A Field Guide to Deception

by Jill Malone

  She should ask for a train for Simon. Why hadn’t she thought of that while she was there? Anyway, now she had a reason to call her father, something to ask about besides cancer. Claire had helped to tape the room, and then taken Simon to get some clothes. He’d had a spurt that made him clumsy and ravenous and impossibly long-limbed.

  Liv’s body just felt sore now, no longer immobile and alien. She’d kept taking her pills, though, just in case. Paint dropped on her forearm and she gazed at it, unwilling to wipe it away. A fly lifted against the window screen, settled, twitching. Resonance everywhere. That was the gift falling from the ladder had been.

  Sex used to be like this. Give this kind of clarity; make her feel like more than herself. With each brushstroke, she felt her skin move and her muscles stretch and her breath come and go. When Claire lay warm against her, Liv knew she could chart the flow of blood through arteries. That was how aware she was. She could see thoughts. Could feel the air move around matter. Liv: alive and aware and keen.

  She finished the first coat, and hurried to the camper to change before they returned. Simon’s first expedition to swim at Fish Lake; Liv had pitched the adventure to Claire that morning, and described the old Steam Shovel at the turnoff, and the wooden dock, and the idyllic, calm water. In the camper, Liv took four pills, had her trunks on when she heard their car pull up.

  Claire drove them to the lake; the windows opened, the oppressive July day sitting heavily in the car, their bodies sticky. Indeed, Simon found the Steam Shovel as mesmerizing as Liv had predicted. He wanted to drive it. They climbed from the car and let him marvel at its hot, rusted metal. Farther in, they parked the car and walked through the pine trees down the trail toward the lake. Needles crunched beneath their sandals. Simon stopped to collect rocks, and again, when he saw the snake; alerted to its presence by a spider scurrying across the snake’s flesh, or because he’d thought it was a stick and then realized suddenly that it wasn’t. Liv had taken a step beyond the child, and put her hand on his back to press him forward when she nearly stepped on the snake, and it shot forward into the litter.

  She screamed, “Snake!” Grabbed Simon. Screamed, “Snake!” again and ran with him through the trees. Though he’d been calm a moment before, staring at the surprising creature, now he thrashed and shrieked for his mother.

  “Liv,” Claire said, trying to reach them. Their towels left on the trail like wrapping paper, she chased behind. “Liv, stop it. Stop. Liv!” And just as suddenly as the snake had bolted, Liv stopped, set Simon down, and stared about her. The day a smudge in her head, blurred and baffling, she stood on the pine needles by someone’s minivan in the tiny parking lot. “I’m so sorry,” she said to the inconsolable child, and his mother. “Wow. I’m a little thrown. Did you see it? The snake? Did you see?”

  Thirteen

  Doses

  Claire was scary when she was mad. Her voice, restrained and icy, seemed to insinuate itself into Liv’s brain so that her lecture came from without and within simultaneously. In the camper, standing by the doorway, she held both pill bottles in her hands. “How many of these have you been taking?”

  “Two.” Liv was slick with sweat. Low in her belly, a spasm flicked on the right side. She imagined an ovary swelling inside her like a balloon.

  “From each bottle?”

  “Yes.”

  “How often?”

  Liv wasn’t entirely certain. She’d taken them several times a day, but wasn’t sure if she’d actually timed the doses. “Every few hours,” she said.

  “How many pills a day?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Claire stepped closer and Liv felt herself recoil, and lower her eyes further, like a cornered dog. She reached her arms around her belly to keep it from bursting.

  “Liv, don’t fuck about. How many pills are you taking a day?”

  “Sixteen, probably.”

  Claire relaxed. Liv felt it—the hardness—drain from the room. She glanced up at Claire and back at her shoes. Her stomach felt twisted and sick. She wanted to vomit and shower and sleep. More than anything, though, she wanted Claire to set the pills down, turn, and leave without slamming the door. Liv didn’t want the pills anymore. She still felt bewildered. In the parking lot, the sobbing child, his angry mother, and nothing. She didn’t know why he was crying, or where she was exactly. When she thought about the snake, it seemed like something from a story, something she’d read to him. She wasn’t even afraid of snakes. Why would she have run from one?

  “You’re only supposed to take two of each of these twice a day,” Claire said. “You’ve been taking four times the prescribed dosage.”

  “Oh,” Liv said. She knew she’d vomit any moment, maybe into the sink, or on the bed, but definitely any moment. Shut up, she thought. Shut up and go away. Liv closed her eyes, breathed hard through her nose, but nothing could stop it now: the sickness, the wave of it breaking over both of them.

  “Liv?” Claire said, her voice entirely outside Liv’s head now, and muffled as though she were calling to Liv from outside the camper. Liv vomited. Choking, horribly painful, and it wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t catch her breath. Pulled then, from the bed, and the camper, out into the grass, where she could only retch and sob, and then slowly across the field toward the house. Slowly, with great care, the grass prickly on her skin; shivering and clammy in her damp clothes; and more retching, nothing left to expel except her own organs. Finally they were indoors, and Claire laid her down on the mat while she ran the bath.

  “You’re like a rock star,” Claire said, not unkindly. And Liv almost laughed, vomit in her hair even—rank and filmy. Claire eased her shirt over her head. Liv couldn’t help, could barely hold herself upright. Then the shorts and boxers and Liv heard Claire grunt as she lifted—lifted!—Liv into the bathtub. In the bath, her spasms stopped, and hollowed now—her body a sieve—she slept.

  She woke alone in Claire’s bed. The sheets white, and roped around her naked body, she rolled toward the window where the light strained, and closed her eyes. Voices, from outside, only murmurs, and Liv felt thick-tongued and zombie-headed. She fell into sleep as though it were a well.

  Bailey smoked, twirled her cognac in the snifter, and regarded Claire. She’d brought Simon back to the house with her. Claire had dropped him off earlier in the evening, said she had to run some errands and would have dinner ready for both of them at seven.

  “Where’s Liv tonight?”

  Claire took a bite of chocolate, chewed slowly. “She’s sleeping. Overdid it with the painting.”

  “I see,” Bailey said. “You look like you could sleep as well. I won’t stay long. How’s the book?”

  “I’m finished.”

  Bailey sat up, nearly dowsed her brown camisole with cognac. “What? You finished? When?”

  “Two days ago.”

  “Why aren’t we celebrating? We should be out somewhere, having champagne or something, shouldn’t we? Why don’t we go out tomorrow night? The bunk-bed lady can watch Simon, and you and Liv and I can celebrate. What do you think?”

  “I’m so exhausted now I can’t even think about celebrating.”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll handle everything. Where’s Liv? I’ll chat with her about it and we’ll arrange the whole thing. We can even schedule the sitter if you want. You won’t have to do anything.”

  Bailey stood up as though she meant to organize this very moment.

  “Liv’s sleeping, remember?”

  “Oh right. I’ll just phone her tomorrow. Just leave this to me. It’s so exciting. I had no idea you’d finished. After all this time, aren’t you pleased? How do you feel?”

  Claire considered. “I feel like spoiling myself.”

  “That’s the spirit. Spoiling how?”

  “A trip. Maybe to the Oregon coast. Dee and I used to go every few years. We’d talked about going this summer.”

  She crushed a mosquito. Claire wanted to curl against Liv. She wanted to hibern
ate. If she took them both—Simon and Liv—they’d walk the beach and Simon could throw stones while Liv recuperated. They’d visit the aquarium and the Sylvia Beech Hotel; Simon could play in the Dr. Seuss room. And she and Liv . . . Claire looked up at her bedroom window and wished Bailey gone.

  “I should go,” Bailey said, not moving.

  “Yes,” Claire said, and stood. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks for watching Simon.”

  “Thanks for dinner. Tell Liv, well anyway, I’ll phone her tomorrow.” Bailey handed Claire her drink, hesitated, walked slowly away.

  Claire left the drinks on the table, moved barefoot through the house, her clothes peeled away. An ache deep in her, a kind of tether, between herself and Liv, drew her without thought, or consideration, to Liv’s body. In a foreign place, Claire knew she could track Liv by smell and impulse alone. They were like bats, some sonar reckoning in the dark.

  “Are you sleeping?” she asked Liv.

  “No.” Muffled.

  “Can you?”

  Liv rolled into Claire, her skin clammy, her muscles trembling down her back and legs. Tucked against Claire’s chest, Liv seemed to shiver harder, and then Claire understood, she was sobbing. Both of them children, orphaned, seeking succor from each other. That word, “orphaned”, rang through Claire like memory. I will be your mother too, she thought. Your mother and your child. Twining her legs through Liv’s, she bound them both to this place.

  Fourteen

  Simon sees

  Simon ran Murdoch along the wall beside his bed; the engine’s wheels made a satisfying rumble. He had dreamed of the Great Pumpkin. Liv was in trouble with his mom. He knew this, although Claire had said nothing. And the snake. Simon had wanted to touch it. He had been afraid, and thrilled by it as well. Fast on the ground, slithering. Slithering, he said aloud. He thought of his body with no arms or legs, gliding through the pine needles like a ghost.

  He did not see Liv until he stood by his mother’s bed, both of them asleep. Liv’s face moon-pale and almost bruised. Simon reached his hand out slowly as though to a large dog, and touched the marks beneath her eyes. Her eyes opened, in a moment she smiled.

  “Hello, you.”

  “Hello,” he said in a whisper.

  “Come on, then.”

  And he nestled in between them, Murdoch clutched in his fists. It was alright, he knew, whatever had happened.

  “O Great Pumpkin, where are you?” he said to the ceiling.

  “I love Linus,” Liv said. “The only one who believes.”

  He turned on his side to face her, and ran Murdoch along the space between them.

  “I’m sorry about the snake,” Liv said. “I’m sorry about the lake too. You’d like swimming there. If you want, I’ll take you again. If you want.”

  Against his back, he could feel his mother’s body, warm and curled.

  “I’m hungry,” Liv said. “Would you eat a banana?”

  “Let’s go,” he said and sat up.

  “You’re staying in bed,” his mother said.

  “Let me try a banana,” Liv said. “If I keep it down after an hour, I’m going to paint.”

  “You’re going to stay in bed.”

  He knew this voice, and so did Liv.

  “I want to try a banana,” she said again. Simon held his breath. His mother sat up; the bed shifted with a creak.

  “I’ll bring one. You and Simon can have breakfast in bed. Cereal?” This last to Simon, who nodded.

  Liv piled the pillows and they reclined against them, hands beneath their heads, awaiting breakfast like pharaohs.

  “I have to finish the second coat in the basement,” Liv told him. “You can help, if you want. I have extra brushes.”

  Claire brought trays: milk, bananas, toast, applesauce, cereal. She sat, cross-legged, at their feet.

  “I’ll paint,” she told Liv.

  “You have your book to finish.”

  “My book is finished.” The strap from his mother’s white tank top had slipped from her shoulder.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean it’s finished.”

  “Since when?”

  Simon stared at Liv. He held his breath again.

  “A couple of days.”

  “And you didn’t tell me because?”

  Claire glanced at Simon, and back at Liv. “Eat,” she said.

  Liv took another small bite of banana. His mother shifted, pulled her strap back over her shoulder.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I wanted to be happier, when I told you I’d finished. I wanted to feel like celebrating.”

  “Instead?”

  “Liv.” They looked at him.

  He bit into the buttered toast, watched Liv tear the banana into little chunks.

  “It wasn’t to hurt you,” his mother said. She hadn’t eaten. Just held her mug of coffee in her hands as though she were cold.

  “We can talk about it, or we can’t.”

  “You’re right,” Claire said. “How do you feel about the Oregon coast?”

  “Holy random. I love it. How do you feel about it?”

  “I feel like visiting—the three of us—Simon’s never been.”

  “I’m supposed to be working on this house, remember?”

  “Yes.”

  Liv finished her banana, leaned back against the pillows, and regarded Simon. He’d eaten his toast and most of his cereal. He wanted one of the big paintbrushes.

  “We should talk about this later,” Liv said.

  “I’ll make a list: suitable topics for another time.”

  Beside him, Liv shifted. She wore one of his mother’s t-shirts inside out. They were making faces. He laughed at them. Claire and Liv, grinning now, threatened to take away his tray, and tickle him. He kept laughing, daring them on.

  Claire and Liv painted, Simon had a brush and a smock and newspaper beneath him. He’d been allowed a small tub of blue, and the middle portion of one wall. Paint smelled. The brush was heavy. He wanted to go to the river.

  “All done,” he said. And they took the brush, washed his hands, and sent him upstairs to play with his trains.

  “You found the missing research?” Liv asked eventually.

  “In Simon’s closet.”

  “How’d it end up in Simon’s closet?”

  “I think maybe I put it there,” Claire said. She’d remembered finding a pile of Dee’s papers on the kitchen table, sometime that first week, and stuffing them away in a box. “After the funeral.” Probably crammed the box into Simon’s closet to avoid going downstairs; at the time, she couldn’t brave her own office, much less Dee’s study.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Liv asked.

  Because I wish I’d never found that box, Claire wanted to say. Never seen those last sketches; never read the letter. I wish I didn’t know. I’m tired. I want to come to the end of this. “I’ve already told you, I wanted to be happier when I told you.”

  “Why aren’t you happier?”

  Claire painted along the tape, then stood and stretched. She could hear Simon singing from the floor above them. “Because,” she said, “I thought—I actually believed—that if I finished the book, I’d feel better. I believed that. But I feel exactly like I did last week, and last month. Exactly how I’m going to feel next month and next year. It never lets up.”

  Liv smiled at her, said gently, “I’d hug you, except I think I pulled a muscle painting this trim.”

  Claire grinned in spite of herself, and flicked Liv’s arm with the paint stirrer. “I tried to tell you to stay in bed.”

  “You’re very good at being right.” Liv set her brush down and rolled her shoulders. “I need a cigarette, and someone to hold it for me.”

  “You are so sad.” Claire flicked her again.

  “Stop, you’re getting paint on me.”

  “I have to exploit your injuries,” Claire said, darting just out of reach, “Get you now while you’re too weak to
retaliate.”

  “Stop, I’m serious,” Liv said, laughing. “I think I pulled a muscle in my back. For real, it hurts every time I raise my arm above my head.”

  “Then you, my friend, are officially back on bed rest,” Claire said. “Come on, we’re done for the day.”

  Simon came outside with them, threw off his clothes, and ran through the sprinkler. Afterward, they blew bubbles, and chased around the yard after butterflies, and laughed until they were out of breath. Liv played as hard as Simon, as though she didn’t have an injury at all; she’d pay for it later, of course, but that hardly mattered.

  At the river with Simon that evening, Liv held her phone away from her head. Bailey was a loud talker, and Liv had a headache that seemed to reach the length of her spine.

  “I want to throw Claire a party,” she was saying, “for the book, and everything.”

  Liv inhaled her cigarette, watched a dragonfly angle toward Simon. So Claire had told Bailey about the book being finished. This shouldn’t be surprising. It shouldn’t be. “Yes?”

  “How do you feel today? Claire said you overdid it yesterday painting.”

  She wished her phone would cut out. Maybe she could get Simon to throw it in the river. Considering this, Liv sat down in the grass, and dug her heel into the sand at the riverbank.

  “Liv? You still there?”

  “I’m here.”

  “How’s it going? You feeling OK?”

  “What’s your idea for this party?”

  “We can talk about it later if you want. Or I can handle the whole thing? I don’t mind. Actually, I’m perfectly happy to handle everything. I know you have a lot going on.”

  “Why are you calling me?” Liv asked.

  “What?”

  “Why did you call?”

  “I wanted to talk to you about the party. I wanted to tell you what I had planned.”