They do not get along well, but they try for my sake. My father still won’t talk to Uncle Eddy, and I can’t say I blame him. I don’t talk to Uncle Eddy much, either, despite living in his house. But if I’ve learned one thing this last year, it’s that anything’s possible.
George has made the unimaginable a reality for me. His lawyer had all of his photos and equipment delivered to my mother’s over the summer. Upon opening the boxes, I discovered thousands upon thousands of negatives and prints. The majority were of wars in different countries, covering several decades. Most were of soldiers in varying states of weariness, heartbreak, joy, and despair.
I’ve decided to gather them into a book. I’m not sure if anyone will be interested in publishing it, but I feel like George has left me with this enormous responsibility to tell the stories of the sacrifices our service men and women make for our country. My father has agreed to help me, and we are working on it together. With his knowledge of military history, he’s able to help me piece the images together in some kind of order.
Sometimes I see my father’s hand linger over a particular picture, and I think of how George fell into memories the same way. I wonder, then, how much my father hides. If he experienced even a fraction of what George did, it’s devastating.
Maybe someday I will interview him for the Veterans History Project.
When I arrive at the hospital to see Carey, I call my parents to let them know I’m there. Then I call Mrs. Breen.
* * *
“Thanks for coming, Sophie,” she says. She meets me in the hospital lobby. She doesn’t look any better than the last time I saw her crying in the hardware store aisle. Black bags droop under her eyes, and she’s lost weight, considering how her clothes hang on her tiny frame.
“I’m not sure I’ll be of any help,” I warn. “You shouldn’t expect much.”
She shrugs. “Then we’ll be no worse off than before.”
We stand awkwardly waiting for the elevator. I used to love this woman, but now we can hardly look at each other.
“You seem different,” she says finally as we’re walking down the hall.
“I am different,” I say, and it’s true. I’m not the Quinn she used to know. That girl died, and Sophie was born out of her ashes.
We reach Carey’s room, and I stop outside the doorway. After driving all this way, suddenly I’m scared. I’m not sure this is the right thing to do. I back away, losing my nerve. More than scared, I’m ashamed, I realize. I kept Carey’s secret, but he’s given so much more than me. He chose to risk his life for his country, even though he had to hide a huge part of himself.
“Sophie?” she asks, concerned.
“He hasn’t wanted to see me before. What makes you think he’ll want to now?”
Mrs. Breen gives me a piercing look. “He’s been asking for you since they found him.”
I stare at her in shock.
She sighs. “When I first saw that picture of you, I couldn’t believe you would do that to Carey. The way the two of you were together—I thought you would always be that way. As his mother, I was selfishly glad that you would always be there for him. I hated you for hurting him. So I lied to him. I told him you didn’t want to see him.”
I open my mouth and close it three times when the only things I can think to say are all curses. As angry as I’d been with Carey, I would never have refused to see him.
Mrs. Breen stops me. “I know I made a mistake. I thought he would get past it, but once he told us what you did for him, I . . .”
She folds her hands, twisting her fingers until they form a white knuckled knot. This is where a bigger person might forgive her. Maybe go so far as to comfort her. I am not that person. I pull away from her touch. I want to throw up. What must Carey have thought when she told him that lie?
“Go away,” I tell her.
“Sophie . . . ,” she says.
“Don’t worry,” I say coldly. “I’m going to see him. But not for you.”
She backs away from me, and I watch her until she disappears around a corner. I feel mean. I feel angry enough to rip into her. This isn’t how I want Carey to see me, and so I take deep breaths to calm myself.
I square my shoulders and walk into his room.
He doesn’t notice me right away, and I barely hold in my gasp at the changes in him.
Carey always had a laugh waiting on his lips. Now his eyes droop with sadness as he stares unseeing out the window. His mouth pulls down at the corners, and he lies stiff and silent in his bed, with one leg wrapped in a white brace. Below his shorts, there are scars striping both legs, and I wonder what his torturers did to him. The bruises they showed on the news have faded, but everything about him screams BROKEN.
George said you can’t understand what a soldier experiences unless you’ve been through it yourself. The closest you can come is to hear their stories. That’s why it was so important for him to tell them. To help people understand, so maybe they will treat soldiers differently. So people will show soldiers a little mercy and grace when they come home, not as they were, but as strangers taking the place of your loved ones.
Mercy and grace, I think. And maybe it’s time I ask for a little forgiveness, because I’ve taken for granted all that he was willing to give up. Once more, I’m glad that I knew George because, without him, I would not know what to do at this moment.
I step forward.
“Carey?”
He rolls his head to face me, and his brown eyes look dead. Until they focus on me.
“Quinn?” he asks, disbelieving.
I don’t correct him. I don’t need to tell Carey who I am. He knows.
“It’s me,” I say. I drop my purse on the floor and stop by the side of his bed. His hand is cold in mine, and I twine my fingers through his. “I missed you.”
He reaches for me, clamping a hand around my neck to pull me to him, until my forehead rests against his. The desperation in his eyes makes my own water.
“Where have you been?” he asks.
“I thought you didn’t want to see me,” I say.
“I thought you hated me.”
I swallow. “No. I’m sorry about that message I gave your father.” I force a smile. “I love you, stupid.”
Whatever has kept him glued together these past months comes unstuck. Carey falls to pieces in front of me. His shoulders heave, and he buries his face in my neck, grasping my shirt in his fists. He cries like he’ll never stop. This isn’t all about me. It’s like seeing me has released something he’s been holding in.
I don’t know how to help him.
When I think about calling a nurse, he begs, “Don’t go!”
And I realize this is another one of my defining moments.
So I kick off my shoes and crawl up next to Carey on the bed. I hold his hand. I tell him how much I love him. I tell him how proud I am of him. I apologize for not being a better friend. I tell him how I’ve always known that we would be friends until we were eighty and rocking away in our chairs on a porch somewhere.
Later, when he’s calm, I ask him about Afghanistan.
We talk all night, two friends getting to know each other again.
And it’s a beginning.
Author’s Note
If you were inspired by Quinn’s experience, please consider interviewing a veteran in your life and community. The Veterans History Project (VHP) at www.loc.gov/vets provides straightforward guidelines and the required forms you’ll need to complete an interview and ensure it is submitted to the Library of Congress, where it will be preserved and shared for posterity. On the website you’ll also find a Field Kit Companion Video that explains the VHP process, offers tips to make the VHP experience meaningful for both the volunteer and the veteran, and elaborates on what happens to collections after they reach the Library of Congress.
To get involved with the US Department of Veterans Affairs facility nearest you and to learn how you might work with someone like George, www.vo
lunteer.va.gov/ is a great place to start.
Acknowledgments
I have so many people to thank.
This book wouldn’t be what it is without the support of my Spalding MFA mentor, Mary Yukari Waters. Your insights pushed me, and your letters made me laugh, especially the one where you wrote “THIS IS CRAP” across the top.
Thank you to my agent, Laura Bradford, who didn’t freak out when it took me a year to write this book. You meant it when you said you stick by your writers, and I am ever so grateful.
Dear Annette Pollert, my wonderful, brilliant editor, how do you thank someone for making your dreams come true? If you’ll accept compensation in superawesome highlighters, you’ll have my down payment shortly. Please share them with all the other great people at Simon Pulse who made this book happen, including Bethany Buck, Mara Anastas, Jennifer Klonsky, Lucille Rettino, Carolyn Swerdloff, Dawn Ryan, Paul Crichton, Anna McKean, Katherine Devendorf, Brenna Franzitta, Angela Goddard, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Maria Faria, Brian Kelleher, Jim Conlin, Teresa Brumm, and Victor Iannone.
To my first readers—Stephanie Kuehn, Laurie Devore, Debra Driza, Jay Lehmann, Dawn Rae Miller, Roger Perez, Veronica Roth and the Write Nighters—your critiques made me cry in a GOOD way. I reread my favorite comments in moments of crisis. I also owe Erica Henry and Abby Stevens gratitude for aiding me with my military research.
I can’t say enough about Spalding University’s MFA program. You offer a nurturing place in which to be creative and grow. In particular, I want to thank those who workshopped the first chapters of this book, including Julie Brickman, Omar Figueras, Michael Morris, Teddy Jones, and Krista Humphrey.
To my day job companions, especially Michelle Yovanovich, Lori Leiva, Tony Tomassini, and Scott Sawicki—thank you for supporting me on my journey. You didn’t even mind when I got a book deal and shrieked the office down.
My dear bro-in-law, Stephen Curto, you’ve encouraged me since I wrote my first short story in the third grade, and you told me not to give up. Fotang, man.
My gratitude also goes to the Veterans History Project, including Jeffrey Lofton and Monica Mohindra, for the great work they do preserving the stories of our soldiers.
Huge heartfelt thanks to the Marines who took the time to answer my many questions, though you asked to remain nameless. Your courage awes me. Stay safe and be well. This book was also inspired in part by my late uncle, PFC Daniel Vaché, and my honorary uncle, SPC John Curtis. Your sacrifices in Vietnam aren’t forgotten.
Last, but never least, thanks to my family for believing in me. Not one of you acted surprised when I called to tell you about my book deal, and that meant everything. Mom, Kymberli, Michael, Kenny, Aunt Susie, Stephen, and all the nieces and nephews, I love you more than books.
Corrine Jackson lives in San Francisco, where she works at a top marketing agency managing campaigns for several Fortune 500 clients. She has bachelor’s and master’s degrees in English, and an MFA in Creative Writing from Spalding University. If I Lie is her debut novel. Visit her at corrinejackson.com or on Twitter at @Cory_Jackson.
Jacket designed by Angela Goddard
Jacket photograph copyright © 2012 by Vladimir Godnik/Getty Images
Author photograph copyright © by Vania Stoyanova
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
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First Simon Pulse hardcover edition August 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Corrine Jackson
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Designed by Angela Goddard
The text of this book was set in Bembo.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jackson, Corrine.
If I lie / Corrine Jackson.
p. cm.
Summary: Seventeen-year-old Sophie Quinn becomes an outcast in her small military town when she chooses to keep a secret for her Marine boyfriend who is missing in action in Afghanistan.
ISBN 978-1-4424-5413-2 (hardcover)
[1. Soldiers—Fiction. 2. Best friends—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction. 4. Secrets—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.J132416If 2012
[Fic]—dc23
2011041112
ISBN 978-1-4424-4001-2 (eBook)
If I Lie Page 20
