Just One Lie

by Kyra Davis

  “How do you figure?”

  “She gave her daughter life,” I explain, my voice cracking just a little as I turn back to him. “She gave her a father who loves her and a grandmother. She left her daughter in a loving home.” I shake my head, my eyes darting around, taking in the warmth of the room. “I wanted to do that. I wanted to give my little girl something like this.”

  I’m trembling a bit now, and I grab the backs of my arms to still myself. “I was on X the night my daughter was conceived. I took cocaine the afternoon after that.”

  “Why?” he asks simply.

  “Why?” I repeat incredulously. The question is so ridiculous that it actually brings me back to earth a bit. “I don’t know, to punish my parents? But . . .” I run my hands through my hair. “Okay, here’s the weird thing about me and drugs. Yes, there were days when the drugs were just for fun or to enhance an experience. I mean, have you ever really listened to house music? That annoyingly repetitive techno beat?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Okay, well that music makes a hell of a lot more sense when you’re on acid.”

  Brad grants me an amused smile. “Tell me about the other days.”

  “The other days?” I study the smooth, almost pristine surface of the ceiling. “On those days the drugs helped me feel normal. That’s what’s weird. What made other people feel crazy helped me feel normal. And really, what was the point in stopping? What’s the worst that could’ve happened? That I would die? Who cares?” My eyes shoot back to Brad and I feel a flash of defiance. “Really, who cares? My parents had already kicked me out. I was never going to be the person they needed me to be. I mean, I couldn’t even do that when I was sober. My little sister had stopped responding to my e-mails. I didn’t have a boyfriend, so why not just live my life the way I wanted to live it, and if that meant checking out early then so fucking be it. At least I could have a little fun and comfort while here.”

  “But you got pregnant,” Brad says, his voice low, steady, completely unfazed by my rambling.

  The words stop me, and for a moment I just look at him. “Yeah,” I finally say, choking the word out. “I did. And I know . . . I know that when you’ve taken the kind of drugs I did during that first month, the smart choice is to get your ass to an abortion clinic. And I’m totally pro-choice. But . . .” I shake my head, trying desperately to keep the tears back. “It was my one chance, you know? I could bring a life into this world. I could give her the things I didn’t have: love, patience, understanding. I could make her smile and laugh. And maybe . . . maybe she would like me.” I take a long breath. “Maybe, maybe I wouldn’t be alone anymore. Maybe I could be . . . like, good. I could do something good. I could . . . I could not be alone. And I could hold someone wh-who wanted me to h-hold them.” I shake my head and look toward the window. My voice is so meek I barely recognize it. “No one ever wants me to hold them,” I whisper, determined to stop the tremor. “Fuck them, yes. Lots of guys want me to fuck them. But I don’t remember anyone ever wanting me to just give them a hug. Not the guys I date, not my parents, not even when I was a kid. People . . . they just don’t want that from me. I’m not that girl.”

  “So what did you do?” he asks softly.

  “After I found out I was pregnant?” I shrug. “I called my dad.” A little laugh bubbles up as I’m reminded of what a completely absurd decision that was. “See, I knew I was going to have to stop the drugs,” I try to explain, “but some of the stuff I was taking was physically addictive. I did lines, smoked . . . well, I smoked pretty much anything that was handed to me. I needed to find a way to sober up fast and make the withdrawal safe for both me and the baby. I didn’t think I could do it on my own, but I figured if I could get into a decent rehab center, then, you know, maybe. I just needed the money for it.”

  “So you called your dad for a loan.”

  “Yeah . . . I mean he didn’t even have to give the money to me. He just had to hand it over to the rehab center. I had found, like, ten that I thought might work for me and I had gathered all the information together for him so he could pick the one he was most comfortable with. I did serious research. I walked into that meeting prepared.”

  “And what did he do?” Brad asks, his voice so gentle now that part of me just wants to curl up in his arms, beg him to change my history, just find a way to give me a different past.

  “Mercy?” he asks, when I don’t answer. “What did he do?”

  “My name isn’t Mercy,” I say quietly. “Or at least it wasn’t. It was Melody. And what he did was he murdered me . . . Now, the guy who knocked me up, when he did that he killed Melody, although God knows he didn’t mean to and it took a while. I guess you could say that guy put me in hospice. But my father? What he did to the woman I was, to Melody? That was premeditated. He just looked me in the eye and told me he was done with me. He told me that I was dead. He said that my mother wanted nothing to do with me, that my sister was being trained to forget me.” I take a very deep breath and put my hand against the wall to help stabilize myself. “He told me he couldn’t help me or my baby because we didn’t exist.”

  “Jesus,” Brad whispers.

  My lips curl into a hideous smile. “I was still determined, though! Yeah, it was going to be harder, but I . . . I just had to try, you know? I had to get myself clean and I had to give this kid a chance. And I decided that if I had a girl, I would name her Mercy. Like the Peter Gabriel song and like . . . well, like mercy, the thing my dad just couldn’t give me. Just a little fucking mercy!”

  “What happened to the baby?”

  Again I’m tempted not to answer, but finally I say, “It was total hell, but I got clean and I got us through the first trimester. Maybe I wasn’t as hooked as I thought, I honestly don’t know. The ultrasound revealed that she was indeed a girl. And you know, I was feeling pretty damn good about myself.” I laugh. “I’d won. I had beat the odds and I was going to have the family my dad was so desperate to deny me. I won! But then, a little more than four months in, I lost.” I shrug and shake my head. “It was probably all those drugs I took early on that did it. Or maybe the process of the withdrawal was too much for her, maybe I didn’t do it right.” Again I pause. My vision has gone out of focus again; I’m staring at nothing. “I had one shot at happiness and I literally killed it. I killed her. I killed my last chance at mercy.”

  Brad gets to his feet, still facing me. I’d back away from him, give him more space, try to keep him from contaminating himself, but I’m already up against the wall. As usual, there’s nowhere to retreat. “They said the fetus was in distress,” I say dully. “Even when she was inside me, even then she was in distress. I wasn’t able to give her any comfort at all! I wasn’t . . . I wasn’t able to give her anything. So, you know . . . I took Mercy’s name, tried to give her life, because I figured she had a lot more right to live than Melody, and well, like Daddy said . . . Melody was already dead.”

  Brad takes a step forward, but I turn away from him, bringing my focus back to the tightrope walker.

  “Do you think this guy had a death wish?” I ask.

  “Philippe Petit?” he asks.

  “Is that his name?” I ask, looking over my shoulder at Brad before turning back to the picture. “I bet lots of people thought he did. Walking around up there, no net, one itsy-bitsy misstep away from a horrifying death. But . . . I kinda have my doubts. What people don’t get is that sometimes you have to play chicken with death in order to be reminded that you’re not dead. Death is the thing that you can face, and tempt and toy with, but the only way to do that is if, like, death is outside of you. It’s separate, it’s the other. You can only face death if you are totally and completely alive.”

  “There are other ways to feel alive,” he says, wrapping me up in that wonderful baritone.

  “Like being onstage,” I say with a quick nod. “But you can only stay up there for so long. Maybe there are other ways, too, but I don’t know of them.”
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  He takes a long, deep breath. “Try this.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, gently but firmly turns me around, and steps closer to me, so there is no space between us at all. For a moment I think he’s going to kiss me. But instead he just wraps his arms around me. He holds me. And there I am, just standing there, my head against his chest, so unfamiliar with this feeling that I honestly don’t know what I’m supposed to do.

  And then, slowly, ever so slowly, I raise my arms and wrap them around him. I suck in a sharp breath and hold it for ten seconds, twenty, thirty . . .

  And then everything comes out and I’m sobbing. I feel my chest heaving against him as he strokes my back, kisses my hair. And I squeeze him tighter and he just doesn’t let go. For the first time that I can remember I am just holding someone. And Brad, he’s not asking anything of me, not right now. And he’s not expecting anything. It just is what it is, and as that continues to sink in the sobs continue as well. His shirt is soaked with my tears and it’s pressing against my cheek and it . . . it feels so . . . wonderful.

  And he’s right. This tenderness, this hug, it doesn’t seem possible, but it actually makes me feel alive.

  CHAPTER 24

  I SPEND THE NIGHT at Brad’s, in his bed. He sleeps on the couch. To be honest, I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep at all. But in the end I’m just exhausted and spent and it’s staying awake long enough to get my shoes off that’s the challenge, let alone getting into the men’s T-shirt Brad’s lent me.

  And now, blinking at the morning light, still curled up under the covers, I find I can’t exactly quantify what happened last night. I don’t know what Traci or Tonio think. I don’t really know what Brad thinks. Part of me wishes that he had spent the night in this bed, next to me, holding me the way he held me in his living room. But the more pragmatic part of me knows it would never have stopped there. Not just because of him, but because of me. Last night I wouldn’t have cared about what was wrong and what was right. I wasn’t thinking in those terms. Last night, after I had told my story in its entirety for the first time ever, I wasn’t really thinking at all. I was feeling. I was feeling fear and pain and loss and so much need. Brad had fulfilled a lot of that need. If he had lain beside me in this bed I would have insisted he fulfill the rest.

  And now? I shift positions and survey my surroundings. Is the acceptance letter to Harvard still in the desk? Is the picture of June’s mom still in his sweater drawer? In my gut I know the answer to both questions is yes. I feel a pang of jealousy over that picture. I bet no one has a picture of me tucked away anywhere.

  But then, is my jealousy so broad? Or is it the fact that Brad doesn’t have a picture of me tucked away that bothers me? I turn over on my stomach and put a pillow over my head. I feel like I’m hungover except I didn’t drink last night.

  I hear the bedroom door open and there’s a moment’s pause before I hear him say, “Mercy.”

  I pull off the pillow and turn my head to the side so I can see Brad standing in the doorway. He looks . . . edible. Seriously. His hair is all mussed, he’s wearing loose navy sweats and a Hanes gray tank that emphasizes his physique. As spent as I am I could push it all aside and just devour this guy.

  “Sorry, did I wake you?” he asks as he gently closes the door behind him.

  “No,” I say truthfully. I prop myself up on my forearms, arching my back just a little. I wonder if I look sexy, lying here wearing his tee. The thing is, the tee is just huge, maybe even too big to really pull off the oh-aren’t-I-cute-wearing-my-guy’s-clothes thing. I’m drowning in this.

  And he’s not my guy.

  I look away and shift my position to sitting up, pulling the covers firmly around my waist.

  “I just don’t want June waking up and seeing me on the couch,” he explains.

  “Makes sense,” I agree.

  He nods and moves to sit on the edge of the bed, then seems to think better of it and leans up against the wall. “I’d also prefer it if she didn’t see you coming out of my room this morning.”

  “Oh.” I pull the covers up a little higher as I study the gray striped pattern on the comforter. “I, um, I get it. I know I’m not exactly the kind of role model people want hanging around their kid.”

  “I wouldn’t want June seeing any woman coming out of my bedroom in the morning,” Brad clarifies. “It’s difficult to explain and she’s four.”

  “Oh.” I don’t even try to hide the relief in my voice. “Well that’s cool, do you want me to bail now? Or is she up already? I could climb out the window. Trust me, I’m a pro at climbing out of guys’ windows in the morning.”

  Brad drops his head and laughs. “I don’t want you to climb out the window. In fact, would you stay? I have to take June to school, but it’s only a ten-minute drive. I could come back with bagels.”

  I look down at my hands, pick at the remnants of my electric blue nail polish. “It’d probably be best if I headed out.”

  “Stay anyway,” Brad says, locking me in his gaze. My pulse starts to pound a little harder as I continue to clutch the sheets. After a moment he walks across the room, pulls a book from the shelf, and tosses it over to me. “Here’s reading material. It’ll take me a half hour to get her off, ten to school, twenty to get bagels. You can entertain yourself here for an hour and then we’ll talk.”

  “Brad—”

  “All right, I’ll just come out and say it. You owe me and now I’m calling in a favor. The favor of your presence.” He takes a step toward me and now my pulse is just out of control. “Only for a few hours,” he continues. “Only to talk. Will you do that for me?”

  “Yeah,” I croak, and then clear my throat and let my mouth move into a self-deprecating grin, amused by my own awkwardness. “I’ll stay, for a bit.”

  “Good,” he says with a smile. “I’ll . . .” He looks down at his attire and then casts a despairing glance at the digital clock on the bedside table. “I’ll shower later.” He goes to his dresser and pulls out a pair of jeans, boxer briefs, and a pair of black socks, then goes to the closet and grabs a button-down and a pair of loafers. “Stay here,” he says again. “I’ll change in the bathroom, then get her up.”

  “Okay,” I say as he walks out, clothes tucked under his arm. When the door closes I lean back against the headboard and shut my eyes. “I’m lusting after a man who wears loafers,” I say to myself. “What is happening to me?” I open one eye and look down at the book. Some nonfiction thing about the history of American political campaigns. Very respectable and probably very academic and structured. It’s like I was caught up in a tornado, blown out of Oz, and dumped into a black-and-white Kansas.

  It’s kinda cool.

  The only problem is, if the analogy really fits, I don’t belong on this side of the rainbow. In fact, if I stay here I will cause all sorts of problems. I’ll have hearts and brains and courage splattered all over the floor. No, I’ll have to click my penny loafers together and get back to Oz.

  And I’d better do it quickly, before I fall head over heels in love with Kansas.

  CHAPTER 25

  WHEN HE GETS back an hour later he has a bag of Noah’s bagels and two coffees that smell a little like heaven. I’ve taken the time to shower and dress. His comb doesn’t really work for my hair, so I just pulled it back into a wet ponytail and now I’m on the couch, legs crossed underneath me, fully immersed in the history of American campaigns.

  “This book is warped!” I exclaim as he places my coffee on the side table. “Everyone in here is a puffed-up, power-hungry opportunist.”

  “It’s entertaining.” He puts the bag of bagels down and pulls out plastic containers of maple-raisin-walnut and sun-dried tomato shmear.

  “Yeah, but these people! I mean, okay, I’ve heard of Watergate, but I didn’t really know what went down. Those break-ins? That’s hard-core! Oh, and this 1828 election between Jackson and Adams? Where they’re all talkin’ smack? Adams accused Jackson of straight-up murder and whoring aro
und on his first wife, and Jackson’s peeps were callin’ Adams out for being a pimp!” I laugh. “Course these days that would sort of be a compliment, but still! This is crazy! Do they teach this in school?”

  “Some of it, certainly the part about Watergate,” he says before disappearing into the kitchen.

  “Damn,” I mutter as I flip to the next page to finish the chapter. “I should have gone to class more often.”

  When he comes back it’s with two plates and a butter knife. I place the book down on the corner of the coffee table as he puts everything in front of me. “How are you feeling?”

  “I wasn’t sick,” I say a little defensively as I peek inside the Noah’s bag.

  “All right.” His tone implies he’s not buying it.

  I look up sharply. I sense a confrontation coming. But instead Brad just sits beside me on the sofa and crosses his ankle over his knee as he leans back, happy to let me pick my bagel first. “I’m a political junkie,” he says, gesturing to the book.

  “Oh?” I select a blueberry bagel and hand over the bag as I use the knife to cut mine in half. Figures he’d give me a butter knife to do this with. He’s such a guy. “How long have you been into that?”

  “Since I was a kid,” he says, pulling out an everything bagel. “Back when I decided I wanted to be president of the United States.”

  I drop my bagel. “You wanted to be president?”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “Why? Do you have any idea how much that job would suck?”

  “This from the girl who wants to do everything,” he says with a laugh.

  “Not that! I’m crazy, but I’m not a complete moron! When you’re president there are people trying to kill you all the time and you can’t so much as walk down the hall without being surrounded by the men in black. Plus, if you trip over your shoelaces, drop an F-bomb, sneeze into your soup, or commit any other human error you’re going to be on the cover of the New York Post with some kind of headline like, ‘Sneezy the Foul-Mouth Prez Falls on His Face.’ I mean, really, this is not a good job.”