Her Perfect Lies

by Lana Newton

  ‘Of course not. You’re a dog person.’

  She brought some lunch – a sandwich for him, some fruit for herself. She didn’t have much of an appetite. Nor, it seemed, did Tony; he ate listlessly, as if he was only doing it to please her. He seemed far away, lost in thought. ‘You know what I’d like right now?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A bath!’ His eyes twinkled. She could smell the hospital on him – the disinfectant, the soap and the dirt. ‘When does the nurse start?’ he asked.

  ‘Not until tomorrow. But I’m happy to give you a bath.’

  He shook his head. She could tell he didn’t want to be a burden. Even if helping him would make her happy. Even if having her help him would make him happy. It must have been killing him, the helplessness, relying on other people in every little thing.

  ‘I’m happy to,’ she insisted.

  ‘If you’re absolutely sure.’

  Claire ran his bath and helped him into his wheelchair, pushing him to the bathroom. And what a bathroom it was – fit for a king. ‘Don’t make it too hot. I prefer my bath cold and energising.’

  ‘Let me undress you, Dad.’

  ‘Leave the underwear. There are things a daughter shouldn’t see.’

  ‘You can’t have a bath in your underwear.’

  ‘I’ll take it off myself. I’m not completely incapable. Just lift me up.’ She helped him up and into the bathtub. ‘I’m so sorry. I feel terrible. It’s too hard for you. You look so frail and tiny.’

  ‘I’m a ballerina. My body is ten times stronger than it looks.’

  He sat back, sighing happily, as if feeling cool water on his body was a pleasure he had long forgotten. ‘More bubbles, please. To protect my modesty.’

  ‘Were you like this with the nurses at the hospital?’ Suddenly she wanted to cry with relief. Her father was home. She was needed. She was loved.

  He relaxed into the bath with a smile on his face. ‘I remember bathing you when you were a baby. How innocent you were, how helpless. And look at us now. I’m just as helpless myself.’

  ‘But not as innocent?’ she joked, massaging shampoo into his head.

  ‘It’s the circle of life. Still seems like yesterday, you know? You were the sweetest child. Daddy’s little girl. I remember the first time I held you. You were crying and no one could settle you. Not the midwife, not even your mother. I picked you up, rocked you ever so gently and sang to you. Sang the only song I knew. You stopped crying immediately and looked up at me with those big blue eyes of yours. That was the moment I fell in love with you. I think your mother has always been a little jealous of the bond between us. We were thick as thieves, you and I. Always off on adventures. Always up to something.’

  ‘Which song did you sing? Sing it to me now.’

  He hummed the melody and for a moment looked thoughtful, as if searching for words. ‘Down in the valley, the valley so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow.’

  ‘You have a beautiful voice.’

  ‘That’s what your mother used to say. She called it my magic voice. The minute I started singing, you stopped crying. Why are you crying now? What’s wrong? What did I say?’

  ‘Happy tears,’ she said, wiping her face. ‘It’s good to have you home, Dad.’

  ‘It’s good to be home.’

  Chapter 8

  Tony’s nurse arrived the next morning at eight o’clock sharp – the grandfather clock in the living room was still chiming when the doorbell rang. Helga was stout, German and spoke as little as she could possibly get away with. But when she did speak, it was textbook English with only the slightest trace of an accent. She informed Claire she was a year away from her retirement and needed the money. It seemed Helga was counting the seconds till the day she could dedicate her life to grandkids and azaleas. Claire hoped it didn’t mean she would neglect her duties but Helga seemed more than capable. She was definitely not a pushover. Even Tony had to take notice and listen. Before she even unpacked, she gave him a bath and fed him breakfast – and he ate every bit without an argument. Claire was impressed, warming to Helga instantly, even though she felt like the nurse was usurping her private time with her father.

  ‘Your physiotherapist starts tomorrow. He’ll be here three times a week,’ she told her dad after the bath and the breakfast.

  ‘Don’t want any physiotherapy,’ he grumbled. ‘What’s the point? It’s not like I’ll ever walk again.’

  ‘Physiotherapy is important,’ said Helga in her no-nonsense voice. ‘Especially for someone who doesn’t move. It’s vital to have some form of physical exercise. It improves blood circulation and strengthens the muscles. It will help you regain balance and motor skills in affected areas.’

  ‘Don’t see the point,’ repeated Tony like a belligerent teenager. But his voice lacked conviction.

  Nina, who had come to pick up Tony’s tray, said, ‘Water drop sharpens stone.’

  Everyone looked at her in confusion. ‘What does that mean?’ asked Tony.

  ‘Means little by little you can get great results. Is a Russian expression.’

  ‘Never heard it before in my life.’

  ‘That because you not Russian,’ replied Nina.

  ‘This physiotherapist better not be a man. I don’t want a man touching me.’

  But it was a man and his name was Andrew. He spent an hour massaging and stretching Tony’s muscles, and by the time he was done, the two of them were the best of friends. Afterwards, Tony was glowing. ‘I bet all the ladies love you,’ he said to Andrew. ‘You have the magic touch. You made an old man feel like a newborn baby.'

  Tony and Claire did their best to carve out a semblance of a normal existence out of the train wreck of their lives. One day, about a week after Tony had moved in with them, he told Claire to bring him a Rubik’s cube. She had found one in Paul’s study. ‘You know how to solve it?’ she asked, impressed.

  ‘I don’t. But you do. Give it a go. It might jog your memory.’

  She didn’t believe him at first but he was right. When she took the cube, it was as if her fingers suddenly had a life of their own. They turned and twisted, and soon the little squares fell into place. She wished she could solve the puzzle of her life just as easily.

  Sometimes Claire noticed a trace of sadness in Tony’s eyes. She didn’t want to see it but there was no hiding from it. At moments like that, she would laugh twice as loud, joke twice as much. Anything to chase the clouds away. And it worked. He always had a smile on his face just for her.

  Claire’s nightmare had become more and more frequent. Violent, disturbing, blood-chilling, she could always count on it, and soon she grew to expect it. In her dream, she was hiding in a tight space, a cupboard perhaps, holding her breath so he wouldn’t hear. She wasn’t alone in the cupboard. There was someone else with her. Who was this other person? What was he doing there? She didn’t know but she clung to him as if her life depended on it. And then gradually, in slow motion, the door would open, revealing a pale light. And the shadow would loom over her.

  Claire would shoot up in bed, her mouth open in a silent scream, hands flailing. What she wanted more than anything every time she had the dream was to shout at the top of her lungs, to roar with fear, let all her terror out, so it would no longer haunt her. But she had to stay quiet, otherwise he would come. When she closed her eyes, she could still see him, the shadow from her nightmare.

  She would still her trembling hands by clutching them into fists and bringing them close to her chest. ‘I’m home,’ she would whisper. ‘I’m safe. It was just a dream.’ There was no need to wake Paul or disturb her father. What would they think if every night she woke up screaming and in tears?

  When her night light went on, the shadows retreated. ‘See, just a dream,’ she would tell herself. ‘You’re safe here.’ She wanted to hear a human voice, even if it was her own. But instead of calming her, the sound of her talking to herself scared her even more.

  Because she ne
eded someone to talk to, preferably a stranger who wouldn’t judge or wouldn’t compare her to her old self and feel sorry for her, Claire had found herself back in Matilda’s office one day. Since then, it had become her safe haven, the only place where she could be herself. Only here could she allow the mask to fall away. The mask of a loving daughter and trusting wife whose life wasn’t hanging by a threat. Once the mask was gone, maybe her true face would be revealed. What that face was, she didn’t know yet. But that was the whole point of these sessions, to learn who she truly was.

  She would recline on the therapist’s couch, close her eyes and listen to the voice that never failed to lull her into an illusion of calm. Claire stopped associating the voice with the woman sitting in the armchair behind her. It had a magical feel to it, as if it belonged to no one. It was the voice inside her head, telling her what to do and how to feel. Today was no different. She felt herself drifting-drifting-drifting, until she became dizzy and light-headed.

  ‘Tell me about the nightmares.’

  ‘They are terrifying.’ Claire was on the brink of sleep, barely able to speak. She slurred her words and didn’t care.

  ‘Did you have another one last night?’

  ‘Last night and every night.’

  ‘That’s good. Your mind is trying to tell you something. How do you feel when you experience them?’

  ‘Afraid but also curious. I want to know what happens and at the same time I don’t. What if it’s something so terrible, I’m better off not knowing?’

  ‘You’re the only one who can answer that question, Claire. Do you want to live in ignorance? Or do you want to face your demons?’

  Claire wanted to tell Matilda she was battling her demons every day. How many more could she handle?

  ‘Either way, I always wake up.’

  ‘I want you to find yourself in your dream. Experience it fully. Tell me what you feel.’

  Claire didn’t want to experience the fear and the panic and the pain. But she couldn’t fight the voice. She had to do as she was told. ‘I feel afraid.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  She tried to focus.

  ‘Whenever you’re ready. There is no rush. Concentrate on your dream. Let it come to you like it does every night.’

  ‘Darkness. It’s dark, like there is no light in the world. Like all the hope is gone.’

  ‘Are you alone in the darkness?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel threatened, like someone is chasing me.’

  ‘This someone, can you see their face?’

  ‘I can’t. But there’s a struggle. Someone is trying to hurt me.’

  ‘Good, stay there. Stay with this feeling.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Claire whimpered, shaking.

  ‘You are doing great. You’re being so brave, you’re doing just fine. What do you see now?’

  ‘I’m hiding in a cupboard, peeking out.’

  ‘What do you see?’

  ‘I see a man.’ Claire sobbed. ‘His hands are clasped into fists. He’s violent, unkind. He wants to hurt me.’

  ‘Can you see his face?’

  In a voice she didn’t recognise Claire whispered, ‘I can’t. I don’t know.’

  ‘You’re safe,’ said the voice. ‘No one is going to harm you. Now take a deep breath and find yourself back in this room. As I count up from one to ten, let all the images fade. One …’

  Claire felt violated as a deep memory was yanked to the surface. The memory she wasn’t yet ready for, would never be ready for. Although she couldn’t recall the specifics, she remembered a feeling. And this feeling was fear. Someone had done bad things to her in the past.

  She thought of Paul leaning over her every single evening as he handed her the meds. She thought of not being able to go to the ballet studio because he had forbidden it, pretending to have her best interests at heart. She thought of his smile that never reached his eyes. And suddenly she knew without a doubt who the shadow from her dream was.

  Chapter 9

  Every morning as soon as she woke up, Claire made breakfast for her father. An omelette, not grey and unpalatable like at the hospital but runny and yellow, just the way he liked it. According to Nina, the trick was to add a little bit of water. It gave the omelette a fluffy texture, made it light and delicious. For lunch, she often served the Russian blinis made by Nina or pancakes she had attempted herself. Claire loved them with strawberry jam and Nutella, and so she would pile them up on her father’s plate because she wanted him to have something sweet. She had wrestled the responsibility of feeding him from Helga. Literally wrestled a tray from her one day. Long gone were the days when he would refuse to eat. He devoured the omelettes and the pancakes, but especially the blinis, telling her how good they were, how good she was for bringing them. Because he loved the food, Claire felt he loved her a little bit more. And that made her happy.

  One afternoon, she found him watching Gone with the Wind. ‘Something to help me sleep,’ he explained.

  ‘Trouble sleeping?’ When he nodded, she said, ‘Me too.’

  ‘Also, it’s your mother’s favourite film.’

  ‘It is?’ Claire looked at the screen with interest.

  ‘I took her to see it on our first date. It was a small cinema playing old films. I imagined holding hands, feeding each other popcorn, that sort of thing. But your mother would have none of it. She was completely under Scarlet O’Hara’s spell. For four hours she sat still like a mouse and only had eyes for Scarlet. Not once did she even glance in my direction. And afterwards all she wanted to talk about was the movie. I had nothing to say because I wasn’t paying any attention. I only had eyes for her. Since then, she must have seen the movie a hundred times.’

  ‘That sounds so romantic. We should watch it together sometime.’ Claire wanted to feel closer to her mother. She wanted to know everything about her, to read the books she liked, to watch the movies she enjoyed. It occurred to her that she hadn’t heard from Angela in a while.

  ‘Maybe when your mother comes back, we can all watch it together. Something tells me she won’t say no.’

  ‘You are so lucky to have each other. It’s so rare, to find someone you trust so completely, to feel so in love after all those years. Not many people have that.’

  Suddenly, she felt close to tears. Tony sensed that. He had a knack for seeing through the mask. ‘Is everything okay, darling?’

  She shrugged. ‘Paul and I are like strangers. And I don’t think my memory loss has anything to do with it.’

  ‘Marriage is like a dip in the sea in winter. It could be good for you. It could be great, invigorating. Or you could get a cramp and drown. Problem is, you don’t know until you try.’

  ‘I think our marriage got a cramp and we’re drowning.’

  ‘The key is to work at it. There’s an old Georgian saying.’

  ‘Georgia as in America?’

  ‘Georgia as in the former Soviet Republic. Your mother and I went there on our honeymoon. Hidden away in the mountains of Caucasus, it is the most exotic place I’ve ever been to. Anyway, an old wise man from Georgia told me once that no matter what happens, through highs and lows, through sun and hail, a married couple must always sleep on one pillow. That’s the trick to a happy marriage. To sleep on one pillow.’

  ‘Paul and I don’t even share a bedroom, let alone a pillow.’

  ‘I think what it means is working together as a team, sharing the core values in life. And never going to bed angry. No matter how much we argue, your mother and I always make sure we work it out, even if it means staying up all night talking. In my opinion, silence is the number one enemy of a relationship. When arguments stop and the silence begins, then you know you’re in trouble.’

  ‘That’s our problem right there. The silence. The small talk.’

  ‘But sometimes, you owe it to yourself to acknowledge that the relationship is over and to move on with your life. If being with someone doesn’t bring you joy, maybe it’s time to let g
o. Does being with Paul bring you joy?’

  ‘I don’t know him well enough to answer your question. Sometimes he scares me, Dad.’

  Tony nodded. It was as if he was agreeing with her, as if he knew she had reasons to be scared.

  ‘Has Paul ever done anything?’ she whispered. ‘Has he ever hurt me?’

  Tony took her hand and squeezed it. Her eyes filled with tears at this simple gesture of sympathy and support. With a kind smile on his face, he said, ‘I don’t know, darling. You never confided in me about things like that. Why don’t you ask your mother?’

  * * *

  Gaby dropped in at noon, bringing tickets to Swan Lake. It was Claire’s ballet company’s production, once upon a time performed by Claire herself. She gasped in excitement when she saw the tickets.

  ‘But …’ She hesitated. ‘Will Paul let me go?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ exclaimed Gaby. ‘Why wouldn’t he let you go? He’s not your keeper.’ How Claire wished that was true but it did feel like he was her keeper and she was his prisoner.

  Gaby announced she was whisking Claire and Molokai away. ‘Enough moping around the house. We’ll have a day out.’ She took them to the park, where they found a perfect spot underneath a giant of an oak tree that was surrounded by birches and chestnuts like a king by his vassals. Its branches reached for the ground in a majestic canopy, capable of sheltering a dozen people, giving the tree a magical appearance, as if it didn’t belong in Central London but in a forest in Narnia.

  Molokai ran in circles around the small pond, chasing ducks, while Gaby opened her backpack and revealed a perfectly folded picnic blanket, spreading it on the grass. A carton of orange juice followed, half a dozen sandwiches and two slices of cake. There were grapes, strawberries and even a mango. As Claire watched, astonished, Gaby poured the juice and unpacked the sandwiches, looking pleased with herself.

  ‘You prepared a picnic for us?’ Claire exclaimed, before starting to cry.

  ‘That’s not the reaction I was hoping for.’

  ‘I’ve just been so emotional lately.’

  ‘You know you can tell me anything.’ Gaby handed her a glass of orange juice. ‘What’s on your mind?’