Beautiful Lies

by Jessica Warman

  I get out of bed and hurry downstairs. My aunt and uncle promised they’d call the police this morning if my sister wasn’t back. We need to be looking for her. We should have been looking last night.

  The house is a big old Colonial with creaky hardwood floors and thick plaster walls. The staircase leading to the third floor is wide and curved, the steps carpeted with an expensive Oriental pattern, held in place with brass poles. On the landing just outside the door to our bedroom, there’s a cozy window seat overlooking the street, except that the view is obscured by a huge stained-glass peacock. The bird’s tail is fanned into numerous slivers of color, its bright green eyes always open, watching, sometimes catching the light so that it almost seems alive. There’s a huge landing on the second floor, its staircase gently sloping, open into the foyer.

  The coolest thing about this place, though, is that there’s a genuine hidden staircase. In the smallest second-floor bedroom, which is a guest room, there’s a rectangular seam in the blue-and-white-striped wallpaper. If you press on the edge, right where you’d expect to find a doorknob, it releases a hinge on the other side, and part of the wall swings out to reveal a dark, narrow staircase. It leads to the kitchen, where there’s a latch that opens from the inside. And in the kitchen, to the left of the refrigerator, there is a similar flat panel with no visible doorknob—just a slim rectangular crack in the wall. It’s barely noticeable.

  Nobody else in this house ever uses the secret staircase; it’s dark and inconvenient, the steps are steep and narrow, and its unheated air is chilly. But I like it. In the months after we first came here, I used to hide in the wall for long periods of time in the afternoons, sitting with my knees pulled against my chest, thinking of my mother and father. I imagined that I was in a secret, magical corridor—kind of like the wardrobe leading to Narnia—and that I’d step out of the darkness and into my old life at my old house, and my parents would be standing in the kitchen like they’d always been there, like they would never go away.

  It didn’t work, of course. There was no magic. But in the cool darkness of the hidden stairs, if I listened closely to hear the whispered vacuum of air circulating past my ears, sometimes I almost believed that it could.

  This morning, I open the latch and step into the kitchen, where my aunt and uncle, along with Charlie, are gathered in a semicircle around a big cardboard box on the floor. Inside, there’s a fat calico cat lying on top of an old yellow blanket, her breathing rapid and shallow, eyes so wide and glassy that they look like wet marbles.

  My aunt looks at me. “Alice?”

  I shake my head.

  “Oh. Rachel.” Pause. “Your sister still isn’t back, then?”

  “No.” My eyes are watering, and I’m continuing to sweat. “Please do something.”

  “She didn’t call you?” my uncle asks, not looking up from the box. The cat gives a low-pitched meow, in pain, and rolls to her other side. Her fine belly fur is licked so thoroughly that it’s soaking wet, her swollen nipples a deep, angry shade of red.

  “No. You said we’d call the police today. You promised.” I close the secret door and stand beside the box, between my aunt and Charlie. “What are you staring at? It’s just a cat.” The house feels like an oven; a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead and into my eye. “Aren’t you worried, now that Alice didn’t come home all night? You said you’d listen to me. Aunt Sharon, you promised. Please.”

  “Oh, honey …” My aunt sighs. “Maybe we should call around first. She could be with Robin.”

  “She’s not. I talked to him last night.”

  “You talked to Robin?” My aunt gives me a sharp look. “Rachel, he’s—”

  “I know. But I was so scared.” The cat sort of gurgles and howls all at once. It wriggles around on the blanket.

  “You’re still worried, aren’t you? Even though she’s run away before?” My aunt Sharon picks up a mug of steaming coffee from the floor beside her. Charlie made the mug in a ceramics class that he took at the community center last year. It’s dark green and lopsided, a few of his big fingerprints visible in the glazed clay. My aunt uses it every morning, washing it by hand after she’s finished drinking coffee, carefully drying it with a dish towel before placing it on the ledge of the kitchen window. Every morning.

  I close my eyes for a moment. The feeling of dread is almost suffocating. “Something bad is happening. You have to believe me; I know her better than anyone.” I open my eyes to give them another pleading look. “I can tell. I know it sounds crazy, but I’m certain of it.”

  My aunt glances at the clock above the kitchen stove. I can see that she’s starting to worry, too, but doesn’t want to show it too much. “Maybe Robin was lying to you.”

  The idea annoys me. My aunt and uncle don’t like Robin, but they’ve never even met him. They don’t know him at all. “He wasn’t lying.”

  “Oh … would you look at that,” my uncle whispers.

  “Ew!” Horrified, Charlie brings his hands to his face. He separates his fingers, peeking out from between them. “Dad! It’s so gross.”

  My uncle rubs Charlie’s back. “It’s okay, buddy. She’s having her kittens. You should watch. You might never see anything like this again.”

  But Charlie’s right; it is gross. I stare as the first kitten emerges, contained in a clear, gelatinous sac, its tiny paws working to break through the membrane without much success.

  Charlie and I look at each other. He puts an index finger in his mouth to make a gagging gesture. In spite of everything, I smile.

  “All right, Rachel. If she doesn’t get in touch within the hour, I’m going to call the police,” my uncle says, unable to take his eyes off the cat. He adds, “Sharon, where’s the camera? We should be taking pictures.”

  “Within the hour?” I almost shriek. “Are you kidding? Call them now. You promised me.” I look at the cat again. “And why would you want pictures of that? It’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.”

  My aunt sips her coffee. Her expression over the edge of her mug is serious. To my uncle, she says, “I think Rachel might be right. Maybe we should call the police now, Jeff. Alice didn’t come home last night. We shouldn’t wait around all morning.”

  My uncle barely looks at her. “If you think so.”

  “I do think so. We can’t just assume she’s okay. Even if she did run away, the police need to know she’s gone.”

  My face is flushed, my forehead wet with sweat; why hasn’t anybody else noticed how warm it is in here? A flutter of worry beats hard in my chest. “Will you call right now?”

  My aunt stands up. “Yes,” she says, glancing at the box. As she’s heading toward the phone, she adds, “Rachel’s right, Jeff. That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen.” She means the cat. To me, she says, “I know you’re worried, but please don’t panic. The police will track down Alice. And when she gets home, we’ll deal with her.” She sighs. “Somehow.”

  I lean against the wall in relief, sliding downward until my butt hits the floor, pulling my knees close to my chest.

  My aunt drops her mug. It shatters against the floor, coffee and thick green shards of ceramic all over the place, some of the brown liquid seeping into the side of the cardboard box.

  Charlie looks at the mug, at my aunt, and then at me. His bottom lip begins to tremble. He starts to cry.

  “What the hell, Sharon?” My uncle jumps to his feet, his arms spread out, the cat howling wildly below him, four newborn kittens in the box now, and when I look at my aunt again she’s staring at me, a look of pure horror on her face, her expression crumpled somewhere between frowning and crying and screaming. She covers her mouth with a hand, shakes her head, steps toward me, and reaches down with her free arm to pull me to my feet.

  “What is that?” Charlie asks, crying.

  “Jesus.” My uncle stares at me. “Charlie, go get the phone, buddy.”

  “Dad, what’s all over the wall? Dad?” I’ve never seen
my cousin so scared. What does he mean, what’s on the wall? I am too afraid to turn around and look.

  “Charlie. The phone!”

  His footsteps heavy, my cousin runs toward the family room.

  “What? What’s wrong?” I’ve never been looked at this way before.

  “Rachel … oh, sweetie. You’re hurt.” My aunt reaches toward me with a shaking hand.

  “Aunt Sharon,” I say, backing away, “you’re scaring me.”

  And then I sense it. Something feels wet and cool on the back of my head, near my neck. It doesn’t hurt; it tingles.

  Slowly, I turn around to look at the wall.

  The paint is a color called silk heaven. The kitchen used to be wallpapered. It was this garish gold-and-purple flower pattern. When we were fourteen, my sister and I spent an entire weekend scraping the paper off. You can’t imagine the mess. When we were finished, my aunt let us help with the painting. Silk heaven. The words roll off the tongue. Aunt Sharon always keeps the kitchen so clean, so white.

  The wall behind me is marked with a thick smear of blood, a bright-red stripe running vertically toward the floor. It’s so red, such a vibrant, pretty color, that it almost looks alive. It is caked with hundreds of strands of my hair, shimmering beneath the light, tiny particles of gray scalp visible at their roots. So much blood. So much hair.

  I touch the back of my scalp, gently, and feel a gooey mess. It’s still flowing. I pull my hand away. I am holding a fistful of hair and scalp.

  My aunt and uncle ease me to the floor. My uncle pulls off his shirt, holds it to the back of my head, and wraps his arms around me.

  In her bare feet, her toenails painted a pink so light that it’s almost white, my aunt stumbles on a shard of the ceramic mug, slicing open the edge of her foot. A blossom of red appears at the wound, but she doesn’t seem to notice. From the cardboard box, there is a chorus of hungry, sweet mewing. The kittens’ cries start out quiet but then quickly become louder, the sound growing shrill, almost intolerable. The room dissolves into inky patches of light and darkness. From somewhere far away, somewhere dark and damp and cruel, I hear my sister calling my name. The pain comes through her and into me. I feel it for both of us. Everything hurts.

  Chapter Four

  “Don’t.” As soon as I realize they’re about to call an ambulance, I stop them. “I’m okay.” I stare at my bloody hand, hair and scalp stuck to my fingers. For a moment, it occurs to me that I am really, really not okay. But I can’t go to the hospital. That will only waste my aunt and uncle’s time, when they need to call the police and focus on finding my sister.

  My sister. Where could she possibly have gone? As I gaze at the mess of flesh and blood in my fist, I can only think the worst: that the same thing has happened to her—somebody grabbed her last night or somehow lured her away from the fair. She looked so pretty and self-assured, all the men sneaking glances at her when they thought their wives and girlfriends weren’t looking. Did somebody want her enough to simply take her? I shouldn’t have let her run away from the Ferris wheel. I should have protected her.

  Charlie stands in the doorway to the kitchen, trembling as he hands the phone to my uncle. My cousin is still wearing his pajamas. He doesn’t look at me; instead, he stares at the box of kittens. He’s taking deep breaths, visibly trying to calm himself. He’s easily upset, and for years his therapist has coached him to rely on breathing techniques for relaxation whenever he becomes agitated. I hate the fact that I’ve worried him so much. More than that, I hate knowing that things seem like they’re only getting worse. For me. For my sister. For everyone.

  My uncle kneels at my side, attempting to peer at my wound as he continues to press his shirt against my scalp. “What did you do?” he asks. “Did you cut yourself somehow?”

  I can’t tell them what I think is actually happening. They would never believe me. They would never understand. My sister and I have been connected this way our whole lives—this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to me. There was the incident with the gum when we were much younger, but it’s more than just that; it’s a million other, more subtle oddities that have piled up over the years, to the point where they can’t all be dismissed as coincidence.

  “Rachel.” My uncle stares at me, worried. “Answer me. Did you cut yourself?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” I wince, feeling pain at the site of the wound for the first time as my uncle presses his hand against the shirt. “Please call the police,” I say. “We have to help her.”

  “Rachel,” my aunt pronounces, “you have a head wound. You might need stitches. Don’t worry about Alice right now.” She glances at my cousin in the doorway. “Charlie, honey, go to your room for a while. Okay?”

  Charlie shakes his head back and forth with worry. “I want to help.”

  “Everything will be okay,” my aunt tells him. “Please go to your room.”

  I close my eyes as a rush of dizziness overwhelms me. I hear Charlie’s heavy footsteps fading as he walks away. As my wound throbs, I imagine my sister alone somewhere, helpless, probably hoping that I’ll search for her, that maybe somehow I’ll find her. But before I can do that, I have to get out of this house.

  “Rachel? Rachel? Sharon, I think she’s about to pass out. Jesus. Sharon, do something!”

  My eyelids flutter. For a moment, my vision blurry, I see my aunt standing beside me, holding her phone, just staring at it. My gaze drifts toward the floor, and I notice a ribbon of blood running from the cut in her toe.

  “I’m okay,” I repeat. I try to steady myself, then I realize that my bottom half has gone numb; I try to wiggle my toes, to regain sensation in my feet so that I can get up and call the police myself, if that’s what I have to do.

  After a few shaky seconds, I’m able to stand. I step away from my uncle, replacing my hand over his in order to hold the shirt against the back of my own head. I blink rapidly, trying to bring the room into focus.

  “We should still …” My aunt’s voice trails off.

  “Wait, Sharon.” My uncle puts a hand on her arm. He moves toward me. “Let me see how badly you’re bleeding.”

  I still feel fuzzy. Even though I can breathe, I feel suffocated by dread, like someone has pulled a plastic bag over my head and the air is slowly running out. And the back of my head is beginning to ache dully, the pain throbbing to the beat of my pulse.

  Carefully, my uncle lifts the shirt away. With gentle hands, he pushes aside my hair to better examine the wound.

  “Rachel, are you sure nothing happened? Did you fall in the shower?”

  “I didn’t take a shower. Not last night or this morning.”

  “Maybe you hit your head somehow. You must have done something. Because it looks like—come here, Sharon, see for yourself—it looks like the hair has been yanked out. You’ve almost got a bald spot.”

  I’ve learned a thing or two from Charlie’s relaxation techniques. I try to calm myself by taking slow, deep breaths. But it’s almost impossible; it’s like my lungs will not fully expand, like their elasticity is gone.

  “My goodness,” my aunt murmurs. “Rachel, what the hell did you do to yourself?”

  A chorus of tiny mews sounds from the box on the floor. Looking down, I see that all the kittens are free from their sacs and have crowded around their mother’s belly, eyes still closed so soon after their births, bodies wet and weak, tiny voices crying out for milk as they search blindly in what is, to them, complete darkness.

  My uncle pours me a glass of water. After a few more minutes of holding the towel against my head, the bleeding seems to stop.

  “I don’t think you need any stitches, but we should definitely wash it off,” my aunt says. “It could get infected.”

  I nod. “I’ll go get in the shower. But first, will you call the police?”

  My uncle takes a long, deep breath. He looks around the kitchen, at the red streak on the wall, and seems to notice the blood seeping fro
m my aunt’s foot for the first time. “We should clean up the room before we do anything else. Sharon, your toe.”

  My aunt doesn’t even glance down. “It’s fine. But poor Charlie’s mug …”

  “He can make you another one,” my uncle offers.

  My aunt gives him a sad smile. “Sure he can.”

  The kitchen goes silent, except for the constant mewing of the kittens. Beyond the walls of the house, outside on the street, somebody is blaring an old Bon Jovi song that I haven’t heard in years.

  My uncle cocks his head a little bit. “What’s that? Music?” He makes a face. “It’s Sunday morning.”

  “It’s TJ washing his car,” I offer. “You should know. He does it every weekend.”

  Our neighbors across the street, the Gardills, have a twenty-two-year-old son, TJ, who still lives at home. He drives a blue convertible, which he washes by hand every Sunday. When the weather is warm enough—and sometimes even when it’s not—TJ works shirtless, presumably to show off his buff bod. He was pretty scrawny up until a few years ago, when all of a sudden he started to bulk up, going from a dorky-looking boy to a remarkable specimen of a man, seemingly overnight. I can look at him now and recognize on some level that he’s most definitely hot, but it’s like I can’t forget the twerp he once was. My sister and I used to refer to him privately as “Pee-Wee.” Even though the nickname doesn’t fit anymore, we still use it all the time.

  The three of us stand there listening as the song ends, followed by a DJ announcing that we’re listening to station KZEP: All classic rock, all the time.

  I attempt to smile at my uncle. “Since when is Bon Jovi classic rock?”

  He smiles back, but the effort is weak. He doesn’t answer.

  “Rachel,” my aunt says. “Go clean up, sweetie. When you’re out of the shower, let me have another look at your head. We need to disinfect it. Okay?” And she kneels down, begins to gather pieces of the broken mug into her open palm. As she works, moving slowly around the kitchen, she leaves bloody half footprints all over the floor.