Beautiful Lies

by Jessica Warman

  “Those things—my mom calls them cutlets—they get all hot and sweaty. I hate wearing them every day.” And she shrugs. “I don’t know why I bother, anyway. I guess I just want to look normal, from the outside at least. I’m not trying to attract attention from boys or anyone. I don’t want you to think that.”

  I shake my head. “That isn’t what I thought.”

  “It’s not like I’m going to fool anybody into thinking I’m beautiful.” She tosses her keys into her purse. “Not that it matters. Nobody wants to date a freak, right?”

  “Kimber …”

  She shakes her head. “Stop. Don’t say anything else. I’m sorry I brought it up at all.”

  There is a silence, not so much awkward as it is filled with unspoken thoughts; I can tell we both have plenty of them.

  Kimber looks at our surroundings, like she’s noticing them for the first time. Just beyond the gravel driveway, in a wide clearing on a hillside, there is a big brick Colonial house covered in dark-green ivy. A crooked wooden porch wraps around the entire first floor. Beyond the house, there’s a large red barn. This place hasn’t been a working farm in decades; in the field beside the house, a rusty, broken tractor rests on the ground, surrounded by tall grass. It’s like somebody, many years ago, decided to take his lunch break in the middle of working the land and simply never returned.

  “Your grandma lives here?” she asks. “This is beautiful. I never knew this place even existed.”

  “Yep. This is our family’s old farm.” I open my door and climb out of the car, sliding my purse onto my shoulder. “Come on.”

  “You think Alice might be here?” Kimber steps gingerly on the uneven ground, large patches of dirt and rocks mingled with the grass beneath us.

  “I don’t know,” I say, staring at the house. I cannot set foot in this place without thinking of my childhood and all the times we used to spend here as a family: my parents, my sister, and myself. We visited as often as once a week, mostly on Sundays. Even when my grandma wasn’t here, away on one of her many stints at the state hospital, we still came by to check on the place all the time.

  My mother never seemed to resent my grandma for her problems. She was always gentle and loving and patient, even when my grandma was out of control. I remember arriving one Sunday morning, years ago, to find her—she was in her fifties—up on the roof, still in her nightgown. She was painting the eaves of the house bright green for no particular reason. Once my parents coaxed her down, she admitted that she hadn’t slept in almost four days.

  When we were kids, my parents never explained much about my grandma’s condition. They simply told us she was sick. “Sometimes people’s bodies get sick,” my mom would say, “and sometimes our minds get sick.”

  As a child, I was confused by the explanation. “But she has a gift,” I said. “She knows things other people don’t. You’ve told me so yourself. How does that make her sick?” To me, it only made her extraordinary.

  The question didn’t faze my mother; I realize now that she’d probably given the matter plenty of thought herself. “It’s a fine line,” she told me. “Sometimes it can be hard to tell the difference. And sometimes the line is … blurred.”

  My aunt has never been nearly as tactful. She throws around words like “crazy” and “delusional” and “destructive.” She only references her childhood in terms of neglect and unhappiness. My grandma first started to show signs of illness when my aunt and mom were toddlers. After their father died, there were times when my grandma wasn’t able to care for them, and they ended up in and out of foster care until they were teenagers. My aunt can’t let it go.

  My mother and her sister dealt with their upbringing in very different ways. My mom threw herself into art, using her creativity to disguise whatever hard feelings might have lingered inside her, turning her suffering into beauty. But she was also a little unstable, maybe never quite as invested in reality as she should have been. I didn’t understand that as a child, but I do now.

  My aunt is the polar opposite of her mother and sister. She clings to order and logic and facts, like they’re somehow more reliable than emotion, which can get so out of control if it comes unhinged. She’s afraid of ending up like my grandma; that much is obvious. But what she doesn’t seem to understand is that you can’t make something go away simply by ignoring it.

  That’s why my aunt will never accept that I have any special connection to my sister. The idea is too close to the insanity that she grew up with for her to acknowledge that it might be real.

  “Are you okay?” Kimber is staring, waiting for me to move toward the house so she can follow. She squints at me. “Rachel?”

  At the sound of my sister’s name, an achy wave of guilt ripples through my body. It should have been me who disappeared on Saturday.

  If I pretend hard enough, could I make it true? Could I make it happen by simply ignoring the truth? I could almost be her right now. I could fool everyone. And would they even miss me—would they miss Alice? Would they wish I hadn’t disappeared? Or would they be content for the rest of their lives, believing my sister had been spared whatever happened to her twin?

  Because I could do it, if I wanted to. If I put my whole self into it, I could become Rachel—I know I could. I could make Alice disappear forever. And maybe everyone would be happier that way.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After our parents’ deaths, my sister and I came to understand certain facts that no nine-year-olds should ever have to contemplate. We learned, for instance, that our parents had been desperately broke: living on a single teacher’s salary, struggling to keep up with student-loan payments and a mortgage, while still supporting themselves and their daughters. We learned that there had been no life insurance to speak of—and while we might not have understood exactly what life insurance was at the time, we could pick up enough meaning from our relatives’ tones to know it was pretty important.

  We learned that neither one of them had bothered to draft a will. Our grandmother covered the cost for our mother’s funeral; our father’s parents, who had lived in Las Vegas all our lives and who we rarely saw, paid for his casket and burial. It was sort of like the way a bride and groom’s parents divvy up costs for a wedding, except it wasn’t like that at all.

  We learned by listening. Eavesdropping, really. My sister and I began staying with our aunt and uncle almost immediately after the accident. When they gave us our tour of the house, they made a point of not showing us the secret stairwell. It makes sense that they wouldn’t want us to know about it; the stairs are steep and could be dangerous for a child. And the doors—especially the one that leads into the kitchen—tend to stick. Of course they didn’t want us crawling around in the darkness alone either.

  But after we’d been living there for a week or so, Charlie found a quiet moment when we were watching television together downstairs to bring up the subject. He was only thirteen back then. My sister and I understood that he was slower than we were, but the difference didn’t seem nearly as pronounced at the time.

  We were watching The Price is Right, the three of us sipping soda from plastic cups, uncomfortable, staring at the screen, pretending to be engrossed in the game show. Up to that point, Charlie had been extremely shy around us.

  “Hey,” he’d said, brightening, looking around to make sure his parents weren’t anywhere they could hear us. “Do you guys want to see something cool?”

  Rachel and I exchanged a wary glance. We didn’t answer him at first.

  “I mean it,” he said. “It’s awesome. You guys aren’t supposed to know about it. I’m breaking a rule.”

  Even at that age—and even in the wake of my parents’ deaths—I was drawn to breaking rules. I nodded at Charlie. “Okay.”

  Rachel was more hesitant. “I don’t know,” she said, weaving her fingers through mine. “I don’t want to get into trouble.” She shifted her gaze to our cousin. “How do your parents punish you, Charlie?”

&nb
sp; All three of us had neon-green straws in our cups. Distracted, Charlie blew air bubbles into his drink. “What do you mean, punish?” he asked. “Like when I get into trouble?”

  Rachel nodded. “Yeah. Do you get sent to your room? Or do they do something different?”

  It seemed like a fair enough question. We might have been related to them, but we’d only known these people for a week. Who knew what they might do if they caught us snooping around their house without permission?

  But Charlie only shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he told Rachel. “I hardly ever get into trouble.” He paused. “Are you gonna let me show you?” His eyes were bright and warm. I barely knew him, but I loved him already. “You’ll like it. I promise.”

  So we followed him to the guest room. We watched as his chubby fingers pressed against an ordinary-looking part of the wall, and together we gasped as the door swung open, almost like it had materialized from out of nowhere.

  “See?” Charlie asked, obviously pleased with himself. “It’s a secret passage. It leads into the kitchen. There’s another door down there, in the wall next to the fridge.”

  My sister and I peered inside the dark stairwell. “It’s cold,” Rachel said.

  We could hear voices lilting up from the kitchen. It was our aunt and uncle, along with our grandmother, the three of them having a heated discussion about something.

  “Don’t tell anyone that I showed you. I wasn’t supposed to,” Charlie said.

  I glanced back at him. He gave me a shy, sincere smile. I pulled my thumb and index finger across my lips, like I was zipping them shut. Then I pretended to toss the key across the room.

  After that day, my sister and I began to spend hours in the stairwell, listening. It was how we learned that my aunt and uncle refused to let my grandmother—who Rachel and I adored—take custody of us. My aunt claimed that our grandmother was unstable. Even though a part of me suspected she was right, at the time it seemed cruel that we weren’t allowed to stay with the relative we were closest to, instead of having to move in with people who were basically strangers. But even though Aunt Sharon and our mom hadn’t spoken for years, she explained to our grandma in hushed, angry tones that she would be damned if she’d let her raise us.

  “You think I’m incompetent?” our grandma had asked, sounding more amused than upset. “You turned out just fine, didn’t you? Here you are, a nice house, good family—what are you so worried about?”

  Although I couldn’t see my aunt, I pictured her so clearly in my mind: her eyes shut, fists clenched in frustration, genuine fury in her voice—yet I was certain that if I could have seen her right then, she wouldn’t have a single hair out of place. “Mother, you need to let this go. We will take you to court, and we will win. You cannot raise these girls.” She’d paused. “Not like you raised me and Anna. Especially Anna.”

  My sister nudged me from her place beside me on the stairs. I could barely see her in the dark, but I understood immediately what she was feeling. Her breath was ragged. A warm dampness seemed to rise from her body: sweat combined with flushed panic, the rapid heartbeat of someone who felt helpless and trapped. She didn’t want to listen anymore, I knew. And from that day on, I went into the stairwell alone.

  Today, Kimber and I find my sixty-year-old grandmother standing in her kitchen, her clothing covered in blackberry juice, her hands stained a deep shade of purple. Her counter-tops are lined with empty mason jars. A huge silver pot filled with dark-purple goo simmers on the stove. The room smells so sweet that it’s almost overwhelming. She’s making jelly, I’m guessing, which is an extremely uncharacteristic thing for my grandma to do. She barely cooks at all; even though she never stays to visit, my aunt usually brings her over a casserole or something every Sunday, and it lasts pretty much all week. My grandma is rail-thin, and I’ve heard her complain more than once that her medication takes away her appetite. It could also have something to do with the fact that she chain-smokes and drinks coffee all day.

  “Hello, ladies,” she says, smiling graciously, almost like she was expecting us. She’s wearing an apron, which is also out of character; I’m surprised she even owns one. Underneath it, she’s wearing a pale-pink nightgown, which is really more of a slip. Her feet are bare. Her hair, which she’s been dyeing red ever since it started going gray, falls past her shoulders in gentle waves. It’s the hair of a much younger woman, and it might look ridiculous on anybody else her age, but somehow she pulls it off. Her face is wrinkled but still beautiful, her eyes sharp and deep blue, her makeup subtle except for her lips, which are painted a bright red. In her right hand, she holds a lit cigarette between her index and middle finger. Every few seconds she takes a dainty puff, blowing smoke rings into the air. I’ve never heard her say anything about wanting to quit.

  After I’ve made the introductions between my grandmother and Kimber, I take a harder look around the kitchen. It’s a huge mess; she’ll be working for days to get it cleaned up, if she bothers to clean it up at all. She might just wait for my aunt to come over, notice the mess, and take care of it for her.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” my grandma says, dragging on her cigarette, “but I had no other choice. I had all these berries in the basement freezer. Jack Allen’s wife, Louise, grew them in her garden.” My grandma gives a little snort of amusement. “Louise passed away two weeks ago. Jack is moving to Pine Ridge—that’s an assisted-living facility—so he’s cleaning out their house. Now here I am, stuck with a dead woman’s berry stash. How the hell am I going to eat them? I’m not a bird. So I thought, well, I’m an old lady. Aren’t we supposed to do things like this?” She winks at Kimber. “But it’s my special recipe. Medicinal jelly. I should put up a stand outside the senior center downtown. What do you think I could charge—forty dollars a jar? Fifty? I won’t go lower than thirty-five. I need the money. I’m on a fixed income, you know.”

  Kimber is confused, and I’m not surprised; I didn’t say anything to prepare her for my grandma’s … personality. “Why is it medicinal?” she asks.

  Without any hesitation, my grandmother replies, “Why do you think? It’s pot jelly.”

  Kimber gives me a panicked glance. I giggle.

  “She’s kidding,” I explain. “It’s just regular jelly.” At least I hope she’s kidding. I’m fairly certain that reefer jelly won’t complement my grandma’s pharmaceutical regimen too well.

  “Bullshit.” My grandma grinds out her cigarette in a clay ashtray. “That’s the thing about being older. You can get away with anything. Even shoplifting!”

  “Grandma—” I begin, but she interrupts me.

  “I know why you’re here.” She fans the smoke in the air. “You’re looking for your sister.”

  Kimber and I both nod. I open my mouth, ready to launch into an explanation of recent events, but my grandma doesn’t seem interested in listening at the moment. She has other ideas. She turns abruptly, collects half a dozen sealed jars of jelly, and presses them into my arms. “Before we discuss this,” she says, “take these into the barn real quick for me. Put them on the shelves.”

  “Here,” Kimber says, leaping at the opportunity to get away from my grandma, who I guess must seem downright creepy to someone as wholesome as Kimber. “Let me help you, Rachel.”

  “Oh, please. Stay with me, would you?” My grandma’s voice becomes falsely meek and pathetic. “It’s so rare for me to get company … especially now that Louise is gone.”

  There is an uncomfortable pause as Kimber—who seems torn between the polite thing to do and what she obviously wants to do (avoid being alone with my grandma)—presses her rosy, full lips together, doing her best not to pout.

  With my arms full of jars, I begin to back away. “You know, Kimber is a Girl Scout,” I tell my grandma.

  Kimber shoots me a desperate look. I shrug apologetically. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her.

  As I’m going down the hall toward the front door, I hear Kimber ask, “Was the woman
who passed away—Louise—a close friend of yours?”

  “Not really,” my grandma says. “She was a Republican.”

  “Oh.” Pause. “How did she, um, can I ask—”

  “How did she die? Well, she was eighty-four, so that should be obvious, shouldn’t it?”

  “Uh … you mean because she was very elderly? So I take it she was in poor health?”

  “No,” my grandma replies, “she was in fine health.” I hear the distinct hiss of a match as she lights another cigarette. “It was a waterskiing accident.”

  The barn sits at the bottom of the hillside, a few feet from the driveway and Kimber’s car. Although my grandma doesn’t use it much, my aunt and uncle make sure the building stays in decent repair. A few summers ago they had it repainted and had the roof replaced. Still, it’s only a barn: it has a dirt floor, plenty of spiderwebs (and spiders), and no heat. Inside, the only source of light comes from a few bare bulbs scattered around the walls, their wiring exposed, simply stapled to the wood.

  Since my arms are full, I nudge one of the wooden doors with my hip. There is an immediate blast of cold as I step into the dark, damp space. A long, narrow triangle of light illuminates the dirty floor, the air filled with thousands of tiny specks of dust, as the door drifts all the way open.

  I feel like a child. I feel afraid. There are rustling sounds in the darkness, but I can’t tell exactly where they’re coming from. There could be all kinds of creatures hiding in here. I gather the jars in one arm, and then I use my free hand to feel along the wall for the light switch. Directly behind me, outside, it is a bright and lovely day; yet standing in the barn makes me feel like I’ve stepped into another world. The daylight over my shoulder seems to be getting farther away with each second, like I’m being pulled against my will through a dark tunnel, leaving the light behind. There is a musty, unpleasant odor in the air, but I can’t quite place the smell. I consider setting the jars down on the ground right in front of me and leaving, not bothering to put them on the shelves, which are on the opposite end of the barn. The light coming from the burning bulbs is dim; the exposed wood beams in the walls look like hovering figures all around me. The rustling sound persists. It is quiet enough that I might not have noticed it if I weren’t alone in here, if my senses weren’t heightened by my anxiety and the darkness.