Everybody Lies

by Emily Cavanagh

  I frown at him, as this is so rare. “No laundry?”

  “Not tonight. I just came by to say hi,” Connor says, and I want to believe him.

  “I had a meeting tonight. Second Tuesday of the month, remember?” I remind him.

  “Oh, right.”

  I gesture to the guitar beside him. “It’s nice to see you with your guitar. Were you playing?”

  “Um, yeah, a little, I guess.” He shrugs as if the question is difficult.

  “Will you play something for me?” I ask. He used to play for me some nights, shyly trying out songs that he’d spent hours practicing. It was the guitar he loved, but Connor has a beautiful voice too. Listening to him always gave me goosebumps, and not just because he was my son. He really was that good.

  “Nah. Not in the mood.” He runs his hands along the length of the leather case, smoothing down the pockets.

  “Please? Just one? How about ‘Have You Ever Seen the Rain’?” I smile, remembering how he used to play this song so frequently that I’d often get it stuck in my head, the lyrics looping through my brain all day long.

  “Not tonight, Mom, okay?” He looks so tired and I feel guilty for hounding him.

  “Okay, sorry,” I relent.

  “Where’s Dad?” We haven’t told Connor that Jack’s moved out. I know we’ll have to tell him at some point, but this doesn’t seem like the right time. I’m probably being paranoid, but it sounds like there’s a challenge in his voice.

  “Late shift,” I answer.

  “Right,” he says, his eyes narrowed. For a moment, I think he’s going to say more, but he doesn’t. “I should get going. It’s late.”

  “I thought you came by to say hello.” I hate the pleading note in my voice, how desperate I am for him to stay a little longer.

  “Yeah, well.” He stands up, putting the guitar into the closet and closing the door. “It’s getting late.”

  “Not that late. Come on, I’ll make you a sandwich. You look like you haven’t had a real meal in weeks. Stay for a little while.” I turn and head down the stairs, and he follows me without argument.

  In the kitchen I take out ham and cheese, mustard and mayonnaise. I’m glad I bought the wholegrain bread from the bakery in Osprey that Connor likes, and I cut two thick slices for the sandwich, placing a dill pickle on the side of the plate. There’s a carton of lemonade in the fridge, and I pour a tall glass, presenting the meal to him. He attacks the food appreciatively, as if he hasn’t actually eaten in weeks, though I know he gets a free meal every shift at Moby Dick’s. I pour myself a glass of juice and sit down beside him at the counter.

  “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  “Okay. Just busy.” He takes a gulp of lemonade, puts the glass down and picks the sandwich back up. “Work. You know.”

  “How is work?” I ask. Because Connor works in the kitchen he isn’t dependent on tips like the waitstaff, but in the slower months his hours get cut. It’s hard to make a living on Great Rock at this time of year.

  “It’s fine. Pretty slow, but it’s February. Hopefully things will pick up in March.” February is the cruelest month on the Island. The bright bustle of the holidays is over and most of the shops are closed. The winter weather is raw and unforgiving; the dampness of the sea and ice gets into your bones. It’s during February that I most often imagine leaving Great Rock, but then spring finally rolls around, muddy and green and suddenly blooming with possibility, and I forget how much I wanted to leave.

  “Have you been playing music much? You’d talked about trying to get some gigs lined up.” This was months ago, over the summer actually, at the wedding of one of Jack’s cousins. We were at the same table, picking at the vanilla crème cake, watching the couples on the dance floor. Most of the time Jack is too stiff and self-conscious to dance so I’ve resigned myself to watching other people at events like this. Connor loves to dance, but his arm was still in a sling from a recent surgery. He made a passing comment about looking into doing some event work, and he hasn’t mentioned it since, but I’ve latched onto it.

  Something flashes across his face—annoyance, anger, I’m not sure which. This is new, his irritation with me, the way he’s quick to snap or bristle. Connor and I have always been easy and gentle with each other, and I’m not sure where this late adolescence is coming from, how I have suddenly become the bad guy. It’s a role I’m used to Jack playing, but not one I know well. “I’m not in a band right now. I’ve got no one to play with. People don’t hire just a guitar player,” Connor points out.

  I pull a paper towel from the rack and hand it to him. He swipes his face with it and then returns to the sandwich. “Have you looked into Berklee anymore? If you were in music school, it would be so easy to find people to play with. Just because you didn’t get in the first time doesn’t mean you can’t reapply.” The words come out all in a rush because I know it’s just moments before he’ll become outwardly annoyed.

  “The application deadline passed.” He rises from the chair and brings his plate and glass to the dishwasher.

  “Why didn’t you apply? You said you’d think about it.”

  “I did think about it.” His back is to me as he loads his dishes. “And I decided I didn’t want to be in some dumb music school with a bunch of whiny losers all desperate to become the next big thing who will probably just end up teaching band in some crappy high school. No thanks.” He slams the dishwasher shut. He sounds so cynical. I get up and stand beside him. It’s all I can do not to hold his face in my hands.

  “Honey, you know that’s not true. You’d love it there. You’re so talented.” He rolls his eyes. “It’s true. And even if you don’t want to go to Berklee, that doesn’t mean you can’t go somewhere else. Maybe not even to study music. There’s so much you could do. You just need to put in an application.”

  “God, Mom, can’t you ever just give it a rest?” Here it comes, the anger I knew was brewing. I do reach for him now, holding my hand against the roughness of his cheek. He won’t meet my eyes.

  “Sweetheart, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” His voice is flat, tired, and devoid of emotion. Sometimes I wish Connor were a girl, an angsty emotional girl who would cry and throw herself dramatically on the bed when she was upset. At least girls aren’t impenetrable. Though maybe that isn’t true either. Maybe all children reach an age when they become unknowable to their parents, the easy transparency of childhood lost behind the opaque glass of adolescence and adulthood.

  “You can talk to me. If you want to. Or your father. You know we’re here for you.” Though technically, Jack isn’t here for either of us right now.

  “Sure,” he says bitterly, and then, softening a little, “I’m okay, Mom. Really.” He meets my eyes. Connor is one of those boys blessed with the long lashes that girls wish for, but the skin of his eyelids is oily, purple half-moons beneath his eyes, and he has a musty unwashed smell that makes me step back.

  “So Dad’s at work?” Connor asks, even though I already told him this.

  “Yup. Late shift again.”

  “Is everything okay? Is Dad all right?” he asks. For a moment, I wonder if maybe he knows about us. We have to tell him soon—it’s not fair to keep this from him—but I still don’t know what to say. I realize I have no idea how he’ll react.

  “Of course, he’s fine. Why do you ask?”

  “I heard about the girl who was killed. The one they found on the beach,” Connor says. As if young women are killed all the time on Great Rock and he needs to specify which one he’s talking about.

  “Oh, that. Yes, it’s terrible. It’s hard to believe,” I say. I suppose everyone who lives in a small town thinks that they’re immune from this kind of violence, but it feels even more unlikely in a place like Great Rock where everyone knows each other and is connected in some way. This is what makes it even more frightening to think about, the likelihood that this isn’t some random crime, the possibility tha
t someone we know may be responsible.

  “Do they have any suspects?” Connor asks.

  “As if I would know,” I say, and Connor cracks a smile, knowing that Jack would never confide in me about work. I feel guilty making a joke about this, but I need to lighten the mood. “Don’t worry about your father. He’ll be fine.” He always is, I want to add but don’t. It’s true though; Jack is always fine, with or without me, and it’s this new awareness that has suddenly become visible, as if someone has shone a flashlight in a dark corner of the room.

  “I’m going to go home. Get some sleep,” Connor says.

  “Why don’t you just stay here?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “Why not?” I’m suddenly desperate for him to spend the night, though I realize this might mean telling him about Jack and why he’s still not home by tomorrow. “You can sleep in, and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning. There are clean sheets on your bed.”

  He gives me a half-smile. “Okay, you win. I’m too tired to argue.”

  I beam at him. “Good. Let’s go up.”

  He follows me up the stairs and says goodnight, heading into his room and closing the door. I get into my own bed and read for a few minutes, knowing I won’t be able to fall asleep just yet.

  When Connor was a young boy, I remember how tired I was by the end of the day. A full shift at the library and then scooping him up from daycare, struggling through the evening hours of dinner prep and bath time, the endless bedtime rituals, doing much of it on my own, since Jack often didn’t get home till later in the evening. Those days, I’d go to bed early, and sleep would come quickly. But I remember mapping out where in the house Connor and Jack were, Jack downstairs watching TV and Connor breathing softly across the hall, the major constellations in my world. I felt such comfort in those moments, knowing that the three of us were safe and warm in our home, all that love wrapped up tight in such a small sacred space.

  I feel the same way tonight, knowing that for the moment Connor is just across the hall, safe, out of harm’s way.

  When I leave for work the next morning, Connor is still sleeping. I had hoped he’d wake up before I left and we could have breakfast together, but at eight forty-five his door is still shut, and I need to get to work. I put on a full pot of coffee and set a loaf of bread and jam on the counter.

  When I get home this afternoon, Connor is long gone, though his dirty dishes are still in the sink and the counter is littered with crumbs. I clean up the kitchen and then go upstairs to change so I can take Champ for a walk. This morning I unpacked a new novel that’s been in all the book reviews, and I’m eager to finish my chores so I can start it.

  At the top of the stairs, I pause. Connor’s door is closed, though I usually leave it open, just to keep the air circulating so it doesn’t get a stagnant smell. I stand for a moment before knocking, even though I know Connor’s been gone for hours. Still, I hesitate before turning the handle.

  He moved out six months ago, but I haven’t done much to convert it into a guest room. Navy blue drapes block out the light so he could sleep late on weekends without the sun waking him. The summer he was a junior, Connor painted the walls black and the ceiling and floor red. Between the walls and the curtains, the room has the feeling of a cave. There’s a lot I’d need to do in order to make it a guest room.

  The bed is unmade, and I feel a flicker of annoyance. Connor has always been a slob. When he lived at home, his things were everywhere—socks on the stairs, shoes tossed sideways on the living room floor, a dirty hockey jersey thrown over the back of a chair. It was a constant argument between him and Jack, and a source of friction between Jack and me, as he blamed me for allowing Connor’s slovenly ways to persist. The drawers are askew and the unmade bed is piled with clothes. I stand in the doorway and debate going inside.

  I’ve never gone digging through either Connor or Jack’s things. I’ve never checked the search history on the computer or snooped on emails or texts. Then again, it occurs to me now, maybe I’ve never before felt truly suspicious.

  What I haven’t told Evvy is that the right before Jack moved out, I found a bag of pills in the pocket of Connor’s pants. It was one of the rare nights when Connor came by for dinner, though it was a quiet, stilted meal, none of us talking much. Moving in with Keith had felt like Connor’s admission that this was all he was ever going to do, and everything that came out of my mouth was dripping with my own disappointment. Connor was sullen and defensive, though he is often like that in Jack’s presence. Jack was even quieter than usual, and he seemed to be watching Connor carefully, his eyes tracking every bite of steak, every sip of beer.

  After dinner Connor went up to his bedroom to wait for his laundry to finish, and I did the dishes. When his first load of washing was done, I went to put in the second load. Even though he was twenty-one, I couldn’t resist mothering him. I emptied the dirty items into the washing machine, checking the pockets as I always do to make sure there’s not a stray pen or forgotten dollar bill. My fingers closed around a plastic baggie. When I pulled it out, I saw there were a few pills in it.

  “What’s that?” Jack asked from the kitchen.

  “Some pills,” I said. I wasn’t alarmed yet. I thought of all the times I’d stuck an extra Advil in my pocket when I had a headache, or an allergy pill in the springtime. Yet I also knew these weren’t Advil or Claritin.

  “Let me see,” Jack said, stepping into the mudroom and plucking the bag from my hand. He cursed under his breath.

  “What are they?” I asked, taking a step closer. Jack didn’t answer, instead going back into the kitchen.

  “Connor!” he yelled, loud enough that Champ scrambled to his feet.

  “What is it? What are they?” I asked, but Jack was already at the staircase calling for Connor to get down here.

  Connor slouched down the stairs. “What?” His jeans hung from his hips, his sweatshirt swimming on his skinny frame.

  Jack held the bag up, inches from Connor’s face, his fist nearly trembling in rage. “What is this?”

  Connor looked at the bag squeezed in his father’s hand and then at me. “What the hell? Now you go digging through my stuff? They’re just some stupid pills for my shoulder.”

  The previous May, Connor had surgery on his shoulder. He’d torn his rotator cuff during a hockey game in high school, and it had never healed properly. The surgery was meant to repair the damage. The recovery was hard. He was laid up in bed for weeks, his arm in a sling. He had trouble sleeping at night because of the pain and it was a while before he could go back to work. The surgery was months ago. I hadn’t realized he was still taking medication.

  “Where’d you get them?” Jack barked.

  “Where do you think? From a doctor.” The bravado in his voice didn’t match his expression.

  “Bullshit. You had that surgery months ago.”

  “Well, it still hurts, all right? It still really hurts.” Connor leaned against the wall and his hand came up to rub his shoulder in a way I suddenly recognized as habit.

  Jack shook his head, but the anger was draining away. “Do you know what this stuff can do to you? Do you know how addictive it is?”

  “I’m okay, Dad,” Connor said. “It just needs to heal. I just need the pills until it gets better.”

  “You need to go back to the doctor,” I said, speaking up for the first time since they started fighting. “Maybe you need more physical therapy.”

  “Maybe,” Connor said, but I knew he was only saying it to placate me.

  “You need to stop taking this junk, you hear me?” Jack said, shoving the pills in the pocket of his own pants. “They’re dangerous.”

  Connor nodded. “Yeah, sure. I’ll talk to the doctor.” He looked down at his stockinged feet and then back up at Jack. “I’m sorry, okay?”

  Jack grabbed him then, pulling Connor in for a rare hug. His hand palmed Connor’s head, and I blinked back tears at this affection, for I know
it doesn’t come naturally to Jack.

  Connor left soon after, without the pills or any further argument, but as soon as the door closed behind him, Jack turned to me.

  “This is serious. Those pills are dangerous,” Jack said.

  “They’re for his shoulder. It’s not as if he’s a drug addict,” I said.

  “Do you know how many people start on these pills for pain and then get addicted? At a certain point, the doctor cuts them off and they buy it on the street, but then that gets too expensive. That’s when they start doing heroin.”

  “Heroin?” I practically spat the word at him. “What are you talking about? No one’s doing heroin.”

  He looked at me as if he’d expected me to say something like this.

  “Do you have any idea how many kids on this island are doing drugs? How many kids get brought in every week for possession or dealing or overdosing? I’m not talking about marijuana. I’m talking about heroin.”

  I did know, though not as well as Jack. For the past couple of years he’d been talking about the drugs on Great Rock, the spike in arrests for possession or dealing, the increase in overdoses. It’s a problem I recognized on an abstract level, but not one I’d spent much time considering on a personal one.

  “This is why he shouldn’t be here,” I said, an old argument colliding with this new one.

  “What was I supposed to do? Kick him out of the house? Force him to leave the island?” Jack said.

  “Yes.” I felt the frustration of the last three years rising up inside me, a hot bubbling brew ready to spill over. “That’s exactly what you should have done. If you’d told him it was important, he would have done it.”

  “He applied to college. He didn’t get in.”

  “One school,” I cried. “Who the hell applies to only one school? You should have made him apply to more.”

  “Why was that my job?”

  “Because you’re his father, Jack. He does whatever you ask. You should have made him,” I said. I heard the unfairness in this, the way I ceded all of the important things to Jack and then resented him when he didn’t do what I’d hoped.