Every Single Lie

by Rachel Vincent

  “I—I had a baby. But she wasn’t breathing.” She sniffles into Mom’s shirt, and Penn grabs a box of tissues from the end table and leans forward to poke her with one corner of it. Landry finally looks up. She takes a tissue and wipes her nose, but she won’t look at us. She’s staring at the coffee table.

  “We did everything the internet said to do, but she wasn’t breathing. And she was so little. She just . . . ​she never breathed.”

  “Okay. That’s a good start,” my mother says. “Now I’m going to ask you some very important questions. First of all, who’s ‘we’?”

  “Norah,” I say while Landry blots her eyes. There’s mascara running down her face. “Right? Norah knew?” That’s the only thing that makes sense, considering that they shared the Crimson Cryer account.

  My sister gives me a miserable nod as she centers herself on the middle couch cushion, tucking her knees up to her chest again. Trying to compose herself. “She was excited. I wanted to tell you guys, but Norah said I’d only be making everything worse, and everything was already so bad. She said I shouldn’t tell anyone. She said the baby could be our secret, until she could get pregnant too, so we could do this together.”

  Oh my god.

  “I told her that was crazy, but she wanted . . .” Landry sniffles again and blots her running nose, smearing mascara across it from her wadded-up tissue. “She said she could get Fletcher to do it, so our babies could be siblings.”

  Oh my god.

  “But—”

  “Fletcher Anderson?” Penn says. “He’s the father?”

  Father. I can’t quite make sense of that word, in this context. Fathers are adults. Like my dad. They make mistakes, like everyone else. Sometimes they make a lot of really big mistakes. But a father is someone Landry’s supposed to have, not someone she’s supposed to make out of some kid in her class.

  How is it possible that the more answers I get, the less I seem to understand?

  “Yes,” Landry says at last. “It’s Fletcher. But he doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about any of this. You can’t tell him!” she cries.

  Penn is clearly ready to rip someone’s head off, but my mother looks . . . relieved. That takes me a second to understand.

  Fletcher Anderson is fourteen years old. He’s in the eighth grade, with Landry. He and my sister made a huge, stupid mistake, but they’re just kids. They’re both just kids.

  The alternative—Landry getting pregnant by someone who isn’t her age—would have been infinitely worse.

  But it’s already pretty bad.

  “Fletcher. But he was just over here the other day. Are you two still together?” I ask.

  Landry gives me a teary head shake. “We were never really together. It just . . . ​happened. Then I felt bad, because Norah really likes him. I don’t really talk to him anymore. I didn’t know he was coming over the other day. She just invited him to join our project.”

  Of course she did. Norah knew he was Lullaby Doe’s father, and she invited him to our house. Without even warning Landry!

  “Okay, we’ll figure out what to tell Fletcher and his parents later. For now, just tell us what happened. You need to tell us everything. Norah wanted to have a baby too? Do you have any idea why she would want that?” Mom asks.

  I wonder if this is how she sounds when she questions other people’s children. Calm and rational. As if her entire world isn’t falling apart around her.

  “She said it was so I wouldn’t be doing this by myself. So that if people were mad, they’d have to be mad at both of us. She said it was for me. Because she’s my best friend.”

  But that’s not it. Not really. Norah Weston needs attention like most people need food and air. If she wanted to have a baby, it was to keep Landry from getting all the attention. If she wanted that baby to be Fletcher Anderson’s, it was because she didn’t want Landry to have all of Fletcher’s attention.

  Norah’s had a crush on him forever. It must have killed her to find out he liked Landry.

  “I tried to talk her out of it,” my sister says. “I told her one baby would be hard enough. And finally she said she wouldn’t do it if I . . . ​If I let her help me raise my baby. She said it could be our secret. I mean, not forever, but for a little while, at least.”

  I want to wring Norah Weston’s skinny little neck.

  Landry shrugs. “I know that sounds stupid. But I was so scared. So we had a secret. We . . . ​learned things. We read things online and watched videos. I started taking vitamins and cooking a lot of vegetables. I read about cloth diapers and Lamaze breathing techniques. And I wanted to tell you all, but the longer I went without telling you, the harder telling you seemed. Until suddenly I was six months pregnant.” Landry sniffles again, and Penn gives her a clean tissue. “I had a little pooch by then, so I started wearing baggier clothes. Borrowing Beckett’s sweaters. I knew I’d have to tell you all soon. And I was going to. But then the baby came early. And she wasn’t breathing.”

  Landry breaks into heaving sobs again, and Mom pulls her into a hug. I don’t know what to do, so I get up for more coffee, even though I don’t really want any. I just want to hold a warm mug.

  Landry is hiccuping when I get back into the living room. Trying to get control of her tears. I sit on her other side this time, sandwiching her on the couch between my mother and me.

  “Okay, let’s back up a little,” Mom says. “Why were you at the high school that day?”

  “For the eighth-grade tour,” Landry says. “Because we’re going to go to school there next year. They take half of us for a tour in December, and half in February. Norah and I were in the first half.” She frowns up at our mom. “You signed the permission form.”

  Mom’s eyes close and she takes a deep breath. She hasn’t touched her coffee yet. “Of course I did. And then I promptly forgot what day the trip was.” She opens her eyes. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

  My mother forgot about the trip, and I never even knew about it, because I took a mental health day that Friday. I have no idea what Penn’s excuse is.

  “So, they took you to the high school on a school bus?” Mom says, gently urging her to continue.

  Landry nods. “During second period. We were supposed to tour the school and have lunch in the cafeteria, before the high school kids have their lunch. But my back had been hurting all night, the night before. Then my stomach started cramping early that morning. A lot. I didn’t realize it might be labor until we were already at the high school, but it was too early. I hadn’t told anyone yet. So I couldn’t call an ambulance.”

  “Oh, Landry,” my mother says. “You should have called me.”

  “I couldn’t! I was scared! So Norah and I snuck into the locker room. No one was supposed to be in there, because of the fresh paint. We thought someone would come looking for us. We thought we’d get caught. But no one came.” Landry shrugs. “There were forty kids in our group. I guess no one noticed two missing.”

  Mom looks like she’s going to be sick. “So you were all alone, going through that.”

  “No. I had Norah. She watched videos and talked me through it, but mostly we just tried to be quiet. The internet said it could take all day, but it only took about five hours.”

  Though it sounded like her contractions actually started long before she realized she was in labor.

  “But something went wrong. She wasn’t breathing. She never opened her eyes or cried, and I don’t know what I did wrong!”

  Penn’s hand is clenched around the other arm of the chair. I’m staring at my sister through a sea of unshed tears.

  “You didn’t do anything wrong,” my mother tells her. “Sometimes babies just don’t make it.”

  “But if I’d gone to the hospital—”

  “We don’t know that,” I tell her, just like Mom told me last week. “That might not have changed anything.”

  Landry gives me a teary nod.

  “So, when you realized there was nothing you could
do for her?” Mom says. “What did you do then?”

  “Norah helped me get cleaned up. She had Tylenol in her purse, and there was a pad dispenser on the wall of the locker room. We’d used towels we found on a shelf, and she put them in a garbage bag she found with some cleaning supplies in a closet. She sprayed out the shower—that’s where it all happened—then she took that trash bag . . . ​somewhere. Outside. A dumpster, maybe. Or maybe she just hid it. I didn’t ask. I just let her take care of everything while I . . . ​I held the baby.” Landry’s eyes fill with fresh tears, but she blinks them back. “We’d wrapped her in a shirt we found in Penn’s duffel bag.”

  “Why did you have my bag?” Penn asks.

  “The zipper on my backpack broke, and you’d left your duffel in the kitchen for a few days, so I figured you didn’t want it anymore, so . . .” She shrugs. “I thought I’d save Mom some money and use your old bag instead of asking for a new one. I’d been carrying it for about a week, before that day.”

  Only . . .“Landry, that was Jake’s bag,” I tell her.

  “Then why was Penn’s shirt in it?”

  Penn shrugs. “I must have mistaken his duffel for mine. I didn’t realize I’d left my shirt in it.” He frowns. “I thought Mom threw out the shirt after I ripped the underarm seam.”

  But Mom hadn’t known about the ripped seam. Or the backpack. Or the eighth-grade tour. Or Fletcher Anderson.

  I hadn’t known any of that either.

  “We didn’t know what to do with the baby,” Landry says, staring at the coffee table again. Her gaze is unfocused. Her words sound . . . ​distant. “The internet said that you can take a baby you don’t want—or one you can’t take care of—to any hospital or fire station, and they can’t ask you any questions. But I didn’t think that would work for one that wasn’t breathing. And we couldn’t just get on the bus with her. And I was afraid . . . ​I was scared that we’d get in trouble. So I made a cradle for her, out of Penn’s bag. At least, I thought it was his bag. And I kissed her on her forehead. Then Norah and I went outside and waited on a bench until the tour ended and the rest of the kids came outside. We just got back in line with them and got on the bus back to the middle school. Then Anna came to pick her up, and they gave me a ride home. And I—”

  “You spent the night at Norah’s . . . ,” I say, remembering that I had forgotten to pick her up that day, because I’d found the baby. Because I’d been interviewed by the police. Because I’d become the subject of the most malicious rumor ever to circulate through Clifford High School.

  “I said you could stay with her and have pizza, because I didn’t want you to hear too much about the dead baby.” An irony that feels especially bitter now.

  Landry nods. “I mostly slept a lot. And cried. Norah brought me pads, and frozen peas to sit on, and she gave me more Tylenol. She kept reading instructions online. She took care of me.”

  While my mother and I were each consumed with identifying the baby I’d found, my little sister was recovering from unattended childbirth next door. And we had no idea.

  “Then I got that notice about our cloud account,” Landry continues. “It just popped up on my phone.”

  “What notice?” Mom frowns.

  “Did you know that some of the information on our phones is backed up to our family cloud storage account automatically?” I ask her.

  Mom shakes her head. “Your dad must have set that up. I don’t know anything about the cloud.”

  “Me neither,” I admit. “But that night, Landry found the picture I’d taken of the baby, on our cloud backup. That’s why she and Norah started the Crimson Cryer account.”

  “You—?” Mom turns on her, truly surprised for the first time since I can remember. “That was you?”

  “It was Norah’s idea.” Landry wipes at her eyes again, smearing more mascara. “She started it so we could . . . um . . . She called it ‘controlling the narrative.’ She said that if we told the story we wanted people to believe, no one would find out the truth. I didn’t think it would work. I thought someone would figure out she was mine, because of the shirt and the bag. But that just never happened.”

  “Because Norah told everyone the baby was mine!”

  “I’m so sorry!” Landry cries. “I was so mad at her for that. And she promised she wouldn’t do it again. And I tried to fix it. But she was really excited by all the new followers we got every time we posted, and every time that started to slow down, she had to post something new. To keep the story alive. To keep people interested.” Another tear rolls down her cheek. “And people really seemed to care about her. About Lullaby. I got to name her on Twitter, and there were so many messages, and it started to feel like she hadn’t really died. Like she was still alive, as long as people remembered her. So I let it go too far, and I’m so sorry.”

  She let Norah take it too far. And Norah didn’t care about Lullaby’s memory. She only wanted the attention, even if no one knew she was the one pulling the strings.

  “Norah and I started fighting. I’d get mad about something she posted, and she’d apologize, and we’d make up. But then she started getting mad. Because I got to help with the candles, at Sophia’s house, and she didn’t. Then I went to the vigil without her. She said I was leaving her out. Leaving her behind.” Landry leans forward and drops both of her used tissues onto the coffee table next to my mother’s untouched mug. “Then, yesterday, Beckett figured out about the Cryer, and she deleted the account. So, I think . . . ​I think this is over now.” She exhales, and her shoulders slump with the motion.

  “Landry, I am so sorry,” my mother breathes.

  My sister shakes her head. “It isn’t your—”

  “Yes, it is,” Mom insists. “I should have known . . . ​I should have seen . . . I should have noticed that something was wrong.”

  “Everything was wrong,” Penn tells her. “It’s hard to notice one extra drop of water in the ocean.”

  “Until that drop becomes a tsunami.” Mom tears up. “Your dad used to say that.”

  “I’m sorry I became a tsunami,” Landry whispers.

  “No, honey. You’re not a tsunami. We’re going to talk about all of this at length. But first, we’re going to get you to the doctor.” Mom snatches her phone from the coffee table and starts texting.

  “But it’s Christmas Eve.”

  “Doctor Baker is a friend. She’ll see you if I tell her it’s an emergency.”

  Landry looks terrified. “But it’s not an—”

  “Landry.” My mother takes her hand, and now she’s wearing her no-nonsense face. “You gave birth a week and a half ago. You have to see a doctor. And we are not waiting until after the holiday. So it’s Dr. Baker this afternoon, or we spend Christmas Eve in the ER.”

  “Fine. Dr. Baker.”

  “She’s nice,” I assure Landry. But I get why she’s scared. My first gyn appointment—just yesterday—was terrifying. I can’t imagine going through that postchildbirth. Though I guess most women would have had a bunch of those appointments by now if they’d just had a baby.

  Mom’s phone beeps, and she looks relieved when she reads the text. “Go put your shoes and your coat on. She’s going to meet us at her office in half an hour.”

  Landry stands, wringing her fingers so hard they look like they might break off. “But what if someone sees me there?”

  “No one will see you. Her office is closed.”

  Landry reluctantly heads to her room, and my mother grabs her mug. I follow her into the kitchen, where she dumps the coffee into the sink. She stands there for a minute, leaning with both hands on the counter, staring out the window. Then she hangs her head. “I can’t believe I didn’t see it. I can’t believe I wasn’t watching her.”

  “You were grieving.”

  “We were all grieving!” she whispers fiercely as she turns from the window. Her eyes are ringed in bright red, yet despite the tears standing in them, she looks angry. “She lost her father. You a
ll did, but she was just a kid. And instead of being there for her, I disappeared. She basically lost both parents, and I let her stumble into the biggest decision of her youth, without a single word of caution or advice. Without telling her she was too damn young. Without even knowing she was thinking about sex. Or that she was hanging out with Fletcher alone. And then . . . ​For seven months . . .”

  She’s angry at herself.

  “You worked. You had to work. No one blames you for this, Mom.”

  “Well, they should. You all should.” She turns back to the window, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “I should have been there.”

  Yeah. She should have.

  I tap her on the shoulder, and when she turns, I hug her. A full embrace. I can’t remember the last time I did that. Not since Dad died, anyway.

  She sniffles, and her whole body hitches against me. “I can’t believe I thought that your father . . . ​That he would ever do that. He had problems. I know that. And he made a lot of bad decisions near the end. But he was a good man, Beckett. I need you to know that. I need you to believe that, no matter what you hear.”

  “I do,” I assure her. “People are going to believe what they want about him, just like they will about the rest of us. And you were right. There’s nothing we can do about that but learn to live with it.”

  Fact-Check Rating: Insufficient evidence. I’m willing to test this theory, and I hope someday I can prove it wrong.

  She nods and pulls away. Then her eyes widen as she takes a step back, looking me over from head to toe. “You’ve outgrown me.” My mother laughs and swipes moisture from beneath her eyes. “I don’t know when that happened.”

  “Me neither.”

  “I’m ready,” Landry calls from the living room, and I turn to see her wearing her pink coat over my black sweater and her own black jeans. “Well, that’s not true. But I’m ready to get this over with.”

  Mom grabs her purse from the coffee table and digs in it for her keys. Then she turns to Penn and me. “While we’re gone, why don’t you two decide what you want to do for dinner?”