The Good Lie (12 page)

Satan Was Called the Deceiver

[1]

Henrietta Parse, the
court-appointed custody evaluator, called me at Posie’s to set up an interview.

“I’d like to see you alone first,”
Ms. Parse said, “then maybe later with your mom and then your dad, okay?”

“I have to talk in front of my dad?” 
Toni Margress hadn’t mentioned that.

“I like to see the family interact,”
Henrietta Parse explained.  “It gives me a better feel for the situation.”

“I really don’t want to see him.”

“It will be short—half an hour? 
You can manage that, can’t you?  Just a casual get together.  I’ll be there
with you—nothing will happen.”

Posie gave me a ride to the woman’s
office in midtown.

“When do you want me back?” Posie
asked.

“How about an hour?”

“Good luck,” she said.  “Be brave.”

Henrietta Parse was in her fifties,
a short stout woman with crooked teeth and a friendly smile.  Her frizzy red
hair was overdyed and overstyled.

“Lizzie.”  Her hand was warm to
shake.  “Come sit down.”

She clasped her hands together on
top of her desk, on top of my family’s file.   She smiled a crooked smile.  “So. 
How are you today?  How was school?”

“Good,” I answered warily.  My eyes
fell to the open bag of cheese puffs on the
credenza behind her.  That
explained the orange tint at the sides of her mouth.

“Listen, I know you don’t know me,
and I’m going to be asking some pretty personal questions after a while, but I’ll
try to make it as painless as possible, okay?  In cases like these the judge
wants to get a whole picture of how things stand—you understand?”

I nodded and glanced at some of the
toys in the corner behind her desk.  Male and female dolls that I assumed were
anatomically correct. 
He touched me with his pee-pee.  He touched my
poo-poo.
  I hoped she wouldn’t be embarrassing me like that.

Henrietta Parse opened our file.  “You’re
. . . sixteen?”

“Yes.”

“And—is this right— already a
senior in high school?”

“Yes.”  I heard the sin of Pride
creeping into my voice.  I tried to strangle it.

“That’s pretty impressive, isn’t
it?” Ms. Parse asked me.

I shrugged with what I hoped was
genuine modesty.

“How are your grades?”

“Good.”

“Just good, or especially good?”

A twinge of my lips, but I wouldn’t
smile.  This wasn’t afternoon tea.  “Especially good, I guess.”

“If I want to talk to one of your
teachers about how you’re doing, who should I talk to?”

I considered this.  Was it better
to name a hard teacher or an easy one?  A gruff one—to put her off—or a
friendly one?

“Mr. Kuhlman, I guess.  He’s my
Honors English teacher.”

She wrote that down.

“How about friends?  Which one
would represent you best?”

“I guess Posie.” 
Stop saying “I
guess”—you sound like an airhead.
  “She’s a senior, too.  I’m living with
her and her mom right now.”

“Oh, yes.  I called you there.” 
Ms. Parse wrote that down.  “Now,” she said, getting down to the meat.  “I’ve
read your mother’s petition for custody.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And I see that there’s an
allegation that your father has sexually abused you.”

Here we go
.  “Yes.”

“Can you tell me about that?”

And so I did.  She was easier to
talk to than I expected.  I spun out my whole tale and was able to answer some
follow-up questions without a lot of difficulty.

“What do you think your father
would say if I asked him?”

“He’d deny it.”

Henrietta Parse nodded.  “I suppose
so.  Now, you said when you were five you had to have an operation?  On your
bladder?”

“Yes.”

“And in preparation for this, or
something, the doctor took a sample somehow and had that tested and he found
sperm?”

“Yes—the lab did—that’s what my mother
told me.”

“Okay.  Do you remember anything
about that yourself?  About any sexual contact that might have occurred?”

The lies continued.  “I remember my
dad used to come to my room at night to tuck me in, and he always liked to lie
down next to me.  I don’t really remember much about it, but I know one time I
was crying and he said I had to be quiet—” 
God forgive me, it is such a sin
to lie.
  “—and if I did he’d give me this life-size doll I’d been wanting.”

“And did he?”

“Give it to me?  Yeah.  I named her
Susie.”  What I didn’t add because it would make me look like a freak was that
I used to pray every night—and I mean
pray
, with sweat beading up on my
forehead I was begging so hard—that God would bring her to life and turn her
into a real live sister for me.  It was good enough to get Mikey a few years
later.  I forgave him for being a boy.

Ms. Parse nodded while she wrote.  “Do
you remember anything else from that time?”

We had dates.  I liked those.
 
“No, I guess that’s all.”

Then she had a zinger for me.  “Do
you suspect any abuse of your
brother?”

“Uh, no,” I answered quickly.  I
caught up with my breath.  “I mean, I don’t think so.  I think he’d tell me.”

Sweat, sweat, sweat.  Maybe I
should have said yes.  I didn’t know what the best strategy was anymore.  It
was hard to keep all the lies straight.

Henrietta Parse considered me.  Her
face was kind and easy to look at because it wasn’t too beautiful.  I returned
her smile, shyly on my part to show I didn’t want to talk about these things,
but that I appreciated how gently she was going about it.

“Are you sexually active, Lizzie?”

Another sneak attack, but I was
happy to announce, “No.  Not at all.”

“Never?”

“Never.  I’m a virgin—unless you
count my father, which I don’t.  I believe I’m still pure in my heart.”  I sat
up straight and gave her my honest opinion.  “I don’t think you can lose your
virginity to someone who takes it.  You have to give it away.”

“That’s very wise,” she answered,
and I listened for some hint in her voice that she was humoring me.  I didn’t
find it, but that didn’t mean anything—she did this sort of thing all day long.

“Not on birth control?” Henrietta
Parse continued.

“No.”

“Ever?”

“Never.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No, I wish.”

That brought a smile.  “Have you
ever?”

“Not really.”

“No wonder you do so well in
school, hm?  Nothing to distract you?”

“I guess.” 
Stop saying I guess!
 
“I mean, yes.”

“So,” Ms. Parse said, “what are
your plans after graduation?”

“Go to school here, I gue—uh, go to
school here.”

“Are your parents going to pay for
that?”

“I doubt it.”

“Have you asked them?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

It seemed obvious, but I answered. 
“Because my mother can’t afford it and I assume my father hates me now for
coming forward with all this.”

She wrote that down and a few more
paragraphs besides.  When she finished she
clasped her hands on top of
the file again and said, “Okay, Lizzie, I think that’s it for now.  I might ask
you some of these same questions in front of your parents, okay?”

“Please don’t ask that one about
college.  I don’t want to put them on the spot.”

She must have found it curious that
I was more worried about talking about college money than my father’s sexual
abuse, but Henrietta Parse just smiled in consolation and said, “I can’t
promise that.  Sorry.  But you’re a poised young woman, Lizzie, and I’m sure
you’ll do fine.”

She stood to signal the interview
was over.  At the door she took my hand in hers once again, and this time
sandwiched a warm hand on top.  “Thank you for coming in.  I really appreciate it.”

“Uh, sure,” I stammered.  “Okay.  I
guess I’ll see you again?” 
I guess I’ll keep saying “I guess” another
thousand times.

“Yes.  Soon.  I’ll call you to set
it up.  Shall I call you at your friend’s—what was her name?”

“Posie.  Posie Sherbern.  This is
her.”

Posie stood and showed what a truly
poised young woman looked like.  She took Henrietta Parse’s hand and looked her
straight in the eye and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Henrietta glanced at her watch. 
She bit a chunk of lip.  “Do you have a few minutes?” she asked Posie.

“Certainly.”

“Why don’t you come in and chat
with me for a minute?  That will save me a call.”

Posie lifted an eyebrow to me to
see if she should make up an excuse and beg off.  I shrugged.  “Might as well.”

While waiting for Posie to emerge I
studied some of the plaques on the wall.  I guess (stop!) I hadn’t realized Ms.
Parse was Dr. Parse.  A psychologist.  I thought she was just an evaluator.

There was no one around—no
receptionist, no secretary.  I wondered if Dr. Parse was a one-man band.  She
probably lived off these court-ordered evaluations—maybe she didn’t have many
clients.

A girl and her mother arrived to
prove me wrong.  The girl was about ten, I’d guess, a little chubby, but
sweet-faced and desperately shy.  She wouldn’t look at me for anything.  She
kept her head down, gazing out through the screen of her bangs.  She never let
go of her mother’s hand.

I felt awful.  Here was a girl who
had obviously had real trouble.  She didn’t have to make it up like I did.  But
then I thought of Mikey, and pictured him sitting there holding my hand,
waiting to go tell the psychologist exactly what our father had done.  I was
doing the right thing.  I knew that.

Dr. Parse’s door opened and Posie
stood there graceful and mature and offered her
hand first, along with a
“Thank you for your time.”

Dr. Parse smiled and said, “No,
thank
you.
”   Then she saw the girl waiting with her mother and chirped,
“Jasmine!  How are you?!”

“So what did she want to know?” I
asked as soon as we were clear of the building.

“The ins and outs of Lizzie.”

“Can you be more specific?”

Posie unlocked the car and slid
in.  “You know, the usual—who are you sleeping with, what drugs are you on,
what are the issues with your parents—probably the same stuff she asked you.”

“She didn’t ask me about drugs.”

“I told her you were a
goody-two-shoes, just like me.”

“Did she ask anything weird?”

Posie tapped the steering wheel
with her forefinger while she thought it over.  “No, not really.  Oh, I forgot,
she did ask me if I thought you would make up things to help your mom in the
divorce.”

“What did you say?”

“I said you didn’t really like
either of your parents that much.  I told her about your mom running away—she
took a lot of notes on that.”

“Great.”

“What?  It’s true.  It was going to
come out.”

“Yeah, but . . . I don’t know.  I
want my mom to look better in this than my dad.”

“Believe me, your mom would have to
go a long way toward hell before she beats child molestation.”

“I guess you’re right.  So do you
think she believed me?”

“I assume so,” Posie answered.  “She
didn’t act like she didn’t.”

[2]

About a week later Posie handed me
the phone.  “Call her.”

“Who?”

“Angela.  She’ll want to know about
the custody evaluation—especially the part with your parents.”

The in-home interview had been . .
. historic.

“Jesus Christ,” Angela said at one
point in my recital and I winced but didn’t feel I could ask her not to take
the Lord’s name in vain.

It wasn’t my father’s constant
interruptions to point his finger at me and bellow, “Thou shalt not bear false
witness!” and “Satan was called The Deceiver!” that amused Angela Peligro as
much as my father’s mock heart attack at the end.  Henrietta Parse had dialed
911 herself while my mother mopped my father’s brow with a cold washcloth.  He
was in heaven, getting all her attention like that.  I waited until the
phone was free, then called Posie for a ride.

“He’ll pay,” Angela concluded.  “A
guy like that won’t last a day once it hits the papers.  If he’s clutching his
chest now he’ll be paying out his ass tomorrow.  I’ll send a demand as soon as
the custody hearing’s over—again, assuming your mother wins.”

“She will,” I said.  “My father
looks bad.”  I meant that in two ways.  He had made a fool of himself in front
of Henrietta Parse with his Moses-like proclamations and his eyes rolling back
as he tried to work himself into cardiac arrest.

And he really did look bad—physically. 
His skin was sallow and papery.  His breath smelled horrendous.  Someone from
his office should have told him he reeked.  I wondered if he let himself go on
purpose, to seem that much more pathetic.  But I think he really was pathetic. 
I think he had lost his grip.

I heard Georgia’s voice in the
background.  Angela smothered her hand over the receiver, then came back on.

“Gotta go, Liz.  Sorry—my new
priest molest is here.  Fuck if they don’t keep on coming.”

“Good lu—” I started to say, but Angela
had already rushed off.

“What’d she say?” Posie asked.

I shook my head.  The world was a
wearying place.

“She had to go.  More misery for
you to read about in the papers.”

“Sometimes I can’t stand it
anymore,” Posie said softly.

“Then stop reading about it.  It
only depresses you.”

“I can’t stop.  I have to know.”

Fuck if they don’t keep on
coming.

Love Drunk

[1]

Mrs. Sherbern doesn’t really do
Thanksgiving.  Or Christmas, for that matter.  Or Easter.

Posie thinks it has something to do
with Mr. Sherbern not being there.  For as long as Posie can remember, her
mother has always ordered Mexican food for all the major holidays, and she and
Posie sit in the family room, eating off TV trays, watching a string of
romantic movies and having a good cry.

My mother invited me for
Thanksgiving, but Charles was going to be there, so no thanks.  I had no idea
how my father spent it, and I didn’t care.

We began our Thanksgiving movie
marathon at the Sherbern house around noon and finished close to midnight,
taking breaks here and there for chips and salsa, chimichangas, and ice cream
sundaes to soothe the salsa burns in our mouths.  We all wore our favorite
slack around clothes—sweatpants and sweatshirt for me, stylish pink flannels
and fuzzy pink socks for Posie, slacks and a sweater for Mrs. Sherbern.  We
kept the Kleenex box between us and wept over
The American President
,
and then
Sleepless in Seattle
, followed by
You’ve Got Mail
,
culminating in
Gone With the Wind
.  And there it was, Criterion Number
Two, Rhett sweeping Scarlett into his arms and lugging her up the stairs.

Why can’t life be more like that?

[2]

I am so pathetic.  I admit that.

I must have been love drunk from
all those movies, because next thing I know it’s almost one o’clock in the
morning and I’m dialing Jason’s cell.

“Hello?”  Groggy.  Irritated.

“Um . . .hi.”

“Lizzie?”

“Yeah.”

He cleared his throat.  “What’s
going on?”

“Nothing.”  I swallowed the dry
hunk of fear in my throat.  “I was just . . . thinking about you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Want me to come over?”

“No!”

Jason groaned.  “Lizzie, what are
you doing?”

“I have no idea.”

“Well, call me back when you do.  I’m
sick of this.”  He hung up without waiting for my response.

I tapped the phone against my
teeth.

Make up your mind,
I
reasoned with myself.

It’s already made up,
came
the answer.

Then stop teasing the poor boy.

And worse—stop teasing yourself.

[3]

First week of December.  Posie
acted the hell out of Ophelia in
Hamlet
.  Her picture on the posters in
the halls.  Rave reviews in the school and city newspapers.  My friend’s fame
was growing.

Which brought an invitation from an
unexpected suitor.

“The Winter Formal?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“No, of course.”

“Good.”

Brett Rutledge had a bad
reputation.  Sure, he was startlingly good looking, with sandy blond hair,
showcase white teeth straightened to perfection by his orthodontist mother, and
the broad chest and shoulders of a champion swimmer—UCLA had already offered
him an athletic scholarship—but Posie never fell for things like that.  Or so I
thought.

“I told him we’d have to go out
somewhere neutral first,” she said.  “Get to know one another.”

“What?  Posie, why are you even
considering it?  That guy sleeps around more than Jason.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We certainly do!  Ask anyone.  He’s
a total pig.”

“Lizzie, settle down.  I didn’t say
I was going to sleep with him.”

“I assume not.  But what makes you
think a guy like that will take no for an answer?”

Posie sat up straighter and squared
her shoulders.  “He’ll just have to.  Those are the rules.”

[4]

I had my own invitation to reject.

“No, thanks,” I told Chris.  “But
that’s nice of you.”

“You sure?”  He spun on the ball of
his foot.  “We really cut up the floor before.”

“We sure did,” I lied, “but sorry,
I can’t.”

I walked in the opposite direction
and fought the urge to wipe off my tongue with my sleeve.  I can’t believe that
guy tried to French me.  I can’t believe he was my first kiss.  And what’s with
asking me out?  I thought he was gay.  But  maybe he thought Jason would be
going with me again.

Fat chance.

Jason barely looked at me anymore
when we passed in the halls.  He certainly never hung out at Posie’s.  That
last stupid phone call of mine had finally been enough to cool whatever
affection he felt.

Which is what I had decided I
wanted.

Right?

[5]

And next thing I know, Posie’s in
love.

She came home from the Winter
Formal at one-thirty in the morning with stars in her eyes.  “It was so
wonderful.”

I had spent the evening watching a
string of stupid reality shows with Posie’s mother.  Mrs. Sherbern couldn’t get
enough of those things.  After three hours of non-stop sniping and bitching and
back-stabbing, I wasn’t in the best of moods.  I had gone to bed in a snit. 
And now Posie was waking me to share her happy news.  No thank you very much.

“How was Brett?” I asked
sarcastically.

Posie threw her pink feather boa on
the chair.  She kicked her shoes into the closet.  “Wonderful.  A perfect
gentleman.”

I snorted.  “I’m sure.”

She pulled her 1920s pink flapper
costume over her head.  “He was.”  Posie narrowed her eyes at me.  “What’s
wrong with you?”

“Nothing.”

“You could have gone, you know.”

“Right.  Be Chris’s beard.”

I love that term.  I heard it on
some British drama on PBS once.  It means you’re the woman a man goes out with
to cover the fact that he’s gay.  Not a very flattering role.

Posie sat on my bed and gave it an
extra bounce.  “Please don’t be in a bad mood.  Can I tell you about tonight?”

I relented.  It wasn’t her fault I
was such a twit and couldn’t hold on to my man.  “Sure.”

“I love his teeth.”

“Okay . . .”

“They’re so white and straight.”

“So obviously he had braces—so what?”

Posie shrugged.  “I don’t know, I
just like them.  And he’s a great dancer—you should have seen him.”

“Better than Jason?”

“Impossible, but good nevertheless.” 
Posie hesitated, then whispered, “He kissed me.”

“Of course he did.”  My heart did a
slow burn.

“And he is a GREAT kisser.  I didn’t
think he would be, but . . .”  She closed her eyes and her voice trailed off as
she replayed it in her mind.

I cleared my throat.  My virginal
senses were piqued.

Posie understood the issue right
away.  “Don’t worry, it won’t go any farther than that.  He’s trying to decide
between UCLA and Stanford.  Either way, I’ll probably never see him again after
this summer.”

According to our code of virgin
honor, you’d never sleep with a boy you didn’t have any real hope of marrying. 
Brett was sunk, whether he knew it or not.  Posie could only consider in-state
boys.

“Stanford, huh?  Pretty pricey. 
Must be rich.”  The way I said it made it sound like he had syphilis.

“His family’s rich, but so is
yours,” she reminded me.  “So don’t get self-righteous on me.”

“It’s different for me.  My parents
didn’t give me a Beemer on my sixteenth birthday.”

“His didn’t either,” Posie said.  “God,
are you being a brat tonight!  Forget it—you obviously don’t want to hear about
this.”

I didn’t need to take it out on
her.  Here I was living in her bedroom, eating her mother’s food, taking
advantage of her hospitality.  The least I could do was let her share her
excitement.

“Posie, I’m sorry.  You’re right.”

“I have to go take off my makeup,”
she answered.  “Maybe when I come back you’ll be pleasant.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeated when she
returned.  “Go ahead.  Tell me everything.”

Posie lay on her bed and extended
her arms over her head in a great long cat stretch.  “I don’t know.  It was a
wonderful night.  I had a lovely time.”

“So what are you going to do?  I
mean, with him leaving and everything?”

“Kiss him,” she answered with a
smile.  “A lot.”

“He’s not Jason, you know.  What
makes you think he’ll stop?”

“Because I already told him,” Posie
said.  “He knows he’s not getting past the waistband.”

“Oh, but above is okay?”

Posie’s mouth tilted at one edge.  “We’ll
see.”

It’s one of those moments in time I
wish I could freeze, rewind, and rewrite to come out differently.  I should
have said this, Posie would have said that—there would have been a different
outcome altogether.

“He is cute,” I conceded.

“Delicious,” Posie agreed.

One more mistake to add to the
list.