Count My Lies

Chapter 11

11

My back and feet are aching by the time I get back to my apartment. I spent the rest of the day shopping for ingredients to make a celebratory meal for my mom and me, in and out of specialty markets: a butcher in Prospect Heights, an artisanal cheese shop in Park Slope, a French bakery Allison once mentioned. My arms are full of groceries when I let myself into the building and cross the small foyer to our apartment door, past the wall of aluminum mailboxes. The light above our door is on the fritz; it flickers on and off intermittently, like a prop in a cheap horror movie.

I set the shopping bags on the floor to open our front door. My key is in the lock when I hear my name behind me. It echoes through the linoleum hall.

“Sloane Caraway?” It’s a terse, unfamiliar voice. I stiffen.

Slowly, I slide my key from the doorknob, then turn.

There’s a woman in a police uniform, complete with shiny-brimmed hat, brass badge, black lace-up boots. The small metal name tag on her breast pocket reads Martinez, C . My stomach drops. I know why she’s here. I feel sick.

She must have followed me in, catching the door before it had had a chance to close, quiet as a mouse. “Ms. Caraway?” she says again.

I start to shake my head but think better of it. I don’t want to make things worse than they already are. “Yes,” I say cautiously. “Can I help you?”

She nods. She removes her cap and takes a step closer, tucking the hat under her arm. Her dark hair is parted down the middle and slicked back into a low bun at the nape of her neck. She doesn’t wear any makeup, but not because she doesn’t need it. Her nose and forehead are oily, olive skin peppered with faded acne marks, some pocked. Despite this, she’s not unattractive. Her eyes are a dark brown, deep-set and almond-shaped with long lashes, lips full. She’s younger than I am, maybe late twenties, curvy in the right places.

She clears her throat. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the other day.”

The other day. The other day. I’d known that’s what this was about, but hearing her say it out loud makes me queasy, a metallic taste rising at the back of my throat. I start to sweat.

“At Rose because someone had promised, We’ll talk to her .

“Just as a reminder. The order requires a distance of one hundred yards. It’s important that you adhere to these parameters.”

“I have been.” My voice rises an octave. I know what the order says. I have a copy, shoved into the back of a drawer in my bedroom. “ She came into the spa! She’s the one who violated the order. Not me.”

“I understand,” she says. She looks at me, her eyes full of pity, and I want to scream.

“It’s not what you think.” I can feel my vocal cords straining. I know I sound defensive, pathetic, even, but I can’t help it. I want her to know she’s wrong, that it isn’t what it looks like. “It was all just a big misunderstanding.”

She nods slowly. “It always is. Have a good evening, ma’am.” She puts her cap back on and starts toward the door. She’s stiff, no sway in her step, as if on a tightrope. One misstep and she’ll plummet. I wonder if she practices walking that way, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, her spine rigid.

I stand there, watching her leave. When she’s gone, I turn and put my key back in the lock. My hand is shaking. I wipe a tear from my eye with the sleeve of my hoodie. I don’t want my mom to see me cry.

After a moment, I exhale, then walk into the living room. My mother is in her recliner, legs outstretched and crossed at the ankles. There’s an iced tea on the side table next to her, the glass sweating with condensation.

“Who was that? I heard voices,” she says, turning her attention from the television. She shifts in her chair, then resettles.

“Gabby, from upstairs,” I say. “She was telling me how she broke up with her boyfriend again. She caught him with someone else.”

My mom rolls her eyes and looks back toward the TV. She can’t stand Gabby.

I know I said I don’t lie to my mother. That wasn’t exactly the truth, either.

On Monday morning, the day before I’m supposed to start at the Lockharts, I text Violet, telling her I’m looking forward to the next day. When she doesn’t respond right away, I text again, just with a smiley emoji, but there’s still no answer. Not five minutes later, not ten, not an hour.

Without my job at the spa, I have nothing to keep me busy. No distractions other than the drone of the TV in the living room. By midafternoon, I’ve picked up my phone a thousand times to see if I missed a text, but the screen is blank. I can’t stop fidgeting. Should I text her again, in case she missed the first two? I erase every message I type. With every passing hour, I grow more anxious. I turn off my phone, shove it in my nightstand, leave, then return to my bedroom only minutes later to power it back on. No new messages.

Was it something I said? I replay our conversations over and over again. She seemed fine when we parted after our walk, smiling and waving as she retreated down the sidewalk. Maybe she just hadn’t enjoyed our time together. Maybe she was upset I hadn’t accepted her coffee invitation. Maybe she didn’t think I was a good fit for Harper.

But my real fear—even though I know it’s impossible—is that she found out what happened at Rose & Honey the other afternoon. Or worse, about what happened before I got the job, about the restraining order.

At four thirty, I can no longer stand it. It feels like I might lose my mind. I tell my mom I’m going for a walk, shoving my feet into shoes, grabbing my bag. When I push out onto the sidewalk, I have to shield my eyes. The sun is still high in the sky, the days already getting longer and warmer as summer approaches. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I feel better outside. Violet’s probably just busy, I tell myself. I almost believe it.

I decide to walk to the park, do a few laps and head home, but I don’t stop when the playground comes into view. I keep walking. I already know where I’m going before I get there.

The brownstones get bigger as I turn down the Lockharts’ street, the elm trees taller, leaves fuller, the sidewalk wider. I walk on the side opposite their house. When it comes into view, I slow, ducking my head, then stop, half-hidden behind a parked car and tree trunk. I shouldn’t be here, of course, but I have to see if Violet is home. I won’t be long, just a quick look.

Their front curtains are pushed wide open. It gives me a direct view into their living room. The sun is still bright, the interior of their house well lit.

At first, I don’t see anyone. I can see the bookshelves, the couch, the painting above it, their coffee table. Is anyone home?

And then, as if to answer my question, Violet walks into the room. I breathe in sharply, ducking back behind the tree. When I lean forward, just slightly, peering out, she’s still there, standing at the bay window. She has a phone to her ear, talking animatedly. She looks upset. Even from here, I can see her brows knit together, forehead creased. She begins to pace, her free hand rubbing her temple.

Then Harper appears through the glass, running up and throwing her arms around Violet’s waist. Violet looks down and strokes the top of her head absent-mindedly. Harper looks up, smiling, and Violet holds up a finger. Give me a minute. Harper nods and wanders off, toward the stairs.

Now she’s listening, the phone pressed to her ear, lips pressed tightly together. Did they quiver? It’s hard to tell from here. Then she swipes at her cheek with her palm. She’s crying, I think, wiping tears from her face. She nods once, sharply, her eyes fluttering closed. She stands like that, still as marble, until finally, she nods again, her eyes reopening.

She takes the phone from her ear, closing it, two halves snapping shut. For a moment, she just stares at it, her shoulders sagging, face impassive.

Suddenly, without warning, she winds her arm back and hurls the phone at the couch like a pitcher, aiming at a catcher’s mitt. Her mouth is open in a soundless scream. The phone hits the back cushion, then bounces off, out of my view. From behind the tree, I flinch.

Violet’s shoulders rise and fall as if she’s breathing heavily. I know I should leave, but I’m rooted to the ground. Who had she been talking to? What had it been about? A fight with a friend? A family member?

Then she turns her head toward the stairs as if spoken to. She rearranges her face, anger disappearing. She goes to pick up the phone, slips it into her pocket. She starts toward the stairs, disappears from view.

I wait to see if anyone reappears, but they don’t. The living room stays empty. No Violet, no Harper, no Jay. I tell myself I should get going, but one minute turns into five, five into ten, until it’s been almost an hour. The whole time I keep my phone in my hand, hoping Violet will call, but it never rings.

It’s getting dark by the time I leave, the sky shifting from a gray to a deep blue as I walk the twelve blocks home, unnerved by what I’ve seen.

My mom and I don’t say much over dinner. I know she notices my mood but doesn’t ask. Instead, she reaches over as we watch TV, and squeezes my arm every so often, never taking her eyes off the screen. She’s there if I need her, she’s saying.

After we eat, I trade my flannel and jeans for pajamas and get into bed without washing my face or brushing my teeth. I know I should do both, but I can’t muster the energy.

I reach out and flip off my bedside lamp and lie, staring at the ceiling. What had made Violet so upset? And why hasn’t she called me? Are the two related? Dejectedly, I turn onto my side. Maybe my worst fear is true: she knows what I did. She’s angry, doesn’t know how to confront me.

The darkness of my bedroom is heavy and suffocating, shadows looming large on the walls. I listen to the traffic outside, the distant honking of horns, low hum of sirens, faint voices. Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy and I begin to drift off, gratefully succumbing to sleep.

Then my phone vibrates. My eyes fly open. I jolt upright and grab it off the nightstand, my heart beating. I squint at the screen, aglow in my darkened room. It’s Violet. I hold my breath as I open the message. Hi, sorry for the late text! The day totally got away from me. Are we still on for tomorrow?

The anxiety I felt all day lifts instantly. I am lighter, brighter. All that worry for nothing. Fingers flying, I type back, No worries! Yes, I’ll be there! One?

Instantly, I see her typing, then, Let’s say twelve thirty?

I smile at the screen. See you then!

I move to put the phone down, but I hesitate. An image flashes in my mind. The way she looked through her window today, face drawn, angrily wiping tears from her cheek. I want to ask her if everything is okay, but how, unless I tell her what I saw? And I can’t admit to having been at their house this afternoon. I know how that would look. Eventually, I set my phone on my nightstand. I’ll ask her tomorrow, I decide, if she still seems upset.

I pull the covers up to my chin and close my eyes. This time, I have no trouble falling asleep.