Beautiful Lies (31 page)

I guess it runs in the family. When we were kids, Rachel and I grew to recognize the distinct smell of marijuana that used to come from our parents’ closed bedroom door some evenings. We didn’t know what it was at the time, of course, but I’ll never forget my first teenage encounter with it, at a party a few years ago, and the instant recognition of its odor. Rachel was at that party, too, and she got
so
upset when it became clear that our parents had been toking up while their daughters played in the next room.

The realization that my parents were far from perfect came slowly to me over the years. I’ve never held it against them, though. If they had been different in any way, then everything else would be different, too, in ways I can’t begin to imagine. I don’t love them because they did everything right. They were my parents; I would have loved them regardless. Perfection is subjective, especially when it comes to
people. To me, they were exactly what they were supposed to be. Until they died.

My aunt and uncle, despite all their outward squareness, are not so different from my parents. My uncle’s side of their walk-in closet is neat and orderly; everything about it screams normal. But on the very top shelf, behind a row of neatly folded sweaters, there’s the motherload: it’s a metal safe built right into the wall. Just the sight of the thing, all mystery and possibility, gives me a shiver of excitement.

I pull out one of the dresser drawers and stand on the edge in order to reach the safe. Two years ago, when I first stumbled upon its existence during a routine snoop session while I was home alone one afternoon, I guessed the combination on my second try: 04-17-91. It’s Charlie’s birthday.

Even though I already know what’s inside, I still get a thrill every time the door swings open. There are a few file folders containing legal documents: my aunt’s and uncle’s wills, birth certificates, social security cards, that kind of stuff. There are the keys to the Porsche, which will have to stay put as long as they’re in here; I can’t take anything too obvious or my aunt and uncle will realize I’ve found their best hiding spot. There are several bottles of prescription painkillers, leftovers from a triple root canal that kept my aunt in a foul mood for pretty much all of last winter. And
way in the back, pushed into the corner, there’s a Ziploc baggie of primo dope and a package of rolling papers. The pot is actually mine; my aunt “accidentally” found it while “cleaning” my room a few months ago. Why she was cleaning underneath my mattress remains a mystery. In any case, my stash got confiscated, and I got grounded. Good, upstanding citizens that they are, my aunt and uncle claimed to have flushed the pot. I never believed them, not for a minute. And I don’t feel the slightest bit guilty helping myself to a small amount from time to time—that, along with a few of the papers and a couple of painkillers that my aunt will never miss.

I go into my room, straight to my bathroom, and wash down the painkillers with a glass of water. Then I curl up in the oversize window seat facing the backyard. Slowly and carefully, I roll a small joint. When I light it up, I lean out the window as far as possible, trying to prevent the smoke from coming into the room.

Once I’ve finished, I leave the window open and change into my pajamas. My stomach is empty; the pills should be kicking in soon.

But just as my surroundings are starting to blur, I remember my sketchbook. It’s still in Charlie’s room, open to the drawing of him and the kittens. As tired as I am, I know I can’t leave it there. I’m supposed to be Rachel, and Rachel doesn’t draw.

I rush downstairs to retrieve it. The TV is on in the living room; my aunt and uncle are still awake, which means they
probably haven’t checked on my cousin yet. I crack his door open and lean over to pick up the sketchbook from the floor.

I stop. I stop moving, stop breathing, stop thinking. I stare across his room, astounded by what I’m seeing. It’s impossible.

Linda is still on the floor with her kittens beside her. They are nursing.

All four of them.

My sleep is hard and dreamless until my alarm jerks me awake after what feels like only seconds of unconsciousness. My room is dark. I’m freezing, and the air all around me feels cold and damp; it’s because I slept with my window open. I’m covered in gooseflesh as I climb out of bed and patter across the floor in my bare feet, fumbling with the buttons on our alarm clock, trying to shut it off, to hit snooze, to do
something
to make it stop beeping. But nothing works; not the buttons, not the volume dial, not even a good, hard smack. Finally, I lean over to unplug the damn thing. That’s when I notice the time. It’s two a.m. I have no recollection of setting the alarm at all last night, much less programming it to go off right now.

My throat hurts. My mouth is so dry that my tongue feels like it’s been coated in sawdust. Suddenly I’m so thirsty that all I can think about is getting some water. I go into my
bathroom and cup my hands beneath the faucet, drinking from them again and again, but it doesn’t seem to help; I might as well be downing salt water for all the good it’s doing, each sip somehow less satisfying than the last. Even after I lean over to place my mouth directly on the flow of water, unable to gulp fast enough to keep up with it, soaking the front of my shirt, it’s not enough. I need a glass, something that can be refilled. I go downstairs, into the kitchen, wincing with every creak of the floorboards. My aunt has always placed an over-the-top emphasis on maintaining proper sleep habits. Even when Rachel and I had sleepovers at our house, she insisted that we go to bed at a decent hour. She claims it has to do with the underestimated importance of circadian rhythms, that the body is thrown completely out of whack without a consistent routine, but that’s not really why it bothers her so much. It’s because my grandma goes for days without sleep sometimes, slipping deeper into the funhouse of her mind with every passing hour, until she has no choice but to shut down. She used to do it all the time when my aunt was young, alternating between a manic alertness and total exhaustion that required days of sleep in order to recover. By the time she was twelve, my aunt claims she was basically running the household for my grandma, who rarely knew what day it was.

I drink three full glasses of water, one right after the next, until my thirst begins to diminish. As I’m refilling my glass for the fourth time, I hear a soft tapping against the kitchen
window. I look up to see Robin standing on the back porch, his face so close that each breath creates a small circle of fog against the glass as he exhales. It’s obvious that he wants to come in.

The security alarm is set. When I type in the code to shut it off, every button I press is accompanied by a loud beeping sound, and I’m terrified that someone will wake up and discover us down here together. But they don’t.

The sensor on the back door beeps as I let him in. He’s never set foot in my house until now. He’s not wearing a jacket, just his usual jeans and a white T-shirt. “You must be freezing,” I say, rubbing my hands along his bare arms, trying to warm him up. “What the hell are you doing here, Robin? It’s the middle of the night. I was dead asleep.”

His eyes crinkle at their corners as he smiles. “You look awake to me.”

I frown. “How did you even know I’d be down here?”

“I got lucky. I was out for a walk. I was going to throw stones at your window, but then I saw you.”

A small part of me feels disappointed that he spotted me in the kitchen. Nobody has ever thrown stones at my window in the middle of the night. The idea is so impossibly romantic; does it actually happen in real life, and not just in the movies? It would have made such a lovely memory. It could have been my red Camaro moment. But it didn’t happen.

It wouldn’t have mattered, anyway. Not after what I saw
earlier. “You’re lying to me,” I say, letting my hands fall away from him. “You weren’t out for a walk.”

“What?” He starts to smile, but then he realizes I’m not kidding. “Alice, why would I lie?”

“Because I
saw
you with her!” I hiss, struggling to keep my voice low. “And you saw me too. Tell me what’s going on, Robin. What were you doing with Rachel?”

“You think I was with Rachel? Alice, I swear, I’ve never even met your sister. I wasn’t with her. Not tonight, and not any other time.” He pulls me toward him, taking my hands and pressing them flat against his chest. “I’m right here,” he whispers. “I’m with you.”

I want to cry, but I’m so parched that I can’t even bring tears to my eyes. “But I saw you,” I murmur.

“No, you didn’t.”

I look up at him. “Then who was it? Who did I see in the window with Rachel?”

“Alice,” he says, smoothing my hair, careful to avoid the back of my head, “you’re upset. You’re not thinking straight.” He’s right about that much.

I turn my head, leaning against him with my whole body as he wraps his arms around my waist. “I don’t know what to do,” I whisper.

“Then don’t do anything. Just be with me tonight.”

“I can’t. My aunt and uncle will go berserk if they wake up and find you here.” I’ve always hated having to say “my aunt and uncle” instead of “my parents.” The former is such
a mouthful, five syllables instead of only three, not to mention the necessary explanation every time I discuss them for the first time with someone new. Over the years, I’ve gotten good at keeping it short. “My aunt and uncle. I live with them.” End of story. People usually don’t pry beyond that, at least not to my face. They wait until I’m not around to get the full story from a third-party source. As annoying as those five syllables can be, I’ve never once considered referring to them as my parents to avoid the hassle of an explanation.

“So let’s go somewhere else.” Robin waves an arm around the room. “The night is ours.”

I bite my bottom lip. “I don’t know.” But I do know, and so does he. I’m only faking hesitation. “You want to drive somewhere?” My aunt’s car keys, I’m sure, are in her purse, which is just an arm’s length away on the kitchen table.

“Sure.” He steps back, looking me over. I’m wearing boxer shorts and a tank top. “You’ll need a jacket, though. It’s chilly out there.”

There are hardly any other cars on the road as we drive away from town, heading east on the highway, our destination still unclear. I didn’t bother to bring a jacket. I didn’t even bother to put shoes on before we left; I’m driving barefoot. Robin leans his seat back and rests his shoes against the
dashboard. He isn’t buckled in. “I love this time of night,” he says, closing his hand over mine. He’s done it plenty of times before, but it always thrills me just the same. There’s something about him that makes me feel so protected when we’re together, especially when we’re doing something so irresponsible. “Everyone is asleep right now,” he continues, giving me a sideways glance. “Even the criminals.”

The windshield is fogging up. I should turn on the defroster, but I don’t want to pull my hand away; his touch feels too good to let go. “So then what does that make us?” I lean forward, squinting to see the road.

“It doesn’t make us anything. It’s almost like we don’t exist right now. Nobody knows we’re out here.”

“You shouldn’t have come over tonight,” I say, unable to dismiss my worry. “The police are looking for you.”

“I figured. That’s why I wanted to see you.” He rubs his index finger across my knuckles. “I’m gonna have to leave for a while, Alice.”

“What?” I lose my grip on the wheel; the car drifts to the right, onto the rumble strips. In a smooth motion, Robin leans over and uses his free hand to help me steer us back onto the road.

“You can’t do that,” I say. “You can’t just
leave
. Where will you go?”

He doesn’t answer me right away. We drive past a sign that says FOREST HILLS – 7 MILES, and our destination tonight suddenly becomes clear. Maybe I’ve known it all along.

“I’ll go home,” he says. “I’ve been gone for too long.”

“Home,” I repeat. My voice is flat. “I thought this was your home.”

He stares out his window. “You know it’s not.”

The fog on the windshield is so thick that I can barely see the road. I finally turn on the defroster. Robin lights a cigarette. The smoke fills the car, burning my eyes. We’ll have to drive home with the windows down to get rid of the smell. I could tell him to toss it, but I don’t. I’m not sure why.