All That's True
Authors: Jackie Lee Miles
Copyright © 2011 by Jacki
e Lee Miles
Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Emily Mahon and Jessie Sayward Bright
Cover images © Karina Simonsen/Trevillion Images
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks, Inc., is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
www.sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Miles, J. L. (Jacquelyn L.)
All that’s true / by Jackie Lee Miles.
p. cm.
(pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Teenage girls—Fiction. 2. Brothers—Death—Fiction. 3. Families—Fiction. 4. Bereavement—Psychological aspects—Fiction. 5. Life change events—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3613.I53A45 2011
813’.6--dc22
2010014377
For my new granddaughter, Madelyn Grace. Welcome to the world, baby girl!
My life was close to being perfect until my brother Alex got killed. Then my mother started drinking and my father starting having sex with Donna, my best friend’s stepmother. She’s not even thirty years old. Me and Bridget—that’s my best friend—we saw them through the window of the pool house and nearly stopped breathing. You would not believe the moaning. For a life that was moving along really well, right now everything sucks.
We haven’t told anyone, yet. We still can’t believe it ourselves. Besides, we’re not sure who to tell: her father, or my mother, or maybe a priest. It’s complicated. For now, we’re just watching them boff each other. It’s disgusting, sure, but we can’t seem to help ourselves. Now that we know what they’re doing, we camp out in the bushes behind the cabana that’s behind Bridget’s house and just wait for them to show up. Mostly they do the same things to each other, over and over, but we watch like it’s the very first time.
Mondays are good. They’re always there Mondays. And Wednesdays, they never miss Wednesdays. My mother’s at her bridge game and Bridget’s father’s at church. He’s a deacon. And sometimes on Friday nights they’re at it, but not tonight; tonight’s my mother’s fiftieth birthday party and our house is so lit up it looks like it’s on fire.
“It’s a significant occasion,” my father says, sounding and acting perfectly normal—like nothing out of the usual is going on—and he’s screwing Donna like he’s a sex machine, and he’s over fifty, which makes it like a miracle. I didn’t know men could even do it that old.
He reminds my sister Beth and me, for the umpteenth time, to make my mother’s birthday a joyous occasion, his exact words. So, he still must love her, or he wouldn’t care, right?
“Regardless of the circumstances,” he says, meaning Alex is dead, but I’m thinking of him and Donna and those circumstances, and grunt, “Humph.”
My sister Beth nods politely and assures him we will, then turns and bugs her eyes out at me, which is her way of telling me I should nod, too, right now. I’m sick of her being older and wiser, not to mention bossy. She’s getting married this year after she graduates from Vassar and is on the dean’s list, so she thinks she’s hot stuff. I’m flunking algebra, so I’m on everyone’s list, except my mother’s. She loves me more than God.
Beth is still eyeballing me. I pretend I’m catatonic. My father stands and waits patiently; he’s familiar with and respectful of Beth’s signal system. He calls her Elizabeth and says her name like it’s a prayer. That makes me want to hate her, but mostly I’m not able; it’s in the blood or something not to, but sometimes I think I do anyway, so maybe I have bad blood.
Beth tucks her arms across her chest and glares at me. My father has his hand wrapped around her shoulder. They’re staring and waiting. Their expressions are obvious. They think I’m going to ruin the party. I stare back, my face a blank sheet of paper, but really it has invisible ink that says, “What?—Do I look like an idiot?”
The guests are arriving now—two-by-two—and I’m thinking Noah’s Ark, and with our luck a flood will follow. Vivian’s here. That’s my mother’s best friend from before I was born.
“And were you a surprise!” she joked, when I stayed with her once, which turns out isn’t a joke. I was a big surprise, my mother said.
Vivian always smells like she’s just come from the hairdresser.
“I have!” she says, and laughs. “With hair like this, I live there.”
She hugs my shoulder and walks with me snug at her side like we’re glued together. “What do you say we crash this party, sweetie? Show these fools how it’s done.”
Her husband Howard is pouring my mother another glass of wine, and my father smiles like that’s fine, but it’s really not. Tonight he’ll pretend it is, but normally when my mother’s on her third glass he shakes his head and makes a face like there’s a skunk in the room. And this might be her fourth; I lost count. Now I’m back to paying attention. I get afraid for my mother. She drinks too much and slurs her words, and she hugs people too hard, and my father points it all out the next morning, even if Rosa’s there clearing the dishes. I want to tell him, “There are worse things, you know—you don’t hug at all. And you’re screwing Donna! And you’re hardly ever home.”
When he is, Desert Storm and my mother’s drinking are his favorite topics. He says George-Herbert-Walker-read-my-lips Bush, Sr., needs to get rid of Saddam Hussein now or there’ll be all hell to pay later, and then he tells my mother she’s disgusting.
“Absolutely disgusting, Margaret,” he says, and I want to spill my guts.
My mother sits quietly and nods her head, “I know, I know,” all the while my father is berating her. If she only knew what I know…and I almost blurt it out, but it would hurt her so bad, so, of course, I don’t. I sit quietly and watch her, like I’m the babysitter. She’s still so beautiful to look at. Like Barbie with some gray in her hair, and maybe a few extra pounds, but not many. My mother doesn’t eat much, but when she does, it’s all the right foods.
For tonight, my parents are all smiles. The kind you paint on. I don’t blame them. It’s all any of us can muster, seeing as Alex is dead, and it’s only been two months, hardly any time at all, and it feels like last night the police knocked on the door to tell us, and no one answered, so they pounded on the door; it was the middle of the night—what did they think? And they had their blue lights flashing in the driveway, scaring half the neighborhood awake. A nightmare, that’s what I was thinking, but even then, I could tell it was real. My mother was screaming like a serial killer had hold of her, throwing herself against the marble columns in the front entrance hall. My father grabbed hold of her and held her so tight I thought he’d bruise her worse, but I’ve never seen him so tender to her in my entire life—and thirteen years, two months, and eight days is a long time, any reasonable person can agree.
Alex was my most favorite person in the entire world, next to my mother, who is next to my best friend Bridget, who’s next to no one; she’s like my salvation, but that’s another story. Alex liked me better than Beth. He told me once he found her shallow. I was nine at the time and hardly knew the meaning of the word, but what did it matter? It sounded perfectly wretched, but more important he insisted I was not, capital, N-O-T—nor ever would be, shallow. It was a sacred moment. I asked him if we could prick our fingers and join our blood. He laughed and said, “It’s already joined, you nut,” and made like he was tossing me a football.
For tonight, for my mother, I want to look happy—really happy, not fake happy, so she’ll think I’m happy, and she won’t worry about me and start drinking double—but my face refuses to cooperate with my heart, which right now is heavier than a baby elephant, and just two weeks before Alex got killed it was lighter than air when Dennis Luken kissed me on the mouth, but that’s another story, too—and a real tearjerker.
“Andi?” My father taps my shoulder and brings me back to reality just as the doorbells chime. They’re very irritating; they sound like they belong in a cathedral, but my father picked them special. Rosa rushes to get the door and welcomes the last of our guests. It’s Murray and Loretta Levinson. They have a lot of money, and always manage to be very disgusting about the fact that they do. My father shakes Murray’s hand and then kisses Loretta’s cheeks, first one and then the other, European-style. Alex taught me that. I try to smile, but it’s no use. I nod my head and watch them join the others. Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves, which is probably good, but I’m having a hard time with that. I mean, people you love just up and die, no warning, no good-bye, nothing—poof—they’re gone. And then McDonald’s opens the next day and sells hamburgers, and Rich’s holds their biggest sale ever, and people are rushing to get to work, get to the cleaners, they’re booking cruises, signing up for aerobics or doing yoga, taking in a movie; they’re going out to dinner—stuffing their faces and talking and laughing—the entire world just continues on as usual, like nothing has happened to yours. I tell my father this in one long sob.
“Life must continue, Andi,” he says gently, and pats me like I’m a baby in need of a good burp. He says “must” with great emphasis, like he’s trying to convince himself, and I notice his eyes are watery and I’ve never even seen them moist before, except maybe once, when he accidentally poked himself with his thumb trying to open a cabinet door that was stuck—but not as stuck as he thought—and he yelled, “God damn!” And my mother yelled, “Arthur!” We’re Catholic; it’s a mortal sin, and then he used Visine in them and they got watery-runny, and it was Friday, so we all went to confession. What a night that was.
I take the handkerchief my father offers. It smells like Herrera for Men, like him, and has his initials on it. My mother buys them special-order from Neiman’s—Egyptian cotton; they’re soft as butter. I dab at my eyes, glad I’m not wearing mascara tonight—I’m not allowed to until my birthday, but I sneak and put it on at school anyway.
My grandmother, Nana Louise, is here. She’s sitting opposite my mother in a matching chaise longue, drinking apple juice from a martini glass with an olive in it. She’s eighty-something and lives at Sunny Meadows Nursing Home, only it’s not really so sunny and there’s no meadow. But there’s a very nice sign out front with lights that turn on by themselves at dusk, and the building is painted white with dark green shutters, and the front porch has enough rockers for the entire state of Georgia, and flowers in all the beds, and a reception area that’s nicer than my father’s, and he’s an attorney. When people walk in, they think they’re dropping granny or grampy or Aunt Dodie off on heaven’s doorstep, so what’s the problem? If they visit enough times they’ll realize Sunny Meadows is not even close. My father put Nana Louise there an hour after my grandfather died. His brain was like eighty-five going on thirty. The doctors all said he was healthy, too. Shows you how much they know. He took really good care of Nana Louise. She doesn’t do well on her own. We take her to dinner on the third Friday of each month; it’s like a sacrament. Nana Louise has no idea who we are, but she always smiles and gets in the car when they wheel her out, which I find amazing. When old folks forget people, do they forget not to go with strangers, too?
Tonight she looks scared. Her eyes are searching the room like she’s lost something very important—maybe her mind—and maybe it’s close by, and maybe if she keeps searching, she’ll find it. I go to her side and take her hand, and she lets me. For a split second her eyes grab mine and snap to attention. I think she knows me! The place in my heart that hurts so bad—the part I’m convinced will never feel good again—flutters like a little butterfly. The spark I take as recognition in Nana Louise’s eye is gone, but still, it gives me hope. I breathe in deeply and let out a sigh. Maybe my father is right. Maybe life does go on. It just takes a while.
So I start to feel better and then the doorbells chime and Rosa opens the door and you will not believe who’s standing there.
