Whispers and Lies

by Joy Fielding

  “Maybe we should just go home,” Alison said. “I think Terry’s had enough excitement for one night.”

  “Every party needs a pooper,” Lance began singing. “That’s why we invited you.”

  “Party pooper,” I joined in, laughing so hard now I could barely catch my breath. Whatever twinge of trepidation I might have felt earlier had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, carried away by wave after wave of intense euphoria. I would ride those waves right into the middle of the sea, I thought as the ocean miraculously appeared before us, and Lance pulled to a stop at the side of the road, the white Lincoln stopping right behind.

  In the next instant, four doors opened as one and both cars emptied. We raced each other toward the deserted beach, so dark it was almost impossible to see where the sand ended and the water began. In the distance, several lonely firecrackers exploded, and I looked up to see a spray of brilliant pink and green burst briefly across the sky. Aside from that, and the low growl of a passing motorcycle, it was quiet. I suppressed a shudder as the cool night air blew through my hair, then wrapped itself tightly around my neck, like a tourniquet.

  “This is so great,” Denise exclaimed, throwing her arm over my shoulder and dragging me across the sand. “Isn’t this so great, Terry?”

  “Let’s get naked.” Lance was already kicking off his shoes and pulling his shirt over his head.

  “Let’s not,” Alison quickly countered. “What are you trying to do, Lance?” she asked above the roar of the ocean. “Draw as much attention to us as possible?”

  “Not a good idea,” Lance agreed quickly. “Okay, everybody. Clothes back on.” He tried dragging his shirt back over his head, but his head got caught in one of the sleeves, and he gave up, throwing the shirt to the ground in frustration, then laughing as he stomped it into the sand with his bare feet. “Never did like that stupid shirt,” he said, and we all laughed, as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the world.

  Except Alison. She wasn’t laughing.

  I pulled off my clumsy nurse’s shoes and surveyed the ocean stretched out before me—cold, dark, hypnotic. It beckoned me forward, pulling me like a giant magnet, and I rushed toward its angry waves as if possessed, the sand cold against my stockinged feet, the icy water rushing over my toes.

  “Way to go, Terry!” Lance yelled from the darkness.

  “Wait for us,” Denise called out as a wave, like an oversize boxer’s glove, pummeled my back.

  I looked toward the shore, saw several vague shapes lumbering toward me, hands waving in the air, like delicate tree branches swaying in the wind. I waved back, lost my balance, and stumbled over a rock. Struggling to maintain my footing, I saw the darkness swirling around me and wondered briefly what in God’s name I was doing. Hadn’t I pulled this stunt once before? Hadn’t I almost drowned?

  “Terry, be careful,” Alison cried out, fighting her way through the surf. “You’re out too deep. Come back.”

  “Happy New Year,” I shouted, splashing at the water with my hands.

  “Somebody’s stoned,” Lance said, drawing closer, his voice a singsong.

  I pushed myself to my feet, only to be slapped down on all fours by another wave. The taste of salt filled my mouth and I laughed, remembering the time I’d mistakenly sprinkled salt, instead of sugar, on my breakfast cereal, and my mother had insisted I eat it anyway. A lesson, she’d said, so I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. But I was always making the same mistakes again, I realized, laughing even louder.

  Once again, I tried to stand up, but my feet could no longer find the ocean floor, and I was drifting farther and farther away from the others. “Help!” I cried as the water crept above my head, and unseen hands reached for me in the dark.

  Strong hands pulled at my clothing. “Stop struggling,” Lance ordered, his voice as cold as the ocean. “You only make things worse by struggling.”

  I lunged into Lance’s arms, the wet hairs of his bare chest rough against my cheek, his heartbeat resonating against my ears. I gasped for breath, my hands flailing wildly in the air as another wave tore us apart, then crashed over my head like a collapsing tent. I screamed, my mouth filling with water, as my fingers reached across the darkness for something solid to grab on to. I felt a large fish slap against my calves and I kicked it away.

  “What are you doing?” Lance yelled above the sound of the angry surf. “Stay still.”

  “Help me!” The cold water swirled around my legs, tugging at my feet like heavy weights, pulling me under. I felt Lance close beside me and struggled through the darkness toward him.

  It was then that I felt a weight on the top of my head, pushing me back under, holding me down. “No,” I cried, although no sound emerged. I opened my eyes underwater, saw Lance beside me, his hands somewhere above my head.

  Was he trying to save me or kill me?

  “Stop fighting me,” Lance ordered gruffly.

  I reached frantically for the water’s surface, but my body was growing weak, and my legs were constrained by the tightness of my uniform. My lungs felt as if they were about to burst, the sensation eerily similar to the one I’d enjoyed earlier with my first marijuana cigarette. So this is what it feels like to drown, I thought, remembering the fate of those unfortunate kittens at my mother’s cruel hands. Had they been scared? I wondered. Had they fought back, clawed at her murderous fingers? Or had they quietly accepted their fate, as Lance was urging me to do now. “Damn it! Stop struggling,” he bellowed as my head finally shattered the surface of the water, like a fist through glass.

  And suddenly a bright light was shining toward me, and for one insane second, I wondered if I was already dead, if this was the white light patients who’d suffered near-death experiences sometimes talked about. And then I heard the distant voice—“Police,” the voice announced. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Goddamn it,” Lance said, pulling me up and securing me underneath his arm, pushing me roughly toward the shore.

  “What’s going on here?” the police officer asked again as I collapsed on the sand by his feet, gulping wildly at the air, unable to speak. Alison was immediately on her hands and knees, hugging me to her side. K.C. and Denise hovered silently nearby.

  “Sorry, Officer,” Lance said, shaking the water from his hair, like a dog. “Our friend forgot she doesn’t know how to swim.”

  “You all right?” the officer asked me. I could tell by the timbre of his voice that he was young and more amused than concerned.

  “She’s fine,” Lance said with another shake of his head. “I’m the one you should be worrying about. She almost killed me out there. Last time I play hero, I’ll tell you that.”

  “Pretty stupid stunt, lady,” a second officer admonished, looking directly at me, and I understood by his tone that it was the end of a long shift, and the last thing he wanted was unnecessary overtime. I noted that he was about the same height and weight as his partner, with the same thick neck and square chest. “You better get this lady home,” he advised. “I think she’s done enough celebrating for one night.”

  I opened my mouth and tried to speak, but no sound emerged. What could I tell them after all? That I was drunk on champagne and high on marijuana? That I suspected I’d been slipped some LSD? Did I really think that? Truthfully, at that moment, I didn’t know what to think. I wasn’t certain of anything, not what had happened earlier, not what was happening now.

  “Thank you, Officers,” Lance was calling after the already retreating policemen. “Happy New Year.” When they were out of sight, he turned back to me as Alison’s arm tightened around my waist. “You heard what the man said. Time to get you home.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  The rest of the night is a blur.

  I remember images—Lance’s knuckles, white against the black of the steering wheel; Alison’s wet hair clinging to the gaunt crevices of her face as tears continued spilling from her eyes; my uniform, wet and cold, riding high on my thighs, my sheer sto
ckings ripped and speckled with sand.

  I remember sounds—the wetness of our clothes against the leather of the seats; a horn blasting as a car sped past us on the inside lane; the nervous tapping of Lance’s foot on the brake as we waited for a light to change from red to green.

  I remember the silence.

  And then we were home, and everyone was talking at once.

  “What a night!”

  “How is she?”

  “What happens now?”

  I remember being half-carried, half-dragged toward my front door.

  “What are you going to do to me?” I recall whispering.

  “What did she say?”

  “What do you think we’re going to do to you?”

  “What’s she babbling about?”

  Alison’s voice, as clear as the proverbial bell: “You guys should go now. We can handle it from here.”

  I remember stumbling up the steps, Alison’s hand loosely on my elbow, Lance’s arm tight now around my waist. My bedroom swirled around me, as if I were on an ocean liner during stormy seas. I fought to stay upright as Alison slipped from my side, ended up on her knees beside my bed.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Lance demanded, gripping me tighter, as if afraid I might bolt, his fingernails carving small niches into my flesh.

  “You know what I’m doing,” Alison answered defensively, pushing herself back to her feet.

  Checking for bogeymen, I told him silently, then laughed out loud.

  “Jeez, two lunatics,” Lance said, his fingers at the front of my uniform, struggling with the top button, as Alison left the room.

  “Don’t,” I protested weakly.

  “You want to go to bed soaking wet?”

  “I can get undressed by myself.”

  Lance took a step back. “Suit yourself. I’m happy to watch.”

  “I think you should leave.”

  “Now, that’s not very hospitable,” Lance said, managing to sound hurt. “Especially after I saved your life.”

  Had he? I wondered again. Or had he tried to end it?

  Alison reentered the room, several large white towels in her hands. She threw one at Lance. Were they going to tie me up, gag me, then smother me with my own pillow?

  I felt the towels in my hair, at my breasts, between my legs. My wet uniform was scraped from my body, a dry nightgown lowered over my head, like a shroud.

  “Hold still,” Lance said.

  “I’ll do it,” Alison instructed.

  Strong hands guided me toward the bed, pushed me down on top of it, covered me with a blanket.

  “Think she has any clue what’s going on?” Lance asked as I buried my head in the pillow and curled into a fetal ball.

  “No. She’s really out of it,” Alison said.

  “So, what do we do now?”

  I felt them watching me from the foot of the bed, as if considering my fate, weighing the alternatives. I feigned sleep, hinted at a snore.

  “I should probably stay with her overnight,” Alison said.

  “What for? She’s not going anywhere.”

  “I know. But I’d still like to keep an eye on her.”

  “Fine. I’ll keep you company.”

  “No. You go. Get some sleep.”

  “You know I don’t sleep well when you’re not beside me.”

  I felt him move to her side.

  “Lance, don’t.”

  “Come on, Sis. Don’t be like that.”

  I tilted my chin, opened my eyes just enough to peek through the layers of lashes, see two forms merging at the foot of my bed.

  “Don’t,” Alison said again, this time with less conviction, as Lance, standing behind her, reached around to caress her breasts.

  I felt a gasp building in my throat, held my breath to keep it from escaping my lips.

  “I saw you, you know,” Alison continued as Lance began nuzzling her neck. “Flirting with Denise. Don’t think I didn’t see you.”

  “What’s the matter, Sis? You jealous?”

  “This isn’t right,” Alison said as he twisted her around, kissed her right on the lips.

  “We’re gonna burn in hell,” he agreed, kissing her again.

  I buried my face in the pillow, smothered the fresh scream building in the pit of my stomach.

  “Not here,” Alison said huskily, taking her brother’s hand, leading him from the room.

  I waited until I knew they were gone before opening my eyes. Were they still in the house, making love on the downstairs sofa? In the next room? I listened for sounds of their voices, fearful of what other noises I might hear. I lay there in the semidarkness for what felt like an eternity, afraid to move, the first moon of the new year filtering through the ivory curtains. I was trapped inside my own house, tied to my bed by invisible wires. There was no escape.

  I closed my eyes, opened them again, found myself staring into the blank eyes of the ladies’ head vase that sat on my night table, the vase Alison had bought me for Christmas. Keeping an eye on me, I thought, and might have laughed had I not been so sickened by everything I’d seen. I pushed myself into a sitting position, determined to make a run for it.

  But even as I watched myself in my mind’s eye, climbing out of bed and getting dressed, phoning for a taxi, getting the hell out of my own house, I knew I didn’t have the strength to go anywhere. My arms and legs were useless. They hung from my sides like anchors. My head felt as if some insane dentist had pumped it full of Novocain. Already I was losing consciousness, drifting in and out of reality. I knew I had only seconds left before I fell into whatever void was waiting.

  I threw myself off the bed, my arms flailing about madly, as if I were still in the ocean and unseen hands were pressing into the top of my head, holding me down. My hand smacked against the lamp on the night table, and I heard something shatter. The sound bounced off the walls, whizzed by my ear like a bullet. I looked toward the door, expecting Alison and her brother to come bursting through, restrain me. But no one came, and I collapsed back into bed, my strength gone. I closed my eyes, abandoned myself to whatever fate had in store.

  I AWOKE TO BRIGHT SUNSHINE and the sound of Alison’s voice. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Happy New Year!”

  She advanced toward me, wearing a pink sweater over matching pink jeans, looking like a long stick of cotton candy. I pushed myself up in bed, trying to clear my head, the events of the night before coming to me in fits and starts, like a videotape skipping in midreel.

  What had happened last night?

  “What time is it?”

  “It’s after twelve. I guess I should have said, ‘Good afternoon.’ ” Alison deposited a tray of freshly squeezed orange juice, hot coffee, and croissants across my lap. “Breakfast in bed,” she said, then laughed. “Or lunch. Whatever. The croissants are nice and fresh. Lance went to Publix.”

  Lance poked his head around Alison’s shoulder. “How you feeling?”

  I stared at him, unable to speak. Had he tried to drown me in the ocean last night or had he saved my life? Had I really seen him and Alison embracing at the foot of my bed? Had I dreamed the whole damn thing? Was that possible?

  “Oh, no!” Alison cried suddenly. “What happened here?” Alison knelt beside the bed and began picking up the broken pieces of the china head vase she’d bought me for Christmas. “What happened?” she repeated, trying to fit the pieces back together.

  I fought to remember, the back of my hand tingling with the memory of having smacked against something the previous night.

  “Maybe we can fix it.”

  “Don’t bother,” Lance said, removing the shards from Alison’s hands. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl, if you ask me.” He shuddered visibly. “These ladies give me the creeps.” Then he carried the pieces out of the room.

  “Terry, are you all right?” Alison asked. “Terry? Is something wrong?”

  “I know,” I said to her under my breath.

  “Know what?” />
  “I saw you,” I continued boldly. “Last night. With your brother.”

  “Oh, God,” Alison said as Lance returned to the room, smiling broadly, one broken lady easily disposed of.

  Was I next?

  “So, has Terry recovered from her excellent adventure?”

  “She saw us,” Alison said, her voice a monotone.

  “Saw us?” The smile slowly faded from his face as his eyes moved rapidly between us.

  “I saw you kissing,” I said flatly.

  “You saw us kissing?” The smile returned to Lance’s eyes, played with the corners of his lips. “What else did you see?”

  “Enough.” I pushed the breakfast tray aside, climbed out of bed, not sure whether my legs would hold me. Immediately, something stabbed at the bottom of my foot. I cried out, fell back against the bed, hugged my knee to my chest, saw a small sliver of china sticking out from between my toes.

  “Looks like the lady bites,” Lance said, taking my injured foot in his hands.

  “Don’t,” I said, as Alison had said last night, weakly, without much conviction. Alison ran from the room, returned seconds later with a wet towel.

  “Be still,” Lance said. “Relax.”

  I watched as he gently plucked the piece of china from my foot, drawing only a drop of blood, then patting it away with the towel.

  “Seems like I’m always coming to your rescue,” he said without a trace of irony.

  I tried to remove my foot from his grasp, but he held on tight. “I’d like you to leave.”

  “Please, Terry,” Alison said from somewhere beside me. “I can explain.”

  “I don’t need any explanations.”

  “Please. It’s not what you think.”

  “And what do I think?” Again I tried to remove my leg from Lance’s sturdy hands, but his fingers had begun expertly massaging the sole of my foot, and I realized with no small degree of shock that I didn’t want him to stop.