The Comfort of Lies: A Novel

by Randy Susan Meyers

  Caroline gave a faint smile. Even if he meant it to be flattering, his words didn’t seem like a compliment. “You don’t have to make it sound like I’m running into a blazing building.” She twisted the edge of the comforter into a complicated knot. She had to teach a class in two hours. Three surgeons were expecting her in the afternoon. Reports were due. It was close to the end of the month. Moreover, weren’t they interviewing a new part-time pathologist to cover weekends?

  “Maybe I can take her into work with me,” Caroline said. “Ana could watch her when I’m out of the office. I’ll bring in the iPad, for movies. Or books—I’ll download some new books.”

  “An iPad can’t watch Savannah. Forget it. I already said I’d do it.” Peter lay back and put his hands behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling as though he preferred it to looking at Caroline.

  She opened her mouth to defend herself, but nothing came out. She fell down on the bed beside Peter. He continued looking at the ceiling, his jaw tight, his mouth pressed to a deep drawn-in line.

  “Come on. Look at me.” Caroline placed her hand on his bristly cheek, trying to turn him, but he remained a mummy. “Haven’t you ever said something in the excitement of a moment? Wanted to do something good and then realized it was impossible?”

  He turned and looked at her. “Not when it comes to my family.”

  • • •

  It was Saturday, and Caroline wanted to please Peter and Savannah. She hurried downstairs while Peter showered and Savannah slept. Caroline had at least twenty minutes before everyone gathered for breakfast.

  She had an appointment for a makeover in a few hours, and if that wasn’t unusual enough, she planned to bring along Savannah. When she’d received the baffling offer for a free makeover, she shocked herself by scheduling an appointment, desperate enough to think it might bring her back to life. Somewhere she’d lost her physical desires. Her need for Peter, once so strong, had at first dissipated, then disappeared, and now she dreaded his touch.

  Believing that a facial and having cosmetics smeared on her face might help her was ridiculous, but Caroline wanted a miracle, even one from a jar.

  Despite being a bit nervous, as this was so wholly outside her ken, Caroline felt unexpected optimism about going to juliette&gwynne, though she hoped their affected use of lower-case letters didn’t portend a place so chichi that Caroline would be dressed wrong no matter what she chose—which, considering her closet, was not unlikely.

  She wondered what database had lifted her name from obscurity and deemed her worthy of Juliette Soros’s personal ministrations. Caroline lacked familiarity with the world of beauty authorities, but when she’d mentioned Juliette’s name to a lab assistant, she’d reacted as though Caroline had been granted an audience with the Queen.

  Caroline mixed eggs into a bowl of broken bits of bread, her quick version of French toast. As the soggy mess sizzled, Savannah rode into the kitchen on Peter’s shoulders, smiling as she always did when near her father. Peter was lit up in that way he did only with Savannah. Had he once produced such high wattage for Caroline?

  “Look!” Caroline tipped the pan toward them. “French toast eggs.”

  “Way to go.” Peter swung Savannah down and placed her in a chair in one graceful swoop. His wide shoulders that tapered to a trim waist made him appear taller than five foot eight. He and Caroline could see eye to eye if Peter stretched just a bit. Caroline scraped the bready eggs from the pan onto three waiting plates.

  “Syrup, anyone?” Peter poured a stream from a dangerously high starting point.

  “Daddy!” Savannah bounced in her chair. “You’ll spill it!”

  Peter twirled an imaginary moustache while speaking in a vaguely faux-Teutonic accent. “Amazing Daddy spills nothing.”

  Caroline squeezed Peter’s shoulder. “Does Amazing Daddy kiss Amazing Mommy?” She tried to smile brightly, wanting to escape the bleak fog between them.

  “What do you think, Savannah? Should we give Amazing Mommy a kiss?”

  Savannah giggled. “Oh, yes please! Kiss Mommy.”

  Peter turned and pressed his warm lips to Caroline’s cooler ones.

  • • •

  The shop in Wellesley exuded so much charm and relaxation that Caroline tensed under the expectation. Downy chairs upholstered in white matelasse embraced well-dressed women. Stacks of glossy magazines invited perusing. Purple accents in the room, reminiscent of royal robes, softened the matte black decorating scheme.

  Juliette Soros walked in, smiled, and after a brief but warm introduction, turned to Savannah. Juliette was almost Caroline’s height, but where Caroline was a straight line, Juliette curved in a true hourglass. Her perfect nose was the one Caroline would choose if she could. Caroline always noticed noses first. Unfamiliar desire stirred at the sight of all the glossy, hopeful packages. An alien and uncomfortable greed overtook her for a moment.

  “Aren’t you lovely?” Juliette said to Savannah. “I’m Juliette, and I promise to make sure you have fun while you’re here, sweetheart. Why don’t you come with me?”

  Juliette smiled and stretched her arm toward the child. Savannah tucked her hand inside Juliette’s as though she’d always known her. Juliette then directed her kindness at Caroline. “You too, Mom. Follow us.”

  Caroline followed her daughter and Juliette to a private room, where the woman ushered them in as though they were the most important people in the world.

  “Make yourself comfortable.” Juliette’s grin showed straight sparkling teeth. Caroline ran her tongue over the rough spot where she’d chipped a tooth in high school soccer. Her mother’s stiff-upper-lip background made her dismissive of imperfections inflicted by childhood accidents. Caroline’s youngest sister carried a ragged scar on her chin from when she’d fallen off the porch and been given a Band-Aid when stitches had been needed.

  “Please, have a seat.” Juliette indicated a sleek leather and chrome chair facing a mirror and a bank of glossy white drawers.

  Caroline wondered how much of Juliette’s golden beauty was artifice and how much a lucky draw from the genetic lottery. While still holding Savannah’s hand, Juliette put a warm, sure hand on Caroline’s back and with gentle pressure prompted her to a chair. Once Caroline sat, Juliette leaned over her shoulder and gave an approving nod as she looked at both their reflections.

  No amount of cosmetics could make that much of a difference. Even Juliette’s honey-colored hair looked natural.

  “We’re going to have some fun,” Juliette said before turning to Savannah. “As for you, cutie, I have a surprise for you.”

  Juliette winked at Caroline and then reached for a medium-sized box. “This is for you, sweetheart.”

  Savannah gave a shy smile and glanced at Caroline for permission.

  “It’s okay, hon. Open it.” Caroline glanced at Juliette, trying to gauge her reaction to Caroline’s words. Did she think Caroline prudent and caring, or rigid and overstrict? “We’ve trained her about taking things from strangers.”

  “Wise. When my boys where her age, I hated any moment they were out of my sight.” Juliette laughed. “I still do.”

  Savannah held the box, seeming excited even as she approached the present as cautiously as she did everything.

  “Being a mother is terrifying, isn’t it?” Caroline said.

  “It is. I haven’t been able to ignore a phone call since having children. Of course, you also have the terror of your work. Analyzing a person’s chances for life or death. What a difference from this.” Juliette swept her arms around the room, with its frosted bottles of creams, the brushes, and the tiers of lipsticks, and rolled her eyes.

  “How do you know what I do?” Alarm prickled at Caroline. Had someone at work mentioned how badly she’d aged? What had they said? Ideas rolled through Caroline’s mind in rapid succession as she stared at her mirror image in uncomfortable full reveal.

  “Oh, that’s how I—we—picked you. We find local women who wo
rk in professions where they can’t indulge themselves. Women like you: locked away in a lab, and working on childhood cancer, no less. We offer special services as thanks to those who do the most difficult work. We hoped you might provide an entrée into the field. It’s our way of giving back, since we’ve had such success.”

  “Oh.” Caroline nodded. “I did wonder. Why didn’t you say that in the letter?”

  “We didn’t want to raise expectations until we’ve met with you.” Juliette put a hand on Savannah’s shoulder. “Let’s get this little girl settled, so you and I can begin.”

  Juliette led Savannah to a small leather couch. “Tell me what you think, honey.” She indicated the still unopened box. “I’m more used to boys than little girls.”

  Savannah stroked the chalky black paper and deep purple ribbon. “Can I keep the ribbon? For my dolls?”

  “Of course you can.” Caroline worried she sounded snappish and that Savannah sounded beaten down, as though Caroline withheld ribbons on a regular basis.

  • • •

  Caroline waited for Juliette to return from the child care room, where she’d taken Savannah to play with her paper dolls, the new kind where clothes stuck by the magic of static cling and required no scissors.

  Juliette’s skills baffled Caroline, who’d watched with awe as the popular girls in high school stood at the locker room mirror and with a few puffs and sprays transformed themselves into ideal American beauties. In contrast, Caroline’s clumsy attempts at using lipstick felt showy and garish. Her instinct was to wipe it off as quickly as possible. At her wedding, Peter’s mother and sisters had been determined to wrestle her into a Kabuki mask, but the moment she was alone, she’d rubbed away most of what the makeup artist had smeared on her face. Her first kiss as a married woman was what she wanted: bare lips touching bare lips.

  The door opened. Juliette slipped in. A black smock covered her silk shirt and slacks. “Savannah seems happy. Someone from the child care room will get you if there’s any problem, so not to worry.”

  “Oh, she’ll be fine. Savannah’s quite placid with strangers.” Did that sound bizarre, as if she handed Savannah off to strangers regularly? “What I mean is, well, she’s an unusually self-assured child.”

  “I’m sure that’s a credit to your good mothering.” Juliette held three protective smocks up to Caroline’s neck in succession. Pink followed by black and then navy blue. “First I judge which best flatters your complexion, so we can start you off with the right background.”

  “Won’t the color thing throw off the effect? Make it seem better than it really is?”

  Juliette laughed. “It’s all false here. Makeup’s an illusion, right? So we begin with the best canvas. Like you do when choosing your clothes, no?”

  Given the choice, a white lab coat would be Caroline’s fashion choice. Otherwise Caroline stuck to the safe beige palette in which she’d been raised.

  “Navy,” Juliette decided. Silken fabric billowed as she settled the blue cloth around Caroline. Juliette studied her in the mirror. “You should wear this color often.”

  Caroline nodded as though she believed that wearing navy blue would make a difference in her life.

  Juliette ran a finger down Caroline’s cheek. “You’re not wearing any makeup, are you?” Caroline shook her head no. Juliette poured a bit of oil on her fingers and spread it over Caroline’s face.

  “I’m just giving you a quick cleansing. Later, we can schedule you for a facial if you’d like,” Juliette offered. “With Paloma. She’s our best. Don’t tell anyone I said so, though; I’m not supposed to have a favorite. She’ll give you a full skin diagnosis. But I’ll give you some instant gratification.”

  Juliette’s sure fingers massaged oil into her face. Oh, Caroline could lie there for years. Then the scientist in her took over. “Oil?” Caroline asked.

  “Extra virgin olive oil purified by juliette&gwynne. Nothing is better. It cleans the skin, removes makeup, tones and conditions, and you simply rinse it off with tepid water. I could go on and on—but Paloma will say it all much better than I can.”

  “Do you use it?” Caroline liked the idea of being purified, but she felt tired just imagining doing so much to her face each day and each night. Juliette pressed the oft-aching area over Caroline’s sinuses. That alone was worth the trip.

  “There’s nothing we sell that I don’t use, or wouldn’t use, based on my skin type,” Juliette added. She wiped a warm washcloth over Caroline’s face. The slight scratch of the fabric sweeping away the oil felt brisk and wholesome.

  “What do you use to wash your face?” Juliette asked.

  Caroline smiled before giving her answer. “Ivory soap.”

  Juliette chuckled. “99.44% pure, right?” After patting Caroline’s face clean, she assessed Caroline’s forehead, the sides of her nose, and her cheeks with confident fingers. “That’s why your skin is so dry.”

  Juliette smoothed cream over Caroline’s face. “When we make your skin softer, you’ll look less lined.” Juliette’s eyes met Caroline’s in the mirror. “Cleaning with a better product, using proper moisturizer—all this will help. Add plumping ingredients to where you want to see plump. Paloma will give you the details.”

  “Maybe she can fit me in as an emergency case,” Caroline joked.

  Juliette chuckled and squeezed Caroline’s shoulder. “Not to worry. I’ll manage everything.”

  Apparently Caroline’s humor was too dry for Juliette—had she thought Caroline serious? God knows, she barely had time for this morning’s visit. Did other women do this all the time?

  As Juliette applied more layers of colors and creams than Caroline had ever dreamed of using, she startled at seeing herself become almost lovely through the miracle of cosmetic alchemy.

  Juliette held up first one jar of color, then another. She striped five different shades of foundation on Caroline’s jaw—foundation, something Caroline thought reserved for the aged—until one satisfied her. As she blended, she gently lectured Caroline about the importance of sunblock. Caroline the doctor, who knew the importance of using it, spent her life fighting Caroline the daughter, whose outdoorsy mother believed only sissies used sunblock.

  “Look at this! Your eyes are your key feature, Caroline.” Juliette stepped away to admire the thin lines she’d just applied to Caroline’s lids. “Green eyes. So beautiful! Like Savannah. Her brown eyes are so incredibly dark! They’ll be her key feature, also. They’re remarkable. Does your husband have those dark eyes? My goodness—they look Italian or Greek.”

  “Savannah’s adopted,” Caroline said.

  “Oh. Close your eyes.” Juliette applied mascara. “Now open. I have a friend who adopted all of her children. Three boys.”

  “How old are they?” Caroline thought she sounded too hungry for the information.

  “They range from ten to about fifteen. Older than Savannah. My friend’s pretty active in all sorts of support groups.”

  Caroline had never joined any adoption groups or participated in any counseling that might help her on the path to being a good adoptive mother. Beyond buying the right we-chose-you books for Savannah, she and Peter had done little to learn about being adoptive parents. Caroline knew they should participate in more structured learning, but he’d resisted, and she’d taken the easy way out by following his disinclination.

  Peter swallowed Savannah into their family whole, as though by pretending that everything was peachy keen, he could make it so. Peter wanted Savannah to merge with her cousins and blend in with the family brood.

  “Is it all okay? With your friend?” Caroline asked.

  Juliette brushed a light coat of pink across Caroline’s cheeks. The effect was delicate and opalescent—like the inside of a shell. Dawn, Juliette called it. Then she tipped her head and stepped back as though weighing the choices she’d made in painting Caroline’s face.

  “Sometimes she has problems,” Juliette said. “She gets angry when people sa
y that adoption is as natural a process as giving birth and should be treated the same. She thinks that leaves no room for adoptive moms to talk about their problems.”

  Caroline nodded, encouraging Juliette to keep talking.

  “After her experience, I realized that biological mothers get more of a break than she did. We get to have postpartum blues and all that. You know. You’re a doctor.”

  “A pathologist. I work with tissue samples more than people. I’m not sure I’ve really thought of it that way.” Caroline gripped the arms of the chair. “But you’re right.” Peter’s sisters complained about their children incessantly, but Caroline never dared join the discussion.

  “Exactly. We act as though adoptive parents should be so grateful they have children at all, that they don’t deserve to complain.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Tia

  Tia had less than ten minutes before Bobby arrived for their . . . Jesus, it was a date, wasn’t it, this Saturday night dinner Bobby had asked for, almost bribing her with promises of getting out to somewhere other than Southie or JP? She didn’t know why she’d agreed, or how his driving her home had allowed her to open the dreaded relationship door she’d considered shut and crosshatched with steel, but here she was.

  It had been a long time since anyone had touched Tia. That was one reason she remembered pregnancy with warmth; despite her isolation, she’d never been alone.

  The June night that Tia conceived Honor—and she knew it was that night—she’d worn a white linen dress made of fabric so soft and fine that the slightest breeze lifted the belled skirt. A wide red belt hugged her small waist. High-heeled sandals showed off her first-ever pedicure.

  They’d walked down three steps to enter the hidden bar, stopping a moment to let their eyes adjust from the June dusk to the dim bar light. The location, a side street off Mass Ave in Cambridge, surprised Tia each time they arrived. Who expected a postage-stamp dance floor and middle-aged waitresses wearing black rayon skirts and white blouses in a part of town usually known for poetry readings? Most of the drinkers were born-in-Cambridge townies. Tia recognized them; they carried the same working-class DNA as she and her Southie friends.