“It’s Christmas Eve. Can we have dumplings and egg rolls, like we used to?” Landry asks.
That was Dad’s idea, several years ago. He said that by the time the holidays were over, everyone would be sick of turkey and ham and dressing, and that we should just pick up Chinese takeout for Christmas Eve. So we’ve done that every year since. Even last year, when he was “sick.”
Mom digs through her purse. “I don’t have any cash.”
“It’s on me,” Penn tells her. “I have a little left from my last paycheck.”
“Thank you.” Mom puts one hand on the side of his face and smiles up at him.
He outgrew her too. Years ago.
TWENTY
While Landry and Mom are gone, I head into my room to finish wrapping my presents. Landry’s appointment takes longer than mine did, and by the time Mom’s car pulls into the driveway, Penn and I are on the couch, pretending to pay attention to that Christmas movie that plays over and over every year. The one with the little blond boy in the pink bunny suit.
I hear the car door slam, and a second later, the front door opens on a frigid gust of wind. Landry stomps inside without a word and heads straight for her room.
“She’s fine,” Mom says as she closes the door. “Physically, anyway. She has a follow-up with Dr. Baker in a month and a referral for counseling.” She crosses into the kitchen and sets her purse on the counter, then pulls off her coat. “You haven’t gone for food yet, have you?”
“No, we didn’t want it to get cold,” Penn says as we follow her into the kitchen.
“Okay, good. We’re going to need to wait a couple of hours, I think.”
“Wait for what?” I ask.
Instead of answering, my mother digs her phone from her pocket and makes a call. After three rings, an unfamiliar voice answers. “Hello?”
“Hello. Mrs. Anderson?” My mother’s frown lines are deeper than I’ve ever seen them.
“Yes?” the other voice says.
“This is Julie Bergen. I got your phone number from my daughter, Landry. I’m not sure if you know her, but she’s a classmate of your son Fletcher.”
“Yes, of course, Landry’s been over here several times,” Mrs. Anderson says, and my mother looks like she’s just been slapped in the face by this new bit of information. “She’s a sweetheart. What . . . ? Is there something I can do for you, Mrs. Bergen? It’s Christmas, and we’re about to—”
“I’m sorry to bother you on the holiday. Please understand that I wouldn’t be calling if this were not very important. That said, would it be possible for you and your husband to bring Fletcher over. We . . . Well, we really need to speak to all three of you.”
“Right now? Are you serious?” Mrs. Anderson says. “We were about to sit down to dinner. What is this about?”
“I—I would really rather discuss this in person, and I think you’ll understand why . . .”
I head into the living room and fold up the snowman-themed throw blanket, and when I turn off the television, I hear quiet sobs echoing from down the hall. I follow them to Landry’s room, where I hesitate for a second before knocking.
The sign on her door rattles. She sniffles from inside. “Go away.”
Instead, I open the door. “Hey.”
Landry is lying facedown on her bed, still wearing her coat and shoes. “I said go away,” she mumbles into her rumpled comforter.
“And I can’t do that, because I love you.” And because this is my fault, at least a little.
Please watch your sister.
Landry and I shared a room for years. We aren’t just siblings; we’re sisters. If there was anyone she would have listened to about sex, it was me.
If there was anyone she should have felt comfortable confiding in . . . Anyone who should have noticed the changes in her . . .
“Beckett. Get out.” Finally Landry sits up to show me her tear-streaked face.
“Nope. Give me your coat.”
She hesitates for a second, then she shrugs out of her pink coat and kicks off her sneakers.
I toss her coat over the back of the only chair in the room, then I sink into it. “It’s going to be okay. I know it feels like it won’t be, right now, but it will.”
“How do you know?”
Fair point. For the first time, what she’s going through isn’t something I’ve already done. I have no experience-based wisdom to impart. And while life has taught me many lessons over the past year, “it’s going to be okay” has not been among them.
“Mom called the Andersons?” Landry asks when I can’t offer a meaningful follow-up to my pointless platitude.
“Yeah. I think they’re coming over.”
“Oh my god, why?” Landry throws herself facedown onto her pillow. “Why does she have to tell them? It’s all over now. Why can’t she just let this go away?”
I hesitate, again, because that’s another fair question. “Don’t you think they have a right to know?” I ask at last.
Landry sits up, her brows deeply furrowed. “No! Why would they have that right? It’s my body. It was my baby. My mistakes. My consequences. I would have had to tell everyone if the baby had lived, but she didn’t, and now . . .” Fresh tears slide down my sister’s cheeks. “How am I ever supposed to face Fletcher after this?”
“Why wouldn’t you be able to face him? Landry, this is a mistake and a tragedy that you’re both responsible for. Don’t you think he should share that responsibility? Don’t you think he should know that his actions had consequences?”
“I guess. But, I mean, he didn’t lie. He didn’t hide a pregnancy. He didn’t leave his baby in the locker room . . .”
“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t share—”
The doorbell rings, and Landry jumps. Her eyes widen, and her hands begin to shake. “I can’t do it. I can’t tell him. I can’t look at his parents and tell them what I did. That it’s my fault they never got a chance to see their grandchild. I—”
“Yes, you can.” My entire body aches in sympathy for her. Dragging her into the living room—into this confession—feels like the opposite of watching out for her. But Lullaby Doe doesn’t belong to just her anymore. In fact, that was never really true in the first place. “Come on. Mom, Penn, and I will be right here with you.” I give her my hand, and she takes it as she climbs out of the bed.
I wrap my arms around her trembling shoulders as I lead her down the hall.
Mom lets the Andersons in as we step into the living room. Either Fletcher is an only child or they’ve left his siblings at home, because it’s just him and his parents. Thank goodness.
His mother and father look very, very worried about whatever has earned them this call on Christmas Eve, but Fletcher looks terrified. He steps over the threshold with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up to his ears beneath his thick gray coat. His gaze is on the floor, then he finally looks up, and his eyes widen when he sees Landry’s tearstained face.
“Mrs. Bergen.” Mr. Anderson closes our front door at his back, and for once I decide not to comment on her title. My mom isn’t a cop tonight. “Maybe you should just tell us what this is about.”
“Yes.” Mom rubs her palms on the front of her jeans. “Would you like to sit?”
Mrs. Anderson starts toward the sofa, but then her husband clears his throat pointedly. “We’re fine,” he says, while Fletcher scuffs the toe of his left sneaker in our carpet. “What’s going on?”
My mother pulls Landry into a side hug, keeping her arm protectively around my sister’s waist. “Well, there’s no easy way to start this conversation. But I assume you’ve all heard about Lullaby Doe, the baby found at the high school.”
“Of course. But what—?” Mrs. Anderson’s hands fly up to cover her mouth and nose, while her gaze flicks between my sister and her son. “No . . .”
Fletcher looks up again, and it’s clear from his confused frown that he hasn’t made the connection. “Wait, what? I thought .
. .”
I don’t know what he thought. That he was in trouble for not finishing the extra credit project? Or maybe that my mother found out, seven months late, that he and Landry had sex. Maybe he thought this was going to be some kind of a middle-school abstinence intervention.
Landry bursts into fresh, quiet tears, and a look of utter shock washes over Fletcher.
“Oh my god,” Mrs. Anderson whispers.
“What did you do?” Mr. Anderson grabs Fletcher’s arm and practically jerks him off his feet. “What the hell did you do?”
“He didn’t know,” my mother insists, letting go of Landry so she can hold both hands out, deescalating the situation out of habit, evidently. “Landry was afraid to tell anyone until this afternoon. But now that we know, I suggest we all just sit down and—”
The doorbell rings again, and my mother frowns with a glance out the window, where there’s just enough light left in the sky for her to see whoever has pulled up in front of our house. “Beckett.” She gestures for me to answer the door. “Take it to your room, please.”
I don’t understand until I open the door and see Jake standing there. “What are you doing here?” I whisper, well aware that everyone’s staring at us now.
“Beckett,” my mother repeats.
I glance from Landry’s tear-filled eyes to Jake’s bewildered expression, then back. “Just go,” my sister says. So I reluctantly grab Jake’s arm and haul him inside, then all the way to my room. I don’t want to leave Landry, but Penn and Mom are both there for her, and Jake’s . . .
I don’t know what Jake’s doing here.
“What’s wrong?” I ask as I close my bedroom door.
“That’s what I was going to ask you. You’re not answering your phone. I was worried. Because of the death threats.”
“My . . . ?” I pat my back pocket and find it empty. Because my phone is lying on my bed, where I must have left it when I was wrapping presents. I pick it up and see seven messages and two missed calls from Jake. “Sorry. We’re having a rough day. But I’m fine.”
“What’s going on? Why are the Andersons here on Christmas Eve?” he asks as he sinks onto the end of my bed.
“You know the Andersons?” They don’t have any kids in high school. Yet.
He shrugs. “They go to my church.”
Of course they do. But I don’t know how to answer his question. It’s not my place to tell him—
“Was Landry crying?” He glances toward the living room, as if he can see through the wall. “Still, or again?”
“Still, mostly. The funeral hit her hard.” Which he knows, because he was there for her breakdown.
“Is she okay? What’s . . . ?” Jake asks, and I can only watch in horror as understanding washes over his features. He stands. “Oh my god. It’s her baby? Not your dad’s?”
“Jake—”
“I left my duffel here.” He paces across my room, then suddenly he turns back to look at me, still putting the pieces together. “And the shirt. Was it Penn’s?”
“Yes. She just told us all this after the funeral. We’re still processing.”
“Landry and Fletcher Anderson?” His voice drops into a conspiratorial whisper. “They’re still in middle school!”
“I know—”
“What the hell was she even doing at the high school? This is crazy. This is . . .” His suddenly somber focus narrows on me. “This is so sad.”
“Yeah.” I pull him back down onto the edge of the bed. “The Andersons are just now finding out, and this pretty much sucks for everyone. Her life is basically ruined, and that’s kind of my fault.”
“Wait, what?” Jake frowns as he takes my hand. “How is any of that your fault?”
I exhale, breathing through an overwhelming pressure mounting around me, as if the air in my room is starting to solidify. “We’ve heard all week long how Clifford failed both Lullaby Doe and her mother. I just said that to Sophia the other day. I told her that someone should have known. Someone should have seen what was going on. It turns out I’m that someone. I left Landry on her own when she was the most vulnerable, right after my dad died, and this is what happened.” I shrug miserably. “After that, I just kept not noticing. Not seeing what she was going through. Not asking the right questions. Not listening—not really listening—to the answers she did give.” I swallow past the raw, swollen feeling in my throat. “I had so many opportunities to help her, and I failed every single time.”
“No, Beck, this isn’t your fault. Landry also has a mother and a brother, and friends, and teachers, and—”
“And my mother should have been there. I know. But I was there, once things got back to ‘normal’ around here. I was usually the one picking her up from school and hanging out with her while she made dinner. I had every opportunity in the world to see what was going on. To help her. And I didn’t do it.” Tears burn the backs of my eyes. “And it’s not the first time.”
Jake frowns. “What are you talking about?”
I swipe at my eyes and look up at him. “Do you ever wish you could have a real-world do-over? That you could just, like, press rewind on life?”
If I could choose one superpower, that’s what it would be: the ability to undo a mistake. Screw flight or invisibility. I wish I could fix the things I’ve messed up. I wish I could just take it all ba—
Pain fires through my chest, and I pop up from the bed, rubbing at my sternum.
Whiskey on the end table.
Pill bottle wedged between the couch cushions.
“Beckett?”
“Something’s wrong,” I gasp, fighting to make my lungs expand. “I can’t get a deep breath.” And the harder I try, the more difficult breathing becomes. The more desperate I get to just make my lungs relax. To talk my rib cage out of this brutal lockdown.
“You’re okay.” Jake stands and pulls me into a hug as I gasp, sucking in short, sharp little breaths. “You are breathing. Just slow down and—”
Childproof cap on the carpet.
Dad, lying still on the floor.
“Something’s wrong!” My head is spinning, and the edges of my vision look dark and smudgy.
“I know. You’re having a panic attack. This happened after your father died. Remember? We were lying in your bed, and you woke up from a nightmare, and you said you felt like your whole body was in a vise. No, wait, you said something about a full-body corset.”
I do remember that. The full-body corset. That’s how I feel now too. Like there’s something constricting my lungs. My entire chest.
“Take it slow.” Jake rubs one hand up and down my back while I clutch at his sweater, my face pressed into his shoulder. While I suck in breath after breath through the loose weave. “In and out. You’re fine.”
I close my eyes and fight to slow everything down. To breathe evenly, despite the panicked insistence from my brain that I suck in as much air as possible, as quickly as possible. And gradually, the world returns to normal. The room steadies around me. The dark smudges fade.
My chest still feels bruised, as if it’s had to work too hard for too long. But he’s right. I’m fine.
Fact-Check Rating: Nothing could be further from the truth.
“Come sit.” Jake leads me back to my bed, where he settles next to me. And for a couple of minutes, we just sit there, his arm around my waist. My head on his shoulder. “Can you tell me what you were talking about?” he says at last, whispering into my hair. “Are you ready to let it out?”
“I saw the pills.” Saying the words feels like jumping off a cliff, waiting to feel my body smash on the rocks.
Telling the truth is supposed to feel good, isn’t it? Liberating?
This doesn’t feel like that at all.
“What pills? Beckett, what are you talking about?”
“The night my dad died. I saw the pills before I went to bed. I saw the bottle. I knew what they were, and I knew he wasn’t supposed to have them. But I didn’t do anythin
g. I didn’t say anything. I could have grabbed them and flushed them. I could have told my mom. I could have actually called my dad on his bullshit, right to his face. Any of that could have changed that entire night. I could have saved his life, Jake.”
He’s already shaking his head. “No, you—”
“But I was a coward. I was afraid that if I said anything, I’d be starting another fight between him and my mom. Or that Landry would hear, and she’d figure out he was using. Or that he would . . . that he would be mad at me. I was afraid of making things worse. So I did nothing. And two hours later, I woke up and found him dead on the floor.”
Jake blinks at me. He looks really, really worried. “Beck, that doesn’t make it your—”
“Don’t. Don’t say it’s not my fault. I didn’t get the Oxy for him. I didn’t get him hooked. I didn’t put the damn pills in his mouth, and I didn’t make him wash them down with whiskey. I know all of that. I’m not absolving my father for what he did. But he needed help, and I had a chance to help him. But I didn’t do it. Just like with Landry.”
Jake takes me by both arms and looks right into my eyes. “Beckett, he was your father. He was a firefighter and a soldier. You could live that night over and over for the next year and it still wouldn’t be your fault for not telling a grown-ass adult how to live his own life. That’s on him.”
“But—”
“Listen to me. Please. Landry’s a kid, and a lot of people should have seen what was going on with her. Including you. Including me—I’ve spent a lot of time here too this year. Hell, I was probably the distraction that kept you from noticing what was going on with her. But your father is another issue entirely. You were not in control of his decisions. You’re not in control of anyone else’s choices, and you can’t blame yourself for failing to prevent an adult’s mistakes.
“You can be there for people when they ask for help, but you can’t make them ask, Beckett. You can’t make them accept help they don’t want. And you can’t blame yourself for not being able to read minds. To see the future. Down that path lies madness.” His expression softens into the beginnings of a grin. “And panic attacks.”
Every Single Lie Page 25
