9
When I woke up the next morning there were three texts waiting on my phone, and this time they didn’t make me scowl or flinch or make my stomach drop. These texts only made me smile.
Lucas: Thanks for getting me back to the game, even if I wasn’t in the game.
Lucas: You really are my hero. :)
Lucas: Did you like the sketches?
Lying in bed with my cell gripped in both hands, I debated whether or not I should text him back. Our texting relationship had been very one-sided so far. The only text I’d ever sent him was to let him know I’d gotten a new number. I was actually impressed with Lucas for not giving up. I bet all the other girls couldn’t wait to reply to him.
The thought of all the other girls gave me pause as my fingers hovered over the letters on the screen. Then I pushed them out of my mind. Not even the blonde girl could ruin my memories of last night. I’d spent at least an hour—and the rest of the jar of Nutella—poring over his sketches, turning the pages so many times that a couple of them started to fray and I figured I’d better put them away. If he wanted the pad back, I didn’t want him to know how long and hard I’d stared at them. His drawing technique wasn’t the best; he often left much of the scene as a vague outline and then focused in extreme detail in one place, leaving the sketch uneven. If this had been an assignment, the professor would have chastised him for it, but I couldn’t. Not when his point of focus was always my face.
Biting my lip to stop from giggling, I typed out my first text to Lucas.
Me: Sketches? What sketches?
I threw my phone down on my pillow and went down the hall to make some toast. I figured he’d reply to my text when he woke up, which would be God knew when. It was eight o’clock on a Saturday morning. Emily never replied to a weekend text from me before three. But as I pushed the button down on the toaster, I was surprised to hear the three-toned sound of a text coming in. I flew back down the hall and flung myself onto the bed, snatching up the phone.
Lucas: Don’t tell me you didn’t even look at them. You break my heart, Hero.
Me: I ain’t your hero, buddy.
Me: And of course I looked at the sketches. They’re lovely.
Lucas: You’re lovely.
My heart was already racing a tiny bit from my mad dash down the hall, but now it revved itself up to triathlon pounding level.
Lucas: Oh no, now she’s blushing.
Me: Am not!
Lucas: The lady doth protest…and we all know what that means.
Me: That was some brilliant quoting right there. Well done.
Lucas: Don’t change the subject. I bet you’re still blushing right now.
Goddamn him.
Me: You have no proof. This would never hold up in a court of law.
Lucas: Well, maybe I should come over and get my proof. Want to go out for lunch with me?
I stared at the screen and thought of all the reasons I should say no, not the least of which being our utterly confounding friend-not-friend-not-boyfriend relationship. I thought of what Mariella would tell me to say, and what Emily would tell me to say, and what Katie of a week and a half ago would tell me to say, and then I thought of how I wanted to answer and everything suddenly seemed so simple.
Me: Yes.
Lucas seemed about as stunned as I felt, immediately replying that he’d come by my place at noon, which would give me a luxurious four-hour period to obsess over what to wear and what to say and what to do with my hair. As I stood in front of my closet, frowning over the possibilities, my phone rang and I picked it up with a smile on my face without checking to see whom it was, figuring it would probably be Em and wouldn’t she love to hear about my morning.
But it wasn’t Em.
It was my mother.
“Well, I’m glad to know you can still pick up a phone,” she said as I sat down at my desk, turning to face my books. I knew this was where my mother wanted me to be on a Saturday morning, and somehow, even though she couldn’t see me over the phone, it was always where I put myself when she called.
“Hi, Mom,” I said, trying to sound chipper. Luckily for her I was already in a pretty good mood, so chipper wasn’t too much of a stretch. I almost sounded believable.
“Honey, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for weeks, which is more than enough time for you to come up with a valid excuse for dodging my calls. So let’s hear it.”
There was a television on in the background and the news was on, naturally. My parents only ever turned on the TV to watch the news or the History Channel. Dad had a bizarre interest in the American Civil War that bordered on obsession. It helped that he was a history professor and could chalk it all up to “research.” I recognized the Vancouver local news anchor Leslie Wong’s voice and knew exactly what she would be reporting on. That damn station hadn’t changed news anchors in six years. I detested the sound of her voice. I still heard it in my dreams…
“The babysitter, whose name also can’t be revealed due to her age, testified today that she had never met the boy before that afternoon, and had no idea why he had targeted the Wesley family…”
There was nothing like hearing your lies repeated over and over, broadcast to the world, printed in every newspaper.
It was almost enough to make you commit cold-blooded murder.
“Can you go into another room, please?” I replied tensely.
My mother sighed and I could hear her walking up the stairs, the jingle of her gold bangles as she moved. It was such a familiar sound—a childhood sound—that it almost made me wish I was at home. Almost.
“There, is that far enough?” my mother said. “Really, Katie, you’d think after all these years—”
“It’s not so bad anymore,” I lied. “It’s just lately, because of all the coverage.”
“But the coverage isn’t even about you,” my mother went on. “It’s about Brandon and his punishment. I know we all feel the sentence was too light and it’s frightening to think of him—”
“I’m not frightened,” I said.
“All right, Katie, you’re not frightened. Then what is it, hmm? Your sister says you’ve met a boy and you—”
“She said what?” I cried, slapping my hand down on my desk so hard the cat sprang out of his hiding place in the hamper and scampered for the door. God, Emily had such a big mouth sometimes. I was sure she’d brought up Lucas to avoid questions about her love life. Some sister, throwing me to the wolves.
“Katie, really, calm down. Emily just mentioned it in passing. I’m glad you’ve made a new friend.”
Oh lord. What was it about talking with my mother about guys that made me feel like I was eleven years old again? Just the way she said the word “friend” made me want to cover my ears and yell at her to leave me alone.
And she wasn’t done. “I just worry about you getting into a relationship at this delicate time.”
“How did we go from friend to relationship? That’s quite a leap,” I protested.
“Well, do you want to have a relationship with him?”
I wasn’t about to walk into that trap. I wisely kept quiet.
“I know you must be feeling very emotional right now. I’ve seen it so many times with clients, even years later, some news item surfaces and it all comes rushing back—”
“Well, that’s not happening to me,” I said, looking over at the clock radio I’d permanently unplugged from the wall, and my TV, which I’d never hooked up to cable, so I could only watch DVDs and never accidentally stumble onto the news.
“Katie, you don’t have to pretend with me. Your father and I are here to support you. Dr. Lepore said—”
“You’ve been talking to Dr. Lepore?” This time I tried to keep the outrage out of my voice. I don’t think I was really successful. “God, Mom. He isn’t even my therapist anymore.”
“Still, we wanted to consult him. Just so we’d be ready to address the emotional impact. So we could help you get through this.”
I pulled off my glasses and rubbed at my eyes.
“Emotional impact, Mom? Really?” It was the way she said the words that got to me, as though she was reading from a script.
“You know this blasé attitude isn’t exactly reassuring, Katie. In fact, it’s exactly what Dr. Lepore—”
“Listen, Mom,” I interrupted, because if she mentioned Dr. Lepore one more time I was going to scream obscenities. “I know you’re worried about me. And that’s sweet, it really is. I know you think I’m hiding some deep, dark hurt, and that the trauma of what happened is going to take me down as soon as March twentieth hits, but I’m telling you, I’m really fine. I’m doing well here at school. Kingston is a beautiful town. And Emily’s here to look after me.” I think I heard my mother actually snort when I said this. “I’m doing great. And I’m going to keep doing great. So you can stop worrying about me. Honest.”
I sucked in a deep breath, trying not to drown in my own bullshit.
“All right,” Mom said in that defeated voice she used when she knew she had to agree even though she didn’t want to. “All right, Katie. If you say so, then I believe you. You’re fine.”
“I’m fine!” I repeated, and this time I almost believed myself.
“How’s art class going?” she asked.
“Which one?” I replied, a purposeful dig just to punish her. I was taking two art classes—one studio, one history—and of course she didn’t know the name of either one.
“Should I guess the name of the course?” my mother replied.
“It’s going well,” I said grudgingly. “We’re on to painting right now, so I’m in my element.”
“Good. I think it’s good that you’re keeping busy.”
I wanted to ask if Dr. Lepore had suggested “keeping busy” as a good way to mitigate the “emotional impact,” but I didn’t think the conversation could handle that many air quotes.
“So how’s the case going?” I asked, eager to change the subject to anything other than my life.
“Which one?” my mother said. I could just picture the ‘gotcha’ expression plastered all over her face.
“The one you almost settled, but then they took back their offer at the last minute,” I replied.
Really the description could have fit any one of her cases. I could have just as easily said the one where the little girl got cancer and you swooped in to help her family, or the one where the evil corporation tried to swindle a whole town out of their land, or the one where you worked for the good of humanity while your daughter sat back painting pictures, having only ever brought evil into this world. Yup, being my mother’s daughter was really the best.
She said, “We’re working on them.”
“How’s Dad?” I asked.
“Your father is your father,” she replied. This is what she always said about him. It reminded me of the phrase from that movie, “Stupid is as stupid does,” which I’d never really understood.
“So back to this boy—”
“Oh, Mother,” I muttered.
“This Lucas,” she went on. Oh terrific, Em had told her his name. “Is he your boyfriend?”
My eyes darted to the hallway, paranoid that he would be standing there eavesdropping, even though there was no way he could have gotten into the apartment. I closed the door anyway. The Lucas-Matthews-is-a-hottie incident had really done a number on me.
“It’s a possibility,” I replied, the first honest answer I’d given her.
“Is that a yes or a no?”
“It’s an ‘I don’t know,’ I guess,” I said, rolling my eyes to the ceiling.
“You don’t know or you don’t want to say?” she persisted.
“Overruled, Mom! Stop lawyering. I don’t want to talk about Lucas Matthews anymore.”
“Oh, is that his last name?” she said with barely concealed triumph.
Point to Mom.
“Mom,” I said tiredly, “can I get back to my Saturday now? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”
Or coffee. This whole conversation would have been a lot easier to deal with if I’d had just one tiny cup of coffee first.
“Okay, darling,” she said, and I heard the disappointment in her voice, the wish that this talk had been something entirely different. “Your father sends his love, and so do I. I hope you know that…”
This time I didn’t interrupt her. She just never finished her sentence, and it hung there between us until I said goodbye and hung up.
There was no question in my mind that lying to my mother was the right thing to do. The alternative—telling her the truth about what had happened six years ago—was completely out of the question. Just the thought of it made my entire body clench as though tensing for an explosion. Because that’s what it would be like, my entire life exploding before my eyes. But there were levels of deception, and when she pleaded with me to share my feelings with her, to open up to her, sometimes I wondered if it would be so bad, so wrong, to confide some of my pain to her. I wouldn’t have to tell her everything. I could just unload one of the rocks on my back, or maybe two. I could lighten my load a little.
Then I remembered what my life had been like in high school, back before I’d learned to lie as well as I did now, back when I used to lay on the couch and stare into nothing for hours, when I stopped making or keeping friends, when I wore my self-hatred like a cape and nearly drowned in its folds on a daily basis.
My mother hadn’t been quite so eager to hear about my every worry then. In fact, she’d essentially ignored my distress for months until my father insisted they take me to see Dr. Lepore. As much as she said she wanted me to be honest with her, I knew my mother. She didn’t want to be the parent of a troubled girl again, to have to comfort me as I wept, to have to stop herself from screaming at me to get it together. She wanted a daughter she could understand, even if I had to study art instead of law, even if she could tell that all I fed her were lies. A daughter who lied about being fine was trying. That was far preferable to a miserable daughter who wasn’t trying at all.
Still, all that lying took its toll.
I placed my cell down on my desk and crawled onto my bed, lying down on my stomach with my arm under my cheek.
I’m fine, I repeated silently to myself. Fine, fine, fine.
But I didn’t feel fine. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d spoken out loud about everything that had happened, even peripherally. It made me feel out of control. Like I was in a car about to drive off a bridge and though I was in the driver’s seat, there was nothing I could do to stop it. She’d even said Brandon’s name! I never let myself do that, never let myself think about Dr. Lepore, the trial, or, God forbid, that horrible day itself. If my mind drifted there, if I found myself picturing it—Tommy Wesley’s face, stained with tears, the last time I saw him alive. Brandon’s insistent voice, “I’m doing this for you”. The officer with his face in his hands when they found the body, so little, so bloody. My own hands shaking uncontrollably as they asked me what I’d seen. “Did you see what happened? Did you see who it was?”—I always, always yanked my mind away.
Those memories weren’t safe. Those memories were against the rules, out of bounds, completely off-limits. If I got lost in those memories, I might never find my way back out again. That’s why I didn’t watch the news or listen to the radio. That’s why I didn’t read the articles. Not because I didn’t want to know what happened. Because I knew too much. Because I knew so much that had never been told. Because I could drown in all the things I knew and couldn’t tell.
When the doorbell rang, I still hadn’t gotten dressed or put in my contacts. I drifted into the living room, pulling on a sweater to mask the fact that I wasn’t wearing a bra under my pajama top, and opened the door.
Lucas stood in the hall carrying two pizza boxes, a Styrofoam take-out container, a paper bag, and a pretty adorable goofy grin.
“One of your neighbours let me in,” he explained. I took the pizza boxes out of his arms and moved aside so he could come inside. “I didn’t know what you’d want, so I got pizza, Cantonese chow mein, a hamburger, fries, and chicken nuggets.”
“And a turkey dinner?” I said, eyeing all the food laid out on my coffee table.
“Nope,” he said. “That’ll have to wait for next time.”
Next time. I wanted those words to make me giddy with happiness, but they barely made an impression.
I sat down on the couch while Lucas busied himself getting plates and cutlery out of the kitchen, another first. I actually didn’t think I’d ever had a guy inside my apartment before, except the super that time the radiator had stopped working. One nice side effect of my current mood was that I also couldn’t feel the insane discomfort Lucas’s presence so close to my dirty hamper and unflattering photos would usually have created.
“I thought we were going out,” I said as he handed me my napkin and plate.
“I thought I’d surprise you,” Lucas replied as he sat down next to me.
When he’d piled his own plate high with food and I still hadn’t served myself—I think I’d also missed a couple of questions he’d asked me—Lucas put down his plate and turned to face me on the couch. He had such kind eyes. That was what you noticed when you were teetering on the edge of the bridge, about to go over—the people who looked on you with kindness and the ones who turned away.
Lucas brushed a strand of hair off of my cheek. I wondered idly if I’d even brushed my hair that day.
“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and forced myself to sit up straight, to pick something to eat, to speak and move and live.
It was a quiet meal, but not a strained one. Lucas seemed to sense that I wasn’t in the mood for our usual repartee and didn’t question it, which meant more to me than I could say. My most talkative moment came when the cat popped out from under the couch and rubbed himself against Lucas’s legs, and I told Lucas I’d decided to name the cat Turner after my favourite artist, Joseph Turner.
“I guess he’s really yours, if nobody’s claimed him by now,” Lucas said.
“He’s yours, too,” I insisted. “You helped rescue him.”
“Well, then, I guess I’ll have to come over all the time,” Lucas said with a grin, “to visit him.”
I almost managed a smile back.
Lucas chatted a little about his roommate Eric’s awful girlfriend—she’d stolen his credit card and maxed it out, twice—and his classes, keeping the topics to things I didn’t have to respond to with much more than a laugh or a “Really?” He made it easy for me.
When we finished eating, he put in a movie so I wouldn’t have to talk at all. We both leaned back on the couch under the same blanket and I put my head on his shoulder.
And that was easy, too.