Tell Me Lies

by Carola Lovering

  “So, Alice, Stephen tells me you work in insurance.” My father took a sip of his Stella. I could almost feel the effort in his question, the exertion he was putting into being cheerful.

  Alice nodded and they proceeded to have the world’s most boring conversation about insurance, with occasional chime-ins from Kathleen and Luke, who were nestled against each other on the love seat like mating lions. Sadie didn’t say much, because what have you got to say about insurance when you’re sixteen?

  “I’m thrilled I got a job in New York and not Pittsburgh,” Alice went on. “Pittsburgh is just such a buzzkill in comparison. I mean, the city of Pittsburgh itself is fine. It’s clean. But in terms of job prospects and restaurants and everything, there’s nowhere like NYC.” Alice was always pronouncing the acronym like that: en-why-cee. It was something I found obnoxious and certainly called attention to the fact that she was not a native New Yorker.

  “So did you interview for a lot of jobs in Pittsburgh?” my father asked.

  “Some. But I knew I wanted to be in New York, so I interviewed everywhere I could. And when I got the job offer in en-why-cee, I accepted right away. Even though I didn’t—don’t—necessarily want to be in insurance forever.” Alice folded her hands on her lap, her face a little flushed. She seemed nervous.

  “You know, I was in the same boat right after I graduated,” Kathleen said, flipping her shiny raven hair to one side. “I thought I wanted to be a teacher, but then I got a job in consulting, and I was so freaked out about being unemployed that I took it. And now I’ve been in consulting for four years and love it. And then I have other friends who worked in one industry for a year, then switched to something totally different. So my two cents? Don’t worry about your first job impacting your entire career. You never know where your path will lead you.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard people say that.” Alice gave Kathleen an appreciative smile. “That’s a real relief to hear.”

  I took a large swig of Scotch. The problem facing Kathleen and Alice, and even Luke, is that they aren’t career-oriented people. They’ve never known what they want professionally, so they’ve weaved together convenient stories in order to make themselves feel better about their lack of incentive. Someone holds a gun to your head and asks you: “What do you want to be?” That, the first thing that pops into your head, is what you should be. You just fucking make it happen. If you want to be a doctor, go to med school. You want to be a writer, write something. If you want to make movies, go to Hollywood and pursue it. Just do something about it. Like me, for instance. From a young age I knew I wanted to be a lawyer. So I’m pursuing it. It’s not a walk in the park. I haven’t loved spending the last two autumns slaving away on law school applications and working a bullshit humdrum job in the interim; it wasn’t easy receiving rejection letters, repeatedly. But it’s all been a sacrifice for a larger ambition, an ultimate purpose.

  Kathleen’s theory was extremely typical. She thought she was happy working in consulting, but in reality her happiness was constructed based off the life she’d built around that job. Did she stroll to work each morning with passion and hunger and dynamite firing up inside her bones? Hell no. Kathleen probably sat at her desk every day and, like most people in the world, waited for it to end. It’s always boggled my mind the way the majority of individuals sit around waiting for the next event, then the next—subconsciously waiting for life to end. Kathleen would get off work and march off to some spin class where she’d sweat for an hour, probably enjoying it much less than she’d admit. After spinning she’d trod on home, where she’d make dinner and drink wine with Luke, and that was why she believed she was happy—the day’s result, that two- to three-hour period when she could relax and spend time with her fiancé was, in her diluted mind, worth the insipid sludge of the rest of her life. Kathleen should’ve been a teacher, if that was her real ambition. Or maybe she has no ambition, which is the reality for a lot of people. Alice included, as far as I can tell.

  “Shall we eat?” my father asked finally, standing. “I’m not the world’s best cook but I did make Stephen’s favorite, roast beef. Tofu for Kath, of course.”

  Of course Kathleen was a fucking vegetarian.

  “Aw, John, you didn’t have to! I’m totally fine with all the sides.”

  “I’m glad to do it. You’re my future daughter-in-law, after all.”

  Kathleen smiled her gorgeous face off.

  We went into the kitchen to serve plates and I mixed another round of drinks for Alice and me, pouring extra Scotch in mine.

  My father disappeared into the bathroom, probably to self-medicate. The others seated themselves in the dining room, leaving Alice and me alone in the kitchen. She nuzzled up to me.

  “How am I doing?” she asked.

  “You’re doing great.”

  “Your dad is sweet.”

  “He’s a wreck.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s very depressed.” I was feeling honest and a little drunk already. Hair of the dog.

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes.”

  “ ’Cause of your mom?”

  “Mainly. But let’s talk about it later.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.” She pressed her face into my chest and I felt the heat of her breath through my cotton shirt, suddenly turned on.

  After dinner there was chocolate cake with buttercream frosting from my favorite bakery in Bayville. Everybody sang “Happy Birthday” while I sat there like a smiling fool.

  We helped with the dishes, and then Luke, Kathleen, Alice, and I caught the 9:36 train back into Manhattan. When we reached Penn Station, the lovebirds took a cab over to Kathleen’s place in Murray Hill, and Alice and I rode the subway two stops down to my apartment.

  We walked in the door and I barely said a word before I peeled off her clothes, threw her down on my bed, and fucked her hard from behind. I’d been waiting to do it all night. Afterward Alice curled up next to me, her arm resting across my chest as my orgasm subsided, my heart still hammering inside my chest.

  “I love you,” I said out loud, into the darkness. It felt like the right time to say such a thing. She said it back, like I knew she would, and I wondered for a moment what it would be like to say it and feel it, the way Luke and Kathleen did, and Alice did, and Diana did. Even if it was just some fake feeling, I still wanted to know how “I love you” could be more than just spoken words to someone whose company you enjoyed a decent amount. The question rattled around inside my head, a curiosity that wouldn’t quite settle as I closed my eyes and waited for sleep.

  33

  LUCY

  JUNE 2013

  “Daddy and I are leaving in ten minutes,” CJ shouted over the running water. She was scrubbing dishes at the kitchen sink so hard they squeaked.

  “ ’Kay.” I poured myself a cup of coffee, unresponsive at seven thirty in the morning, especially since I’d hardly slept. Georgia was steeping a bag of Earl Grey because she was one of those people who drank tea instead of coffee.

  “And we won’t be home until later tonight,” CJ blabbered on, like I cared. “I’m teaching back-to-back privates all morning and then thank God I have a cut and color in the city—Serge is going to keel over when he sees these roots—then a late lunch with your grandmother, and then Daddy and I have Rand Petersen’s birthday party at Cove Club—”

  “Mr. Petersen?” I interrupted, inadvertently spitting coffee back into my mug.

  “Yes. Remember Macy’s father? Oh, poor Macy.” CJ’s face fell. “She’d be your age now. Such a sweet girl. That long red hair of hers, I’ll never forget it.”

  “You’re going to Mr. Petersen’s birthday party?” I couldn’t help myself now. I felt Georgia’s eyes on me.

  “Yes. They’ve invited a lot of people. Should be a great time as long as I can get Serge to deal with my hair first.” CJ shouted upstairs, “Ben, hurry up! You’re going to miss the train!”

  “Do you think their older k
ids will be there? Eleanor and Gabe?”

  “I would assume? It’s their father’s sixtieth. Gabe lives in the city—I know that much—so I’d be shocked if he missed it. Not sure where Eleanor is these days.”

  “How do you know where Gabe lives?” I couldn’t stop. A pit of doom pooled in my stomach.

  “Well, I ran into Teresa Petersen the other day and she was telling me all about Gabe’s job. He does marketing for BuzzFeed. Isn’t that cool?”

  “Is Dad going with you tonight?”

  “To the party? Yes. What’s the big deal, Lucy?” CJ held my gaze for a moment, and I scanned her aqua eyes for the slightest trace of guilt or suspicion, but there was nothing. She sighed and began wiping down the countertops, and it was evident that to CJ, her secret was still very much a secret.

  “Luce.” CJ wrung the sponge. “You know you have your appointment with Dr. Wattenbarger today at three fifteen.”

  “His name is Dr. Wattenbarger?”

  “Yes. He’s very well regarded.”

  “That sounds like a made-up name.”

  “It’s not a made-up name, Sass,” CJ said. “It’s German.”

  “Why do you still call me that?” I glared at my mother on instinct; I watched something in her expression retract.

  “I think Wattenbarger is an Austrian name,” Georgia said.

  “How do you even know that, Georgia?” I turned toward my sister.

  “Look,” CJ started. “Regardless of his heritage, Barry Wattenbarger is a brilliant doctor. Maura Littlehale said he singlehandedly saved her marriage. So, Lucy, you know you have to leave work early today, right? You told them? You have to get a train out of the city by at least two, and I was thinking Georgia could drive you.”

  “Why? I can drive myself.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good idea, you driving in this condition.”

  “Are you joking?”

  “Mom,” Georgia said from the kitchen table. She was still in her pajamas and blinked her sleepy blue eyes, identical to CJ’s in color. “Let Lucy drive herself to her own therapy appointment. Jesus.”

  It was one of the most defiant things I’d ever heard Georgia say to CJ, or maybe to anyone.

  “Fine,” CJ said, surrendering easily to Georgia as always. She turned off the faucet and removed her gloves. “You can take Dad’s Audi. Keys are in the visor. Georgia, if you need a car—”

  “I don’t. Thanks, Mom.”

  “Ugh, these roots.” CJ pulled at her hair in the hallway mirror. I wanted to smack her. “All right. Bye. Love you guys. I’m on my cell if you need me.” She yelled for my dad again; he shouted goodbye, and I heard them shut the front door.

  “So CJ told you.” I watched Georgia pour herself a bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats. Whole milk.

  “About your appointment?” Georgia asked. “I overheard her talking to Dad. Who cares? I know plenty of kids at Yale who see therapists.”

  “I’m seeing a psychiatrist.”

  “The only difference is that psychiatrists can prescribe medicine.”

  “Yeah. CJ thinks I’m crazy.”

  “No, she doesn’t. You’re not crazy.”

  “Whatever. Maybe I am.”

  I went upstairs and got dressed—a boring navy-blue shift dress for my “internship,” which was volunteering for Bill de Blasio’s campaign for mayor, because I’d been too sullen and out of it to remember to apply for summer internships, and my dad knew de Blasio from Columbia. It was a last-minute “favor”—I hated being the kind of girl who was eligible to receive last-minute favors. I should’ve worked for something and I didn’t. Georgia was going to Switzerland for July and half of August on a competitive medical internship.

  I gathered my workbag together and watched CJ’s Lexus worm down the driveway and out of sight.

  What happened next was involuntary. It wasn’t because CJ had made me an appointment with a psychiatrist—I hadn’t objected to that, because I knew I was losing it. I’d left Baird at the end of junior year a complete mess. Mr. Levy said I had no choice but to renounce my journalism minor—I still had several all-college requirements to fulfill, and along with the remaining mandatory courses for the English major, my senior year schedule was already chock-full. I remained on shaky terms with Jackie, who still hadn’t forgiven me for lying to her about Writers on the Riviera, even after I admitted the truth to Pippa and Bree and apologized profusely to all of them for lying. I couldn’t bring myself to tell them the real reason I hadn’t gone to France, and every time I thought about those three magical months—Stephen and the Kiss Me Kate and Westhampton and the city and long dinners and his apartment and consuming sex—everything inside me hurt so badly that I almost couldn’t breathe, much less defend my decision. I despised that it was summer again; it was just a reminder that it wasn’t going to be anything like last year. I knew I was supposed to feel happy, but the summer just seemed like something great that would happen to everybody else. The last thing I wanted to do was ride the Long Island Railroad into Penn Station and slug through tedious days at campaign headquarters while Stephen breathed and walked and existed in the very same city. The hole in my heart engulfed me.

  So in the end it wasn’t the appointment with Dr. Wattenbarger that sent me into CJ’s walk-in closet on a mission that morning. No, it was the image of my mother walking into Gabe’s father’s sixtieth-birthday party with my dad on her arm that threw me over the edge; envisioning her flaunting her Pilates figure in some fitted, expensive cocktail dress with her freshly blown-out head of lemon-blond hair. And Gabe would be there—of course he’d be there—and CJ would wink at him and flirt with him and God knows what else while my father stood around chatting with dull members of Cove. I hated her so much I could barely stand it. Aside from missing Stephen, my hatred for CJ was the only thing I could truly feel.

  I made sure Georgia was still in the kitchen as I tiptoed through the master bedroom. The air-conditioning felt cooler in my parents’ room, and the white monogrammed duvet cover was smoothed perfectly over the king-size sleigh bed. There wasn’t a ruffle in the pillowcases. I felt empowered and almost possessed making my way across the taupe carpet toward CJ’s walk-in closet. The oversize teak jewelry box sat on the floor next to Stuart Weitzman boots and strappy Jimmy Choos. I opened the box to make sure it was the right one. Hickory, curled in a yellow ball in the corner of the room, lifted her head and I met her gaze, silently willing her to understand before I lugged the jewelry box down the stairs and out to my dad’s Audi.

  It was too heavy to carry on the train, and besides, I was already moving forward with a momentum that might’ve decelerated if I were to have switched modes of transportation. An irrevocable force had taken over; I no longer occupied my own mind. I maneuvered the Audi out of the driveway and onto the road, and as I sped through the Cold Spring Harbor streets I felt as though I were not really driving but dissolving into the rush of green trees that whooshed by, like a fresh stroke of paint.

  The roads were strangely empty and I made it into lower Manhattan in fifty minutes. I parked in a garage on Houston and walked east toward the pawnshop I’d found on Google Maps, Sal’s, lugging the teak box with me in the breaking summer heat. It was just before nine and the shop wasn’t open yet, so I bought a cart coffee and waited on the stoop. Delancey Street was grimy and smelled like piss. It seemed to be getting hotter by the minute, and I was relieved when the owner finally appeared and unlocked the iron-chained gate masking the door.

  He peered at me underneath bushy black eyebrows as I followed him into the shop. I set the box on the floor.

  “I am Sal. What could I do for you?” he asked in an indiscernible foreign accent, unlocking the register. His cheeks were pockmarked and rough, and he gritted his teeth while he studied me.

  “I have some things I’d like to sell.” One by one I removed the pieces of Marilyn’s jewelry collection from the box. The ivory-and-gold-twisted bracelet; topaz studs; feathered earrings; the Indian k
amarbands CJ let me borrow when I was Jasmine for Halloween in fourth grade; the freshwater pearls CJ wore to dinner parties; the diamond-encrusted emerald earrings; the funky, bright-colored market beads that Georgia and I used to play dress-up in. Tokens from the world, the first fuel for my dreams. I watched the heaping pile in front of Sal. I felt nothing.

  Sal touched Marilyn’s jewelry with his wide, hairy fingers.

  “A lot of dis ees junk.” He picked up a strand of mala beads, then a chunky coral necklace that was clearly plastic.

  “Right,” I said. “But some of it’s real. Some of it should be worth a lot.”

  He nodded, studying the emerald earrings.

  “Dis ees your jewelry, honey?”

  “It was my mother’s. She passed away.”

  “Some of eet ees very nice,” he said, dividing the loot into two piles. “I take none of that.” He motioned toward the costume jewelry and cheaper stuff.

  “I geev you a price for thees.” He gestured to the other pile—the precious gems and semiprecious stones, the pieces CJ cherished and saved for only dressy events.

  He wrote a number on a piece of paper and handed it to me.

  “That’s fine,” I said. I didn’t know how much everything was actually worth, but Sal’s price was more than I’d anticipated. A lot more.

  “Cash weel be good?”

  “Yes,” I said, suddenly shaken for the first time all day, because I had never seen anything close to that sum of money in cash form, and I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it.

  Sal disappeared into the back and emerged five minutes later. He handed me a paper bag.

  “All of eet ees there. Count eef you like.”

  I peered into the bag at the crisp stacks of bills. It reminded me of something out of a movie.

  “I believe you. Thanks.” I scraped the rest of Marilyn’s collection—the “junk”—into the box, which was much lighter without the heavier jewels.