Everybody Lies

by Emily Cavanagh

  He holds my face gently in his hands, such an intimate and tender gesture, like he’s guarding something fragile. My face is damp with tears, partly still about my worry for Connor, but more because I’ve forgotten that I missed him, so focused on staying strong and keeping it together that I’ve only let myself feel anger toward Jack, all the while pushing down the sadness and loss.

  His hands roam the length of my body, his strong familiar fingers working their way under my sweater and bra. The light is bright above us and though the curtains are drawn, I worry about one of our neighbors driving home and seeing us making out on the couch like teenagers. Besides, I don’t just want sex. I want to feel the warmth and safety of our bed, the comfort of Jack’s arms around me in the dark.

  “Come upstairs,” I whisper, pulling away. He hesitates, and I can’t help but be hurt by this. The twinge of hurt is the reminder that despite this moment, the trouble between us isn’t over, even if this may be the first step back toward each other. Yet there’s still so much unsaid that aches just below the surface.

  He pushes himself up and pulls me to standing. I follow him, my stockinged feet quiet as Jack’s heavy boots thud against the stairs. Connor’s bedroom door is open and I feel a pang, a tugging of despair that I push aside for the moment as I follow Jack into our bedroom. He closes the door behind us.

  30

  Evvy

  I awake from an Ambien-induced night that leaves me dry-mouthed and headachy. When I finally venture downstairs to make coffee, Daisy is in the kitchen bowed over a textbook. She looks up from her reading.

  “Morning. Did you sleep okay? Do you feel better today?” she asks. I shrug, not wanting to tell her that the type of rest I had last night barely restores the body, much less the mind. “Do you want me to make you something? I was about to make some eggs.” I’m not hungry, but she looks so hopeful.

  “Thanks, honey,” I manage to get out. I slump into the empty chair beside her and she rises to pull out eggs and toast. There are times when it feels like Daisy is the adult and I am the child. She pours me a cup of coffee and then adds just the right amount of cream. I sip it and think about what needs to be done today. Call the lawyer, though I’m not sure there’s anything I can do. I have a dinner this weekend that I need to think about, a private party at a house in Egret. I’ve already planned the menu, but I’ll need to buy the ingredients at some point. Visit Ian? I know I should, that I must, but the idea of venturing into the dank town jail makes my skin crawl. I’m not cut out for this.

  “So, I was thinking of going away for the weekend.” Daisy interrupts my train of thought, and it takes me a moment to process her words.

  “What? Where are you going?”

  She focuses intently on the bowl of eggs she’s stirring. “Boston. With a friend.”

  “This weekend? With all that’s going on?” I can’t help but be hurt.

  “Tomorrow’s my birthday. My twenty-first,” she adds, in case I’ve forgotten. Which I have. Not exactly forgotten, but it’s slipped my mind with everything that’s happened over the past few days.

  “I know, I just didn’t realize you were thinking about going away. You didn’t say anything before. And the timing isn’t exactly great.”

  She pauses, the fork still in the egg yolk. “I won’t go if you don’t want me to.” She looks so disappointed, though I sense her withholding her sadness for my benefit.

  “Who are you going with?” I ask.

  She begins to stir the eggs again, too quickly, and some yolk spills over onto the counter. “This guy, Todd, that I’ve been hanging out with recently. You remember him. Molly Rankin’s brother?” I recall our argument the other night when she tried to tell me about him.

  “You’ve been seeing him?” I try to sound pleased. I am pleased, relieved that it’s not Connor she’s been spending her nights with. Yet working up enthusiasm for anything right now is more than I have energy for. I reach out to still her spinning hand. “I think you’ve whipped those eggs enough.”

  She drops the fork and pulls out a frying pan, depressing the button on the toaster. She’s nothing if not efficient, this daughter of mine. “He lives in Boston and he invited me to come for the weekend. I was thinking of leaving this afternoon to avoid the storm.”

  “Today? It’s short notice to get a ferry reservation for the car.”

  “I’m going to take the bus.”

  “Oh.”

  She’s got it all figured out, and while this shouldn’t bother me, it does. Is it wrong of me to want her here? This is not a good week for her to be away from me. The eggs sizzle in the pan and she scrapes them with a wooden spoon onto a plate in front of me. They turn my stomach, but I manage to swallow a forkful.

  “I won’t go if you don’t want me to,” she says again.

  This time I hear the undercurrent of annoyance. I know she feels she’s entitled to this, that living here with me and Ian is sucking her dry of opportunity. She thinks she deserves more, that better things are out there waiting for her, if only we could get out of her way, or at least clear the path for her. When I was Daisy’s age my days were spent changing diapers and trying not to lose my mind. It didn’t occur to me that anything more was an option. I know I should be proud of Daisy for how hard she’s worked to carve out a future for herself, but I can’t help but feel as if she’s thumbing her nose at the choices I’ve made over the years. Choices I didn’t even realize I was making.

  Yet she’s spent so much of her life in the shade of Serena’s death. It’s not fair of me to keep her from what she really wants because I’m afraid. If I don’t let her go, one day she will run from me.

  “You should go,” I say.

  “Really?” Her face lights up with such joy that I’m ashamed to have considered anything else. She sits down beside me and begins to eat, shoveling the eggs into her mouth.

  “I’ll be fine. Go, have fun. You deserve it.” I hate that expression. What does it actually mean? What do any of us actually deserve? I take a bite of toast, trying not to choke on the bitterness inside me.

  “Thanks, Mom.” Her cheeks are pink and now she’s all smiles. “Dad said he’d swing by to check on you.”

  “When did you see your father?”

  “Yesterday. I stopped by his house. I’ll probably take the noon boat.” Daisy brings her empty plate to the sink and refills her coffee.

  “Okay.” The clock on the stove says it’s almost nine.

  “You and Paul have the dinner this weekend under control, right?” she asks.

  “Sure.” I try to take another bite of toast, but I’m certain my stomach won’t tolerate it. I feel so weary at the prospect of having to do anything today. All I want to do is press my cheek against the soft fabric of my pillow and sleep. Daisy must see something in my eyes because she sits back down at the table.

  “Mom. Are you okay? Really?”

  I force a smile. “I’m fine, hon.”

  “You don’t seem fine.”

  She’s so pretty, this baby girl of mine. Shiny blond hair and blue eyes, a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Serena was pretty too, but it was a harder beauty. More angles and edges. She had the same blond hair but her eyes were gray, and her smile didn’t come as easily as Daisy’s does. I was not the best mother to either of them, but Serena bore the brunt of it. I often wonder what she would be like if she were still alive. On good days, I imagine her growing out of her tumultuous temperament, her moods smoothing as she got older, a typical teenager with a summer job at one of the boutiques in Osprey, standing behind the cash register in a flowy sundress and sandals. On bad days, I imagine her coming to a different end, at twenty, or twenty-two, or twenty-five, her ashen face staring at nothing. Serena inherited my demons. Who knows how she would have dealt with them as an adult?

  I force myself to focus on Daisy, the daughter I still have, the child who does her best to look after me even when we rub each other raw. I reach for her hand, aware o
f how freckled and lined mine looks next to her pale smooth one.

  “It’s a difficult time. With Ian. I’m worried about him and what’s going to happen. But I’m okay,” I say. Daisy’s worried I’m going down the rabbit hole again, like I did when Serena died, and while part of me wants to dive head first back into that bottomless black place where nothing else mattered, I know I can’t. Not again. And not for Ian. I’m not willing to plumb those depths for him. I don’t know what this says about our relationship, but I know it’s true. And now, promising Daisy that I’ll be okay, I know I will be because I won’t do that to her again.

  She gives me a cautious smile and leans in to hug me. I breathe in the smell of her perfume, something fruity and sweet that nearly brings me to my knees because Daisy’s hugs are so rare and unexpected. When she pulls back, I blink quickly so she won’t see the tears.

  “I need to finish this chapter before I go.” She tips her head at the textbook. “And then I need to pack. I have no idea what to bring.” She runs her hand through her hair, likely envisioning how she’ll look for Todd.

  “You like him, don’t you?” I say, taking a sip of coffee.

  She bites her lip then gives a reluctant nod.

  There are so many things I could say, about how he lives too far away, his age, his money, the world he comes from and how different it is from ours, all the reasons why it might not work. I don’t say a single one of them. “I liked him the summer he worked for me. He was nice.” Daisy beams. “So what are you going to do in Boston?”

  “I don’t know. Go to a bar, I guess. Isn’t that what you do on your twenty-first birthday?”

  I remember then the gift I have tucked away. I stand up quickly, nearly spilling my coffee. “I have a birthday present for you. Stay here.” Daisy gives me a curious smile and I hurry upstairs to find the envelope in my nightstand drawer. I clutch it for a moment, uncertain suddenly if I want to give it to her, if I might need it now. But I’ve already told her about it, so there’s no going back.

  I return downstairs and hand her the envelope. “I’m sorry there’s no card. I meant to get one this week and then…” I wave my hand, letting her fill in the gaps.

  She opens the envelope and I feel a thrill of pleasure at her look of surprise. Her fingers flutter the hundred-dollar bills, all fifteen of them. “Oh my God. Mom.”

  “It’s for school. Or you can use it for the commute or textbooks. Whatever will help with the expenses. I know it probably won’t go very far, but I hope it will at least help with a course or two.” I realize I don’t even know how much a class costs or how many more she has to take. I put those dollars away slowly, a little bit here and there, over the past six months. With two incomes, it wasn’t as hard as I expected, though I wonder if it will be the last time I will have enough left over to be able to help her. I should have started earlier.

  “Mom. Thank you.” She’s looking at me with an expression of tender disbelief. “Really. Thank you so much. This means a lot.”

  “You’re welcome. I know how hard you’ve been working and how tough it’s been on you. I’m proud of you, Daze. I’m really proud of you.” I ruffle my fingers through her smooth blond hair, tuck a lock behind her ear. She lets me, though I sense she’s holding herself in place for my benefit. I drop my hand. “You better go pack.”

  “Okay. Thank you, Mom. Really.” She folds the envelope in half and tucks it into the back pocket of her jeans. I hope she has enough sense to deposit it soon or to at least put it somewhere safe till she has a chance to go to the bank, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Maybe we can have a little birthday dinner when I get back? We could go out or just cook here?” Daisy says.

  “I’d love that, sweetheart.” I give her a gentle push toward the stairs. “Now go. Get ready for your weekend away.”

  31

  Daisy

  When the bus arrives in Boston, I trudge down the steps and into the bustle of South Station. For a moment, I scan the busy terminal, imagining Todd forgetting about me; maybe the whole thing is a mistake. Then I spot him, rising from a bench, a Starbucks cup in hand, which he drops in the trash. He wraps me in an embrace and I lean into the solid weight of his body.

  “You made it,” he murmurs into my hair. I close my eyes, feeling overwhelmed by how happy I am to see him. He bends to kiss me lightly on the mouth.

  “Let’s get out of here.” He picks up my duffel bag, throwing it over his shoulder and taking my hand. The station smells like burnt coffee and fast food. I follow Todd down a set of escalators and out into the city night. The sky is fading to a purple dusk. People clutch briefcases and messenger bags, eager to get home after a long workday. City buses pull over to pick up waiting passengers, their faces lit by the bright glow of their phones. The T chugs along the tracks like a giant green caterpillar. The air smells sharp and clean, like snowflakes waiting to fall. The night holds a sense of expectation. Though I’ve been to Boston many times, I always feel like an interloper from another land. The women we pass wear nicely cut wool coats, their heels clicking along the pavement. I glance down at my clothing—a heavy white sweater, old jeans, worn boots. Standing before my mirror in Great Rock, I felt comfortably fashionable, but now I feel like a dowdy farmer’s wife.

  A few blocks away, we arrive at his car. He pulls out and we’re quiet as he makes his way through the throng of downtown traffic, and I watch him expertly maneuver through the one-way streets, cars speeding past on either side of us. There are people on the sidewalks, darting out into the street to cross despite the green lights and flashing Do Not Walk signs. I can’t imagine navigating these busy roads, but Todd drives with ease, unfazed by the traffic or pedestrians.

  “I thought we could go back to my place for a little, get settled, and then go to the restaurant where I work for dinner. If that sounds okay to you?”

  “That sounds great.”

  Todd turns down a street of brick brownstones and drives slowly. Bare trees line the cobblestone sidewalks and old-fashioned lamplights illuminate the evening. Wrought-iron gates protect tiny patches of manicured greenery not large enough to be called yards. I don’t know much about Boston, but it’s clear the neighborhood is expensive. We round the block and turn down another similar street as Todd hunts for a parking spot. After several minutes of searching, he finally parallel parks in a space that leaves just a few inches on either side. I have no idea how he manages to expertly slide his car into such a tiny spot, but he does it in one try.

  We get out of the car and he takes my bag from the trunk, leading me away from the pretty street and back onto a main one.

  “I’m a few streets over. Finding a spot in this neighborhood is a nightmare.” We pass a coffee shop, an upscale restaurant, a small boutique that sells men’s shaving products. Finally Todd stops in front of a dingy pizza place. He unlocks a small side door, and we climb the stairs to the second floor of the building. The dimly lit hallway smells of fresh bread and cheese. Todd opens the door to an apartment, and I follow him inside. He flips on the light switch, dropping my bag on the floor by the doorway. “Here we go. Home sweet home.”

  I’ve never been in a studio apartment before. On Great Rock most people live in houses, though they might have to move out every spring to make way for the summer people. There are apartments above the shops and restaurants in town, but most have at least a couple bedrooms. My own bedroom still looks like it did when I was in high school; pink walls plastered with the fraying posters of boy bands I no longer listen to. No one comes in my bedroom anyway, so it doesn’t seem to matter that I keep forgetting to take them down.

  Todd’s apartment is not much bigger than my bedroom. Against the wall is a futon with an orange-and-red patterned quilt. There is a full bookcase, a television, a small table with two wooden chairs, and a spiky green plant in a large ceramic planter. I can see the entrance to a tiny kitchen and a closed door leading to what I assume is the bathroom. The clattering dishes and voices from
the restaurant below can be heard, despite the heavy Oriental rug that covers the hardwood floors. There are a few decorations—a large painting of a porch overlooking the ocean, a delicate blue pitcher, and a few framed photos sitting atop the bookcase. It’s spare and neat, each item purposeful and carefully chosen. I love it.

  “Do you have a roommate?”

  Todd laughs. “In here? Nah, just me.” He pulls me to the futon, which is hard and low to the ground, and I sink down beside him. When he brings his face to mind, his cheek is cold against mine. “I missed you.”

  “You just saw me.” I smile into his skin.

  “I know.” He tightens his arm around me. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.”

  “Your mom was okay with you coming?”

  I feel a pang of guilt that I push away. “Yeah. It’s fine. There’s nothing I can do there anyway.”

  “So, twenty-one, huh? That’s a big birthday. Are you planning on getting totally wasted on me tomorrow night?” His eyes crinkle at the corners with his grin.

  “We’ll see.” I hear the steady thump of his heart through the thin material of his shirt. “How old are you, anyway?” I’m embarrassed that I don’t already know.

  “Me? Twenty-five.”

  I roll over so my head is on the pillow beside his. I stare up at the watermarked ceiling. “What were you doing at twenty-one?”

  “Well, I was a junior in college. And I was pretty miserable.”

  “Why?”

  “I hated school. Well, that’s not true. I was a business major because my dad insisted on it and I hated that, but I was having way too much fun. Partying every night, hungover every morning. It was fun, but I felt like shit. And I was becoming a pretty big asshole.”