If I Lie

by Corrine Jackson

  My birthday had come and gone. My father hadn’t been able to make it to my party, but my mother said he’d called the night before while I slept and had told her to wish me a happy birthday. She said this every year except for the two he managed to make it home. But by then I’d figured out the truth: My father didn’t care. My mother didn’t have the heart to lie anymore, nor did I in my response.

  My uncle Eddy had given me a digital camera. My mother argued the gift was too expensive for a child, but Uncle Eddy just laughed and ruffled my hair. Carey wanted me to take pictures of the finished fort, but I had forgotten my camera at home.

  I rode my bike all the way back to get it.

  When I arrived, I noticed my dirt-covered jeans and sneakers and knew my mother would kill me if I trailed mud through the house. I kicked off my shoes and brushed the worst of it off my jeans. In a hurry, I snuck into the house in my socks, tiptoeing around the two spots in the hall that squeaked.

  If my mother hadn’t sneezed as I passed my parents’ room, I never would have peeked through the open doorway. My uncle lay in my parents’ bed, his blond head on my father’s pillow next to my mother’s darker head. In his sleep, he shifted and threw an arm around her waist, curving against her back. A sheet covered them, but I could see they were naked beneath the crisp white cotton. A mysterious musky scent hung in the air.

  A small sound of confusion escaped me.

  My mother’s mouth formed a small O as she sat up, exposing her breasts before she grabbed for the sheet.

  “Sophie!”

  I ran. I didn’t stop until I reached Carey’s house. By the time I arrived, I was crying so hard my words came out in waves of hiccups and gasps. Blake had already gone home, but Carey sat next to me on his front steps, his shoulder warm against mine as he waited for me to calm down.

  And when the tears stopped, I told him what I saw. He held on to my hand, and we waited in silence for my mom to come find me.

  * * *

  Dinner is a sit-down affair at our house, and tonight won’t be any different. Since my mother left, my father demands we eat at our dining room table at 1800 hours every night. We exchange maybe five sentences on a good night. Land mines pepper our conversation.

  “How was school?” How did you screw up today?

  “Good, sir.” It sucked.

  “You did your homework?” At least you have good grades (i.e., are not a complete failure).

  “Yes, sir.” The better to escape Sweethaven.

  “Make sure you load the dishwasher. I have work to do in the study.” I’d rather work than spend five more minutes with you.

  “Yes, sir.” Please look at me.

  Then he goes to his office and I go to my room. We are housemates. At some point, my father stopped loving me. I have spent hours and days trying to figure out how to fix what’s broken between us. I’ve spun a thousand fantasies that all end with him saying he loves me. Then the voice in my head overrides it all, shouting, “You’re a freaking idiot! He doesn’t give a shit about you!”

  That Saturday night, our usual strained exchange is not what waits for me at dinner.

  Some silences feel like sliding into your favorite slippers. Carey and I could sit for hours without talking. He’d lounged on one end of our couch with a video-game controller in his hand, and I’d stretched out on the other end with my nose in a book. Some part of us always touched, whether my feet rested on his thigh, or his elbow leaned on my knee. Comfortable, familiar quiet.

  There are also punishing silences that howl through a room like a Category 5 hurricane. Whole towns are destroyed by my father’s silences.

  He doesn’t ask me where I went when I left the house. Most likely he already knows, since it’s easy to keep tabs on me in a town where everyone knows everyone. He passes me a plate of peas, instant rice, and steak, and I sit across from him at our round table. The entire force of his considerable concentration is focused on eating. I see his strategy—to ignore me—but knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to withstand. He cuts his steak into small, equal pieces, but I am the one he slices.

  Me:

  Him:

  The peas have rolled into the rice like green snow on white grass. I use my fork to separate them, and shovel a few into my mouth.

  The muscles in his forearms shift. Fork to mouth. Chew. Cut. Fork to mouth. Finally he rises, rinses his plate, and leaves the room.

  A direct hit, sir. I salute his back with a nonmilitary gesture.

  And wonder how he’s missed that I’ve been a vegetarian for more than a year.

  Chapter Four

  Sunday morning I drive fifteen minutes west to Fayetteville. The parking lot at the VA Medical Center is more than half full. The weekenders are arriving to visit their loved ones. I park farther out and ignore the shuttle, preferring to walk in.

  Comprised of eight buildings, the hospital serves more than 157,000 veterans in twenty-one counties. Overwhelming to the uninitiated, the five-story redbrick buildings look more like a college campus than a hospital. In the main building, Darlene waves from the front desk as she directs a distraught fortyish woman to the second floor—ICU—and I lift a hand in return.

  The last time I took the elevator I ran into one of my classmates, so I opt for the stairs instead. On the third floor, I take two rights and a left, and end up in the long-term-care ward. Room 222B. A quick tap on the door, and George calls a gruff greeting to enter.

  His leg must be bothering him today. He is resting in bed instead of in the chair by the window. Pain creases his face into a tic-tac-toe grid of wrinkles. The flourescent lights are not kind. Every age spot and puckered scar is visible, as if I’ve used a 50mm f/1.8 lens to take his picture. George doesn’t give a shit about things like that, though. That’s why he’s my favorite subject to photograph.

  “Hey, George.”

  Something sparks, and the deep grooves in his face smooth out a little. We never discuss how much we enjoy these visits. At least, not to each other. He doesn’t quite smile, but I know he is happy. “Hey there, Sophie. What the hell are you doin’ here on a Sunday?”

  Because George does, everyone here calls me Sophie. He throws his left leg over the edge of the bed. From the knee down, an empty space occupies the area where his right leg should be.

  I wanted to see a friendly face. “That’s a nice way to greet a girl, George. No wonder Nurse Espinoza won’t give you the time of day.” Well, that, plus she is half his age, the old geezer.

  He grins. “Shows what you know. The hussy was flirting with me not ten minutes ago.”

  I shake my head at his outright lie and drop my bag on the end of his bed. In an orchestrated dance, I step slightly in front of George and to the right so he can hold on to my shoulder. I am the only one he will accept help from in this way. Anyone else he would beat over the head with his crutch. He stands, balancing himself on one leg, and leans on my shoulder. The wheelchair is waiting when he twists sideways and seats himself. He grabs for my bag, and I place it in his lap, along with his coat. Without asking, he reaches into the bag for the digital camera. His camera, though he has loaned it to me indefinitely. Uncle Eddy’s camera died a long time ago.

  I push his wheelchair past the crowded atrium where all the weekenders go for family visitation. It’s easier to hang out with the patients in the indoor garden, with its sunlight and picnic tables. Easier to forget that someone’s ill when you’re not surrounded by the antiseptic reek of hospital-issue debris. George and me, we don’t like crowds, so we head outside, past the smokers in their hospital robes and nonskid socks. We follow the sidewalk to a small wooded area just off the parking lot. I stop George’s chair at the edge of a melting snow bank, locking the brake so it won’t roll down the incline.

  George is already framing the first shot as I circle the chair. He starts clicking away, and I wander several feet, knowing he has already forgotten me with the camera in his hand.

  Retired Sergeant First Class Georg
e Wilkins left the US Army after two tours in Vietnam. Then he returned for a third tour, only that time he shot his way through the country with a camera instead of a gun. A lot of the famous pictures I’ve seen in the old Life magazines are his. He considered it his job to create a visual record of the war, so people couldn’t forget what his men—his brothers—had gone through.

  We first met the day I got kicked off the cheer squad, when my father ordered me to work at the VA Hospital after school a few days a week. He thought it would fill my time and keep me from bringing further dishonor to our family. I wonder how much shame people can hold before they ignite. If someone strikes a match to me, I think I will explode.

  “Sophie?”

  I hitch my chin in George’s direction, and he snaps my picture. Tucking my hands deeper in my pockets, I fake a smile.

  He frowns and lowers the camera. “What’s wrong, girl? Your father giving you a hard time again?”

  George thinks my father is a hard-ass and has offered to tell him so on occasion, but I haven’t taken him up on it yet. I open my mouth to say I’m okay, to change the subject, to tell him anything except the truth.

  He gives me his “don’t fuck with me, kid” look.

  I wish I could hide under my bedspread again, where nobody can see the tears I have to blink away.

  George unlocks the brake on his chair and rolls closer. Concern pleats the skin of his forehead. He points to the weathered picnic table that’s used by hospital employees to catch a smoke between shifts. I push him toward the table, glad for the moment to compose myself. I’m almost okay when I sit facing him.

  Then he touches my chin, forcing me to meet his hazy gray gaze.

  It’s like the gesture gives my tear ducts permission to let loose.

  “Talk to me,” he says.

  talktomeQuinn

  I hiccup through a laugh that’s one part bitter and two parts terror. “Carey. He’s MIA.”

  “Fuck.”

  George pats my arm. That’s all it takes to send me over the edge. I’m laughing and crying in a squelchy mess. And then I’m just crying while George holds my hand, and I hate myself for wishing for a second that I’d never met Carey. That I’d never fallen for him—or taken the fall for him.

  “Can I offer you some advice, Sophie?” George asks.

  He sounds hesitant, very un-George-like, and he retrieves his hand when I nod. My coat sleeve is soaked from scrubbing my face like a five-year-old.

  “Stop protecting them. They’re grown men. You’re not doing anyone any favors, least of all yourself, girl.”

  Them? I’ve told George next to nothing about my life outside this hospital. We mostly talk about the Veterans History Project. It’s my job to help him collect stories, photos, and mementos from soldiers who want their military memories to live on at the Library of Congress. I’m continuing George’s mission to keep a record of war. This place—my time with him—it’s where I forget everything that came before.

  “What makes you think I’m protecting anyone?”

  He snorts. “Only someone with their head up their ass would think you betrayed that boy. I’d known you five minutes when I knew what kind of person you are. And no way in hell are you a lying cheat like they say,” he says, nodding his head toward the hospital.

  I freeze. “They talk about me in there?”

  A shrug and another snort. “Only the people from around Sweethaven. We’re sitting ducks for gossip, Soph, and your dad is well known around here. Besides, what else do we have to do? Play hopscotch?”

  I should have guessed the gossip would follow me here. My dad is the reason I work at the hospital in the first place. I’m not upset like I thought I’d be, though. A tiny spark of warmth kindles inside me. Because George heard the awful things people say about me and doesn’t believe them. I think he must be the only one. One in a million.

  George’s peppered hair covers the bald spot on the top of his head in a combover. Despite everything, my lips slip into a smile. “Liar,” I say. “Everyone knows you sneak into the atrium to play poker with the guys from 216C.”

  “Son of a bitch, you say.”

  A breeze sweeps through the ash trees, and the bare branches sway. George hides a shiver. The past weeks have brought fragility to him that he won’t acknowledge. I rise and circle the chair to push him back toward the hospital.

  We are silent until I ask, “George?”

  “Hmph?”

  “Thanks for not believing the gossip.”

  He reaches back to pat my hand with his wrinkled one.

  Chapter Five

  Monday means school, and school means tarring-and-feathering for the slutty girl who cheated on her saintly boyfriend. Like their parents, my classmates believe I’ve broken the code. Didn’t you hear? She was fucking some other guy before Carey even left for Afghanistan.

  I’d hate that girl too, if I didn’t know the truth about her. And it doesn’t really matter how good or kind she was before.

  I wait until the last bell rings before I enter the school. Better to be tardy than brave the crowded halls alone. That is a lesson I learned the hard way.

  After the photo was first posted, I grew accustomed to the stares. My classmates and I have come to an uneasy truce. I don’t speak to them, and they pretend I don’t exist. It works with everyone, except Jamie. With Carey out of the way, she’s made it her mission to destroy me. I want to tell her to give it up: Carey can’t love her no matter how hard she tries. But that would lead to questions and explanations I can’t give.

  Whatever progress I’ve made in the six months since Jamie posted the picture of me on the Web will have been destroyed by the latest news about Carey. The scene at Bob’s proved that.

  Yellow ribbons are plastered on many of the orange lockers in the deserted main hallway. I hadn’t expected that, but it doesn’t surprise me a bit. Carey is ours. He might as well have a PROPERTY OF SWEETHAVEN label stamped on his ass. He belongs to this town, and we belong to him. These ribbons say I’m proud of you and I miss you and Come home safe. I feel a twinge of fierce longing and love for my former friends.

  Then I arrive at my locker to retrieve my calculus book for first period. The artist really took his or her time carving TRAITOR into the metal skin of my locker. And beneath that, in larger letters: WHORE. They must have used an awl because the letters are good and deep. The message will reappear like magic no matter how many coats of paint Mr. Dupree, the janitor, slaps on it.

  Freaking awesome.

  You’d think they could find a scrap of originality after all these months.

  * * *

  It sucked to start my senior year crowned as the town slut.

  News traveled fast in our town of 3,053, and the night before school started, a picture hit the Internet and lit our corner of the world on fire. Some had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy about cheating, and the appearance of my half-naked self on Facebook challenged that. The picture had to have been taken by accident. Shot from the end zone at an August football scrimmage, the foreground featured our team celebrating on the sidelines of a rival school’s field. Blake and I were only noticeable upon closer scrutiny, hidden as we were behind the bleachers.

  Lucky for him, the shadows obscured almost everything that could reveal his identity, except for a small tattoo on his lower back that nobody knew he had, except Carey and me. My identity, on the other hand, couldn’t have been clearer. Standing in my cheer skirt and a lacy bra, I’d wrapped myself around Blake’s naked torso. The amateur photographer had accidentally struck PG–13 gold when they’d captured that shot.

  Most people remembered Carey had been at that game just before he shipped out. The fact that I would cheat while he was there at the game, days before he went to war for our country, only added to my reputation.

  The comments on my Facebook profile, the crank calls, and the nasty e-mails had started up as soon as the picture hit the Internet. I’d thought they’d prepared me to go to
school the next day, but then the call had come from the school office Sunday evening. My father and I had received a summons to see the principal first thing in the morning, but my father had already gone off on a fishing trip.

  So I’d waited until the last possible minute to drive myself to school. I’d taken a deep breath and plunged through Sweethaven High’s double doors with my head held high, hoping the hall would be empty, even though I’d mentally prepared myself to be shunned. I might as well have a KICK ME sign taped to my back. Nobody would see the war paint I’d chosen—“Marine Green” nail polish for my toes—but Carey would’ve liked it. Too bad he’d already been in the desert for a few weeks.

  You’ve done nothing wrong. The school doors swung closed behind me, and everyone stared at my cheerleading uniform with QUINN embroidered on the left breast of the scratchy wool sweater—my version of giving them all the bird while I quaked to Reese’s Pieces inside. Carey’s Quinn could weather the scorn. I’d promised.

  My friends had crammed into the hall, along with those who wanted to witness my downfall. As Carey’s girlfriend, I’d become Somebody. I’d transformed from tomboy into cheerleader, shedding the strangled mop of hair and losing the braces. Looking more like my mother and less like a scrawny ragamuffin helped, too. But things changed that first day of school. My classmates’ whispers hushed, and they froze like cockroaches do when you flip on the bathroom light in the middle of the night. Surprised. Busted.

  I spotted Nikki and Angel in the crowd. They’d kept our summer pact to go blond, and Nikki’s natural red color tinted her hair the brass of Elliot Morgan’s tuba. Angel could have been Marilyn Monroe’s younger sister. I’d forgotten how I’d obsessed over damaging my black hair by bleaching it blond. I hadn’t wanted to disappoint my friends by backing out. Now my long black hair seemed to say, One of these things is not like the others.