Already it felt as if my face were encased in cement. A death mask, I remember thinking. Death masque, I amended, and might have laughed were it not for the stiffening of the muscles around my mouth. “For how long?” I asked through barely parted lips.

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “Twenty minutes?” I opened my eyes, started to sit up.

  Firm hands settled me back down. “Relax. The night is young, and we’re just getting started. Close your eyes. I’m going to put the cucumbers on them.”

  “What are the cucumbers for?” I asked, although I was no longer able to pronounce the hard c’s and the noun emerged as more of a verbal blur than an actual word.

  “They reduce swelling. What kind of nurse are you that you don’t know that?” she teased. Then: “Keep still. It was a rhetorical question.” She fitted the cucumber slices gently into the empty circles around my eyes. Instantly, the room darkened, as if I were wearing sunglasses. “You like that word, rhetorical?”

  “Good word,” I managed to say without moving my mouth.

  “I’m trying to learn three new words every day.”

  “Oh?” That was an easy one.

  “Yeah, it’s kind of fun. I just open up the dictionary and point to a word, and if I don’t know what it means, I write it down and memorize the definition.”

  “Such as?”

  “Well, let’s see. Today I learned three very interesting words: ineffable, which means incapable of being expressed or described, like ineffable happiness, you know, so great you can’t describe it. That’s one. Then there’s epiphany, which was a real shock because I thought I knew what that one meant, but I was wrong. I was really wrong. Do you know what it means?”

  “A revelation of some sort,” I managed to squeeze out, although the effort required all my concentration.

  “An epiphany is ‘the sudden, intuitive perception or insight into the reality or essential meaning of something,’ ” she recited, then paused. I could feel her shaking her head. “Do you want to know what I thought it meant?”

  I nodded my chin, careful not to disturb the cucumbers at my eyes.

  “Promise you won’t laugh.”

  I grunted. I couldn’t have laughed if I’d tried.

  “Well, I saw this movie on TV when I was a kid. It was about a man who, for some unknown reason, turned into a chicken. And it was called Epiphany. So I assumed that an epiphany was when someone changed into a chicken. I actually grew up believing that. God, can you imagine if I’d tried to use it in a conversation?”

  I shook my head, albeit gently. There was something so vulnerable about her, something so terribly raw, as if she were sitting there with all her nerve endings exposed. I wished I could take her in my arms and comfort her like the big overgrown child she was. “What’s the third word?” I asked instead.

  “Meros. It’s a flat surface between two channels of a triglyph.”

  “What’s a triglyph?”

  “I have no idea.” She laughed. “I only do three words, remember. Now that’s enough talking. I want you to relax and just enjoy being pampered. Something tells me you don’t pamper yourself nearly enough.”

  She was right. Being pampered was new to me. I’d worked hard all my life, first at school, then at my chosen profession, and even at home, looking after my mother. In some ways, I was grateful that I hadn’t had an easy ride, that my mother hadn’t spoiled me more. It made me that much more appreciative of the things I did have, more sensitive and caring toward others.

  “Okay,” Alison was saying. “So while this masque hardens, I’m going to start on your pedicure. I’ll be right back. Take deep breaths. Let your whole body relax.”

  A sudden silence filled the room. I heard her moving about the kitchen. What was she doing? I wondered, taking one deep breath, then another, feeling the tension of the day seep slowly from my limbs.

  “You have really strong toenails.” Alison’s fingers suddenly pulled on the big toe of my right foot.

  I realized I hadn’t heard her come back into the room. Was it possible I’d fallen asleep? For how long?

  “I’m going to cut them now, so try not to move.”

  My feet squirmed under her touch.

  “Don’t move,” she warned again.

  I heard the rapid snipping of the nail clippers as her fingers flitted expertly from one toe to the next. This little piggy went to market, I recited silently, then stopped because I couldn’t remember what had happened to the next little piggy.

  “Now comes the best part,” she announced, gently massaging my tired feet with lotion. The smell of apricots drifted toward my nostrils. “Feels good, huh?”

  “Feels wonderful,” I agreed, although I’m not sure I said the words out loud.

  “Why, Terry Painter, I think you’re actually beginning to enjoy this.”

  I nodded, tried to smile, felt tiny fissures at my cheeks, as if my flesh had turned to stone.

  “My husband used to give the best foot massages,” Alison said, although from the sudden faraway tone in her voice, I knew she was speaking more to herself than to me. “It’s probably why I married him. Certainly it would explain why I kept going back to him. He had the best hands. Once he started massaging my feet, I was a goner.”

  I understood what she meant. Alison had obviously learned a great deal from her former spouse. Her hands were magic. In less than two minutes, I too was a goner.

  “I still miss him,” Alison continued. “I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help myself. He’s so cute. You should see him. All the girls take one look at him and faint dead away. Which, of course, was part of the problem. He had no willpower whatsoever. ’Course, neither did I. He’d cheat on me, and I’d swear there was no way I was going to forgive him, no way I was ever going to take his sorry ass back, and then there he’d be one night, standing at my door, and he’d look so damn good, and of course I’d let him in. ‘We’re just gonna talk,’ I’d say, and he’d agree, and we’d go sit on the sofa, and the next minute, he’d start rubbing my feet, and that was that. Back to square one.”

  I thought I should probably comment, assure her she wasn’t the only woman in the world to fall for the wrong guy, or to forgive him too many times. But the truth was that, even had my face been free of its cosmetic constraints, I couldn’t have found the strength to speak. Her little-girl voice was like a lullaby, singing me to sleep. I breathed deeply, the room growing ever darker as I drifted in and out of consciousness.

  The next thing I remember was the sound of footsteps overhead. I opened my eyes, found myself staring at the white underside of two slices of cucumber. I removed them, my eyes adjusting quickly to the s
urrounding darkness. I felt my face, still hidden beneath a layer of hard alpha hydroxy. When had Alison turned off the light? How long had I been asleep?

  Again I heard the sound of movement overhead, the opening and closing of drawers. Was she in my bedroom? I wondered, pushing myself to my feet and turning on the nearby lamp. What was she doing? Bright red toenails winked at me from beside the soft, white cotton balls wedged between each toe. Very Cherry, I remembered as I walked on my heels toward the stairs.

  She was in the guest room, standing in front of the bookshelf that occupied most of the wall opposite the old burgundy velvet sofa bed. Her back was to me. Obviously, she hadn’t heard me come up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, the masque around my mouth cracking like glass.

  Alison spun around, the book in her hand dropping to the floor, landing on her toes. She gasped, although I’m not sure whether it was from pain or surprise. “Oh my God, you scared me.”

  “What are you doing?” I asked again, the cracks in my masque lengthening, reaching for my eyes.

  Hesitation flickered briefly across her face, like a candle flame caught in an unexpected breeze. “Well, first I came up to look for these,” she said, recovering quickly as she pulled a pair of tweezers from her pocket. “I realized I forgot mine, and you were snoring away, it was so cute, I didn’t want to wake you up. I figured you must have a pair somewhere, but I had to go through practically every drawer in the bathroom till I found them. Why don’t you keep them in the medicine cabinet like everyone else?”

  “I thought I did,” I answered lamely.

  She shook her head. “They were next to your hot rollers, underneath the sink.” She returned my tweezers to her pocket. “And then I was on my way back downstairs when I saw all the books, and I thought I’d take a second and look up word number four in the dictionary.” She bent down to retrieve the large book with its glossy red-and-yellow cover, held it up for me to see. “A triglyph is a structural member of a Doric frieze,” she announced triumphantly. “Please don’t ask me what a Doric frieze is.”

  It was then that I caught sight of my reflection in the window and saw my newly shorn hair sticking out at weird angles from around my mummified face. “Oh, God, I look like the bogeyman.”

  Alison winced. “Don’t even joke about that.” She replaced the book on the shelf, laced her arm through mine. “Let’s get that masque off your face. We still have lots more to do.”

  “I think I’ve had about all the pampering I can take.”

  “Nonsense. I’m just getting started.”

  NINE

  I took Thanksgiving off.

  This was unusual because, since my mother’s death five years ago, I’d worked every Thanksgiving. In fact I worked every holiday, and that included Christmas Day and New Year’s Eve. Why not? I reasoned. Unlike Margot and Caroline, I had no family waiting for me at home, no one to bemoan my absence or complain they didn’t see enough of me. And the residents of Mission Care still needed looking after, holiday or not. It was truly sad how few visitors some of them received, how perfunctory many of those visits were. If I could make the holidays less lonely for these people, many of whom I’d come to like and admire, then I was more than happy to do it. Besides, it was a trade-off: I was doing it as much for me as for them. I didn’t want to spend the holidays alone any more than they did.

  But this Thanksgiving was different. I wasn’t going to be alone. I was having a dinner party, a slightly bigger dinner party than I’d first anticipated. Aside from Josh and Alison, the guest list now included Alison’s co-worker, Denise Nickson. Alison had asked if we could include her, and although I was reluctant—I didn’t really trust Denise after the incident with the earrings—Alison assured me that she was smart, funny, and basically good at heart. So, against my better judgment, I agreed to include her. Besides, with Denise around to talk to Alison, I reasoned I’d have more time to concentrate on Josh.

  “Something smells absolutely fabulous.” Alison swept into the kitchen from the dining room, where she’d been setting the table. She was wearing her blue sundress, and her hair, secured behind one ear by a delicate, blue dragonfly clip, hung in a wondrous rush around her shoulders. On her feet were her silver sling-back shoes. I still couldn’t look at them without feeling a jolt of anxiety. “This turkey is going to be yummy delicious.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “What else can I do to help?”

  “The table’s set?”

  “Wait till you see it. It looks like something out of Gourmet magazine. I put the roses Josh sent in the middle, between the candles.”

  I blushed and turned back toward the stove, pretended to be watching the pot of small red potatoes that were boiling at a brisk and steady pace. Believe it or not, no one had ever sent me flowers before. “I think we’re all set to go,” I said, running through my mental checklist—turkey, stuffing, marshmallow-covered yams, small red potatoes, homemade cranberry sauce, a pear-and-walnut salad with Gorgonzola dressing.

  “We have enough food for an army,” Alison remarked, throwing her hands into the air, as if she were tossing confetti. It was a gesture of pure joy, and it made me laugh out loud. “You’re so pretty when you laugh,” Alison said.

  I smiled my appreciation, thinking that if I looked especially nice tonight, it was all because of her. Not only was the haircut she’d given me the best, most flattering haircut I’d ever had—it fell about my face in soft amber waves that stopped just below my chin—but my skin still glowed from the facial she’d administered, and the makeup she’d selected and meticulously applied several hours earlier had somehow managed to be both dramatic and natural. My fingernails matched my toenails, Very Cherry going very well with my navy slacks and newly purchased white silk shirt. My silver cupid earrings dangled from my ears. Tonight, I told myself, was going to be a very special night.

  The doorbell rang.

  “My God,” I said. “What time is it?”

  Alison checked her watch. “Only six-thirty. Somebody’s very anxious to get here.” Big eyes widened in anticipation.

  “Do I really look okay?” I pulled my blue-and-white-checkered apron up over my head, careful not to disturb my hair, ran my tongue across the muted red of my lips.

  “You look fantastic. Just relax. Take a deep breath.”

  I took one deep breath, then another for good luck, before proceeding out of the kitchen. Even before I reached the front door, I could hear giggling from outside. Clearly it was Denise, and not Josh, who’d been anxious to get here. Just as clearly, she wasn’t alone. Had she and Josh arrived at the same time? I wondered, pulling open the door.

  Denise, wearing a pink T-shirt with orange letters that said DUMP HIM, and a pair of tight black jeans, her dark hair spiking rudely around the pale triangle of her face, was standing on the outside landing, skinny arms wrapped around an equally scrawny young man with short brown hair, light brown eyes, and a strong, hawklike nose. The face was vaguely sinister, although it softened a bit when he smiled. Still, he filled me with unease.

  “We’re here,” Denise announced gaily. “I know we’re early, but …” She laughed, as if she’d said something funny. “This is K.C.,” she said, and laughed again.

  Was she drunk? I wondered. High? “Casey?”

  “K.C.,” the young man explained, biting off each letter. He was about the same age as Alison, I estimated. “Short for Kenneth Charles. But nobody ever calls me that.”

  I nodded, wondered who he was and what he was doing in my house.

  “Denise?” Alison asked from behind me.

  “Hi, you.” Denise pushed past me into the living room of my home. “Wow. Nice house. Alison, meet K.C.”

  “Casey?”

  “K.C.,” the young man explained again. “Short for Kenneth Charles.”

  “But nobody ever calls him that,” I added, thinking he must get awfully tired of having to explain himself.

  “I didn’t realize you
were bringing a date,” Alison said, nervous eyes flitting in my direction.

  “Is it a problem? I just assumed it would be all right. Everybody always makes way too much food on Thanksgiving.”

  “If it’s a problem,” the young man interjected quickly, “I can go. I don’t want to put anybody out.”

  “No,” I heard myself say. “Denise is right. There’s more than enough food. We can’t very well toss you out on the street on Thanksgiving, can we?” I wasn’t being especially magnanimous. It was more that I suddenly decided Josh might be more comfortable if another man was present.

  “I’ll set another place,” Alison volunteered, disappearing into the dining room as I ushered Denise and K.C. toward the sofa and chairs.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I offered.

  “Vodka?” Denise asked.

  “Beer?” asked K.C.

  I had neither, so they settled for white wine. We sat in my living room, sipping on our drinks—Alison and I were sticking to water for the time being—and making awkward conversation. Denise seemed neither particularly smart nor funny, and K.C., who said little, had a way of looking right through you, even in repose, that was quite unsettling. Tonight is going to be a disaster, I thought, almost praying Josh would call to cancel.

  “So, where’d you two meet?” Alison asked.

  “At the store.” Denise shrugged, her eyes zeroing in on the large painting of lush pink and red peonies that hung on the wall across from the sofa. “That’s a nice painting.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I don’t usually like stuff like that. You know, flowers and fruit and stuff.”

  “Still life,” I said.

  “Yeah. I usually don’t like it. I like art with more of an edge, you know? But this is kinda nice. Where’d you get it?”

  “It was my mother’s.”

  “Yeah? And what—you inherited it after she died?” Denise was seemingly oblivious to the fact this might be none of her business. “Along with the house and everything?”