Your Closest Friend

by Karen Perry

  After the second hit of vodka, I’m calmer. I’ll give her a minute, then I’ll go in, say I’m sorry, hug and make up. Buy back her affection with ice cream. At this point, I still think I can fix this.

  The spatula’s on the floor by the dishwasher where it landed, and as I bend to pick it up, thinking how I’ll have to cook something different now the onions are ruined, the truth hits me like a sudden rush of blood to the head. I have fucked up. Badly. The way I’d gripped her arm, there could be marks. Bruising. A plunge of nerves goes through me. I’m telling my mummy on you. I put the spatula on the table, then put my hand to my mouth.

  Bad, bad girl, Connie says. Now look what you’ve gone and done.

  I go to the sink, squirt detergent on the pan and start scrubbing.

  Who’s in trouble now? she sings sweetly, and her ripe laughter spins out behind her words, soaring with hysteria.

  ‘Fuck!’ I say, dropping the pan back in the sink and turning away.

  The kitchen table is a goddamned mess. I need to think. I need to work this out, but Connie’s laughter is so loud and mocking, it drowns out all thought.

  Mabel’s schoolbag is on the table and I pick it up, the flap swinging open, and it’s as I’m dropping it on the chair that the toys fall out. A couple of rabbits in dresses. A plastic picnic table with a pink umbrella. A collection of minuscule imitation goblets scattering over the kitchen floor, one of them lodging in the crack between the floorboards. Sylvanian Families toys – or as Mabel calls them, Sylv-aliens. She has been coveting these things for ages. Leslie has a whole rake of the things, a goddamned Sylvanian compound – and it’s been driving Mabel wild with jealousy.

  I know that she has stolen them. And once I know that, the next bit is easy.

  ‘Leslie’s mum called,’ I tell her, when I go into the room.

  She’s curled up under the duvet – it’s pulled right over her head.

  ‘Some of Leslie’s toys have been stolen.’

  She doesn’t move, but I can tell I have her attention.

  ‘They’ve called the police,’ I say.

  She sits up.

  I cross the room, crouch down next to her.

  ‘This is serious,’ I tell her. ‘The police are involved, now a crime’s been discovered.’

  ‘What?’ Her eyes, red and squinty from crying, seem to open a little wider, searching my face.

  ‘Do you know what the police do with people who steal?’ I ask, and she shakes her head but her lip is trembling. ‘They put them in jail.’

  ‘Even children?’ she asks, her voice very small.

  ‘Of course. They have special prisons for bad little girls and bad little boys.’

  A flash of terror crosses her face and then she presses her face down into her knees, her body shuddering with sobs, and despite myself, I’m moved by the pathetic performance. I shift so that I’m sitting alongside her, my arm going around and drawing the little body to me. ‘Shhh,’ I whisper. ‘It’s okay. Do you know what we are going to do?’

  She leans away from me, a look of desperation on her face.

  ‘I’m going to take those toys and put them somewhere very safe – somewhere secret. Somewhere the police can’t find them.’

  She nods gently, but the fear is still there in her eyes.

  ‘We’re not going to tell anyone about this, okay? It’s going to be our secret.’

  ‘Mummy and Daddy say I’m not allowed to have secrets.’

  ‘Yes. But Mummy and Daddy wouldn’t want to find out you are a thief, would they?’

  She shakes her head slowly, the tears threatening to return.

  ‘They wouldn’t want to see their little girl taken away to jail.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to jail!’ she wails.

  ‘And you won’t,’ I whisper. ‘I promise. I’ll protect you. I’ll keep your secret. But Mabel, you have to promise me something too.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That you won’t speak about this to Mummy and Daddy – about anything that happened today. Do you understand?’

  She nods her head and looks down.

  ‘Even if they keep asking you about it. Even if they tell you that nothing bad will happen to you. Because they don’t understand what’s at risk, do they? They don’t know about the stealing, about the police.’

  I put my hand to her face, run my finger over the wet chub of her cheek. And then I smile at her. I positively beam. The anger is all gone now. Connie’s voice is quiet in my head. Replaced by a happy note of contentment. Funny how you can do that – turn the current from rage into something peaceable, something pure.

  It’s almost eight by the time Cara comes in. I’ve been half-dreading it, the vodka buzz having worn off, replaced now by a dull emptiness. Mabel is asleep at least – a small mercy. Worn out from her tantrums, her fear, she hardly ate the dinner I made – macaroni and cheese. I wound up eating hers and mine, the pleasing tackiness of it, pasta moulding itself to the roof of my mouth.

  I’m in the kitchen cleaning up when Cara walks in, puts her bag on the table and shrugs out of her coat. As I turn to say hello, she greets me briskly, then disappears into Mabel’s bedroom just like she always does. My heart is hammering away, powered by remorse as much as anxiety over being found out. But when she emerges, closing the door softly behind her, she gives me a brief smile, saying, ‘Fast asleep,’ and gratitude washes through me for I can see that whatever it is she’s going to say to me, all is not lost. There is still friendliness there.

  ‘I saved you some dinner,’ I tell her, a puppyish eagerness in my voice that even I can hear, but I’m just so freaking grateful, I can’t help myself. ‘It’s just mac and cheese, but I could heat it up –’

  ‘God no, I can’t eat,’ she tells me, and half-laughs before going to the fridge. ‘I need a drink,’ she says, drawing a long-necked bottle of Riesling from the wine shelf, and holding it up for me to see. ‘Want a glass?’

  I’m half-toasted on vodka already, but I say, ‘Sure. Why not?’ all the school rules thrown out the window tonight.

  There’s something different about her, like she’s charged with a new kind of energy. Not nervy exactly, but there’s something zippy there – an excitement. She unscrews the bottle, turns away to take down two glasses from the press. And as she closes the cupboard, I catch her, just briefly, pausing. Two hands placed to her cheeks, staring at nothing. A stillness has come over her, like she has just remembered something, or is suddenly taken aback. Her face is reflected in the glazed panel of the door, and I see the widened eyes, the ghosting smile, and the look is one of marvel. Wonder.

  She breaks her reverie to pour the wine, handing me my glass, saying, ‘So, you met Olivia then,’ watching for my reaction as she takes her first sip.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say. ‘Whatever she told you … This is all a big misunderstanding.’

  ‘Were you trying on my clothes?’

  The skin on the bridge of her nose wrinkles, not with distaste, but with amusement, and I’m confused by it. I thought I was in trouble, but she’s taking it like it’s a joke.

  ‘I was putting away laundry for you,’ I begin cautiously. ‘Trying to be helpful. I thought I’d put the clothes away rather than just dumping them on your bed or whatever.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … I saw this dress hanging in your closet, this silk dress.’ I hesitate now, trying to gauge her reaction, but I’m getting the feeling that an admission is called for, so I continue in a rush, ‘It was just so beautiful, I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry, Cara, you’ve every right to be mad at me. I shouldn’t have taken that liberty. I don’t know what I was thinking. I wasn’t thinking. I just tried it on to see what it felt like, and that’s when she walked in.’

  She tips a little more wine down her throat, gives me a smile that’s kind of mischievous.

  ‘Did you know it was my wedding dress you were trying on?’

  I put one hand up to cover my mouth. For an
awful second, I feel sure I’m going to laugh. But I push down on it and say, ‘Oh God! I’m sorry! That makes it so much worse. I’ll get it dry-cleaned for you, I swear.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ she says breezily, moving past me out into the hall with the bottle.

  I can hear her in the living room, moving around, drawing the curtains. When I follow her in there, she’s crouched in front of the fireplace, cranking the lever. It’s mid-September but there’s a slight chill in the air, and I’m guessing it’s been months since this fire has been lit. The mechanism gives a whizz-bang, and then a skirt of flames appears among the fake coals, and she straightens up.

  ‘If you want me to leave, I will,’ I tell her. ‘I’ll pack my bags right now.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ she laughs, kicking off her shoes and throwing herself into one of the club chairs. ‘I’m not going to fire you over something so silly. Although I’d rather you didn’t repeat the offence.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’ I’m grinning like an idiot, can’t stop the goofy smile from breaking out over my face. When I sit down on the couch, it’s like a great weight has been lifted from me. I try my wine. There’s a dried apple flavour to it that I don’t like, but I still sip away greedily.

  ‘Did Olivia say where she was going?’ Cara asks.

  I shake my head. ‘We didn’t talk much, to be honest. She seemed kind of angry or … disgusted.’

  She lets out another laugh, an involuntary yip. ‘Yes! That sounds about right. She’s good at disgust, is Olivia.’

  ‘I see now why you don’t like her,’ I say.

  Her expression changes instantly, giddiness draining away to something more serious. ‘Of course I like her,’ she corrects me in a quieter voice. ‘It’s just …’

  She sighs, sits forward, splashes a bit more Riesling into her glass.

  ‘Things are a little difficult between Olivia and me. The stepmother thing – it never really took off. Not in the way I’d hoped it would.’

  ‘You don’t seem old enough to be her mum.’

  ‘No. I suppose that’s part of the problem. I just thought that it would be easier. That she would realize that I understood what she’d been through. That I could relate. I had it in my head that we’d be close because I’d had the same experience.’

  ‘Your mom died?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes. I was a little older than Olivia was when it happened. But only barely nineteen. Still just a child.’

  ‘What happened to her?’ I ask.

  She looks briefly into the contents of her glass, as if to find the answer there. Then says, flatly, ‘Suicide.’

  Something moves inside me, a disconcerting lurch.

  ‘How?’ I ask, barely keeping the shock from my voice.

  ‘Pills,’ she says matter-of-factly before a sharp smile glances off her face. ‘Nothing too gruesome, thank God.’

  ‘No, I mean how could she do that?’

  I can’t explain it – how stricken I am at this information. How could I know her this well – be so close to her – and not have known this vital thing about her? That she went through this pain, this awful betrayal. It’s like I’m feeling it myself. Like it’s my own mom we’re talking about. And then I remember the lie I’ve told and a wash of shame comes over me, so sharp and sudden I have to sit forward quickly just to slough it off.

  ‘Amy, are you alright?’

  ‘I just can’t understand it.’

  She’s looking at me now, concern in her face.

  ‘She was depressed,’ she explains softly. ‘It was very sad, but I had my dad and … well.’

  ‘Don’t you miss her?’

  ‘Of course I do. But life goes on. I’ve learned to accept it.’

  I look down at my hands holding my wine, aware of the crack of emotion that’s come into my voice, aware of the watchful look she’s giving me. My nails are shredded and rough. Fingerprints smudge the glass.

  In a quiet voice, I ask, ‘What was she like?’

  ‘Like?’ She thinks about it for a moment, before alighting on the right word. ‘Bookish. When I look back, that’s how I remember her – always reading. I used to think she preferred books to people.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘She was a solitary person. Shy. I think the world frightened her a bit. By the end, she had almost completely withdrawn. I wasn’t allowed to have friends over. She wouldn’t have anyone in the house. She suffered, the poor woman.’

  ‘You make it sound like it’s a distant relative you’re talking about,’ I comment, not unkindly.

  ‘Do I? It’s years ago, now. I suppose that’s why.’

  The softness of her tone – the kindness in it – all of it is suddenly too much. I put my wine glass down, and press the heels of my hands against my closed eyes, holding them there for a moment, my shoulders high with tension.

  ‘Amy?’ she prods lightly. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have …’ I begin, but the sentence breaks, the back of my wrist gently knocking against my tightly shut lips as I lower my hands.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she says hesitantly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. I should have thought.’

  And it’s all there in her face – the wariness, the caution.

  I shake my head quickly in a gesture of irritation with myself. I’ve been trying so hard to get close to her, all this time. The thought that this one stupid lie might threaten that closeness infuriates me.

  ‘No … It’s just … Shit!’ I fix her with a fierce gaze. ‘I lied to you. I shouldn’t have, but now, after what you’ve told me about your mom, I just can’t … Shit!’

  ‘What is it?’ she asks gently. ‘Tell me.’

  I realize now that I have to tell her the truth. It’s a gamble, but I’m banking on her unexpected good humour, her openness tonight, that a corresponding openness in me might just cement our bond, rather than breaking it. The opportunity is there and I seize it.

  ‘My mom didn’t die,’ I say quietly. ‘She wasn’t killed in 9/11. The truth is she walked out and left me. I was thirteen years old. We were living with her girlfriend, Elaine, and … I don’t know … things weren’t going well, and so she just left one day. I kept thinking she’d come back, you know? Send for me once she got herself settled. But she never did.’

  I shake my head, angry at myself for getting so upset or for revealing the truth or for lying about it in the first place.

  She’s trying not to react but I can see the spike of interest in her eyes, the shock.

  ‘And the 9/11 thing?’

  ‘That’s just something I made up. The kids at school used to give me a hard time about it – about my mother abandoning me. You know what kids are like,’ I say, shrugging. ‘They can be cruel. And there was this kid in my class whose father really did die in 9/11, and they never bothered him about it. Like his loss was something noble or worthy or, I don’t know … patriotic. Whereas mine was just pathetic. So later on, after I left that school, I began pretending that my mom had been killed by the terrorists.’ My voice drops a little. Saying it out loud, I can’t help but feel ashamed. ‘I made up this whole elaborate tale about her working in the Twin Towers, about her coming in to say goodbye to me that morning. Sometimes, it felt like that’s what should have happened, you know? Telling people … after a while, it didn’t even feel like a lie. But then you tell me about what happened to your mom and it just makes me feel –’

  I stop, shocked to find there are tears spilling down my cheeks.

  ‘I suppose I can understand why you said that,’ Cara offers gently.

  And I feel so goddamned grateful to her right then, and so fucking relieved, I can hardly speak.

  ‘And after your mother left?’ she asks. ‘Who took care of you then?’

  ‘The Millers – Elaine and her daughter, Connie, the one I told you about? I guess we were like sisters. We had kind of been living with them already, so …’

  All this time we’ve been talking, ther
e’s been this loosening inside me, this opening up, and I’m starting to feel like I can finally say my truth, that I’ve finally found someone I can be safe with. But then I hear it, that whispery voice, running like an undercurrent in my brain: Tell her about me, Amy. Tell her what you did.

  And then the laughter, horrible and mocking.

  ‘Did you ever hear from your mother?’ she asks softly.

  I shake my head quickly and pick up my glass. ‘If Olivia needs her bedroom, I don’t mind,’ I say, getting to my feet.

  Consternation briefly sweeps across her face, but then she also stands and says, ‘No. Stay where you are. I can make up a bed for her in Mabel’s room if she comes back.’

  I know she’s confused by the sudden shuttering of my admissions, but I’m teetering on the edge of an uneasy threshold.

  Just before I turn in for the night, she holds me with a long look and says, ‘I’m really glad we had this talk, Amy. I feel like we understand each other better.’

  And there is such warmth and feeling in those words that it is all I can do not to fall into her arms, sobbing with gratitude.

  Cara goes to bed not long after I do. And in the darkness, I listen to her moving around up there, going through her nightly routine. I lie in my bed, watchful and restless. My phone pings and I read the incoming text. It’s from Sean.

  Everything okay? Haven’t heard from you in so long.

  I barely glance at the message before deleting it. The memory of his voice is a distant echo. A whine reaching out from the past. But I don’t need him any more. I’ve moved on.

  Something happened between me and Cara tonight – another twist in our tale, bringing us closer together. And I think of how she listened to what I said, how she gave me the space to say it, invited me to open up in a way that no one else ever has. This is not like Connie – this is something else. Something deeper. Something pure. I feel the roots of it spreading through me, anchoring me to her in a way that makes me feel whole.