The Lies About Truth (3 page)
Read The Lies About Truth Online
Authors: Courtney C. Stevens
“Okay.”
“Swear,” he said, and put out his pinkie.
We swore all the swears we knew.
Trent claimed pinkie swears should be rated R. Then, without further discussion, we turned our backs to each other and took off the rest of our clothes. I held mine in my hand. I’m not sure what he did with his.
There I was, naked with Trent McCall. Technically, I was naked
near
Trent McCall, but it seemed like a pretty legit skinny-dip to me.
“Are we going to turn around?” he asked.
“Don’t ask me. This was your idea. You think it counts if we don’t?”
“Yep.” He sounded truly nervous now.
“What do we do?” I asked.
His voice crawled out of him. “Put our underwear back on?”
We did exactly that, swam back to the rocks and hauled ourselves out, dripping and laughing. “I didn’t think you’d strip,” Trent said.
“And miss out on the trifecta of adulthood? I don’t think so,” I teased.
“But we’re not going to tell anyone?”
“Naw,” I promised.
And I hadn’t. Except now, it seemed like I had.
I opened my computer, hoping to wind down the night with Max.
The connection at the convent compound where he’d lived for the past eleven months could be pretty sketchy. We were lucky enough to live in the same time zone, but El Salvador didn’t do daylight saving time, so he was actually an hour behind me. It was nine forty-five his time. I opened a chat window and waited to see if he would respond. If not, I’d email.
Me:
You there?
Three little dots appeared.
Him:
Yep.
Me:
What’s up?
Him:
I have a surprise for you.
Me:
I need a good one. Rough night around here.
Him:
Tell me about it.
I opted to leave him out of the mysterious Big business and go straight to the most worrisome thing on my mind.
Me:
My parents are currently the spawn of Satan.
Him:
I laughed. Max and his small victories of making heavy things light.
I explained that they were making me go back to school in the fall and that they wanted me to be social this summer.
Him:
What do you think about all that?
Me:
It would be easier if you were here.
I didn’t want to say too much on the topic because Max felt really isolated.
He’d lost his brother and most of his voice, and then his parents had moved him to a third-world country. On a scale of suck, he topped out pretty high on the charts. Complaining about school—something he dearly missed—would be insensitive.
Him:
Well, beautiful, that could be arranged.
I held
beautiful
in the palm of my hand instead of letting it go to my heart. He only said stuff like that because he couldn’t see me. Hadn’t seen me. I’d told him all about the plastic surgeries and physical therapy, but that didn’t translate into an image for him. What would he say when he came home for the anniversary?
Injuries weren’t the only obstacles we’d face. Email Sadie was confident. Email Sadie flirted.
Email Sadie wasn’t a lie; she was an invention of hope.
So I had to question if the relationship we had here, created in a year’s worth of emails, would hold water at home.
I had serious doubts.
That I kept to myself.
Me:
Tell me you’re coming home tomorrow.
Him:
I’m coming home tomorrow.
Me:
Don’t mess with me.
Him:
I’m not. That was my surprise. I’m flying home tomorrow with Mom.
Tomorrow.
Whoa.
Me:
:-) Best news ever!
I was incredibly ready to see
him
. I just wasn’t ready for him to see
me
.
Him:
I know, right? I thought Mom was joking until she showed me the tickets. Can you pick us up?
I couldn’t pick him up by myself. Driving a car wasn’t something I did. I’d been getting around in my tennis shoes and an old Honda Spree. Even if I did manage to snag a ride, the airport . . . well, I hadn’t been in a crowd like that since my last panic attack at the grocery store.
Him:
I really meant . . . can you meet us? I know crowds are hard for you. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t really want to see you. But if you can’t, I’ll wait until I get to the house.
The sheer power of his understanding fueled my courage.
Me:
One way or another, I’ll be there. What time?
We exchanged the details, and I let him go so he could pack.
Max was coming home.
It was the best news I’d had in a year.
Switching off the lamp, I settled under my duvet and stared at the slivers of moonlight slicing through the miniblinds in my room. Light, flying through space, bouncing off the moon from ninety-three million miles away. Crazy-powerful.
Max only had to travel twelve hundred miles tomorrow, but I thought of him the same way: a crazy-powerful light. What would he think of me? I flopped this way and that—worried about his reaction and that whoever had gone through Big might start sharing those notes with other people—before I gave up and retrieved Big from the floor.
“You can stay up here. As long as you keep your beak shut.”
Big said nothing, so I nuzzled my face against his, and listened to the ceiling fan turn until late into the night.
Some Emails to Max in El Salvador
From: [email protected]
Date: July 11
Subject: RE: how are you?
Max,
Thanks for emailing me. I didn’t know if you would have internet or not, but I’m glad you do. I still can’t believe you’re in El Salvador. I stare at your house, all vacant and dark, and can’t believe you’re gone. Mom said that your mom and dad met in San Vicente when they were in the peace corps. She wasn’t surprised your dad took the bridge contract when it came up because it’s a good way to go back to who they were before all this happened.
It might be great for them, but it doesn’t feel fair to you. For me, it’s too easy to believe Trent’s just on vacation.
Typing his name is hard.
Typing anything is hard. My right arm is still in a cast to my shoulder so I’m pecking this out with my left. My words still come slowly at times, but the doctors say my brain is fine. They say I’m lucky. I know you asked how I’m doing, but I’ll have to tell you more in the next email. That’s not an easy or fast answer.
What about you? How’s your voice? Is your vocal cord healing? It must be really hard not to be able to speak. Do people there know about Trent?
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 13
Subject: don’t be brave with me, mister
Max,
You said you were lucky that no one there knows. Did you mean that? If no one there knows, then they don’t have access to Trent or to who you were with him. That’s a shame, ya know?
I keep thinking about all the people I might meet in life, and how they won’t know him. And that seems like a whole other tragedy.
Honestly, you sound like you’re trying to be brave.
You don’t have to do that with me.
In fact, if you need bravery, you’ve come to the wrong spot. I’m empty. So what if our emails are the place we set aside to be honest? And if you’re lonely, or scared, or sad, or angry, or . . . whatever, you say it here, to me. And I’ll do the same.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 17
Subject: RE: don’t be brave with me, mister
Max,
You’re right. I didn’t actually do the same. So here goes:
I’m lonely, and I’m surrounded by people. People who think they understand, but they aren’t inside my head. I feel like I’m living in the middle of a terrible “You had to be there” story.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 22
Subject: Where is our prestidigitator?
Max,
True. I’m not living that story alone. We were in the car together.
Thank you for telling me how angry you are. Keep telling me. I might not know what to say, but I’ll listen.
I’d pay a million dollars for a time machine or a magic wand. I’ve been a fixer my whole life, and this is unfixable. That’s overwhelming to me.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 26
Subject: RE: Gina and Gray
Max,
You’re right, except you’re wrong. Technically, I have Gina and Gray, but at the same time, I don’t. So far, every time we’ve been together all we’ve done is push each other’s grief buttons. Then, it turns into a weird cry-fest, which isn’t helpful. So lately, when either of them visits, I pretend I’m sleeping. That’s terrible, but I’m too tired to cry. Plus, I don’t want them to see me like this. And I really don’t want to see them the way I see them, either.
Mom says I’m looking better. Of course, Mom is nuts. My face looks like a cracked desert. The doctors are going to do a
series of plastic surgeries when I’m healthier. I’m hopeful those will help. Maybe then I’ll have conversations with my friends, family, and strangers that aren’t about my face or the wreck.
It’s crazy. In the time we need each other most, we don’t seem to know what to do with each other.
The doctors put a steel rod in my arm. If they’d been more considerate, they would have inserted a forget
button in my chest. Ah, the limits of modern medicine.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 28
Subject: Apology Central—How may I direct your call?
Max,
Yeah, I’m not surprised Gina and Gray emailed you. Both of them asked me for your email address. What you said is fine. I would never tell them stuff about you, either. And yes, they say
I’m sorry
like those are the only two words in their vocabularies.
Honestly, I don’t want their sorrys. All I want is for them to look at me—to see me the way they used to. I want to believe that who I was for sixteen years is stronger than the picture they have of me now. Can I ever be the crazy, fun girl again?
At the very least, they could stop bullshitting me. I’m tired of them saying, “Sadie, you’re looking much better.” How would
they know? Neither of them will actually look at me, so . . .
Mom says they feel guilty for causing the wreck, which I get, but losing them, and Trent, and even you (in a way) is too much for me right now.
Sadie
From: [email protected]
Date: July 30
Subject: RE: No Skype, Please
Max,
The fact that you can’t see me helps big-time. It’s easier to email someone the truth when you know you don’t have to face him. Maybe if Gina and Gray went away, it would help. Maybe I’ll go away instead.
You and I didn’t hang out as much as Trent and I when you lived next door, but it’s nice to have something new that didn’t exist before our world hit the spin cycle. Mom says painful events are life’s wrecking balls—they make doorways that let some people out and others in. I guess these emails are me putting a welcome mat at the foot of the rubble and whispering, “Max, come on in.”
That’s scary, but it’s helpful. If that is ever too much pressure, let me know. Something about this feels right. Or maybe it just feels easy.
I need some easy.
Other people mean well, but they don’t, or can’t, understand. They ask how I’m doing and it’s awkward because I don’t have a clue. There are two parts to the question:
1. How am I doing physically?
2. How am I doing without Trent?
I don’t know how to answer either. Do you?
As for number two, this is my guess: He was your brother. He was my friend. I know exactly how you’re doing without him. I take how I feel and multiply times a billion.
Sadie
I humbled myself the next morning and asked for a ride to the airport. That ask went down better than expected. Mom was as ecstatic to see the McCalls as I was. She even offered to straighten my hair and do my makeup—an offer I happily accepted. I’d take all the help I could get.
About forty-five minutes into the process she threw down the eyelash curler and said, “Looking good. You want nail polish, too?”
“Nah, I’ll just chew it off.”
She smacked my hands away from my mouth. “It’s Max. You don’t have to be nervous.”
“That’s exactly why I’m nervous. I don’t want to screw this up.”
“Flip your head over a few times.”
I did as instructed. When I straightened back up, she set a straw fedora on my head and tweaked two rogue strands into place. “Bea
uti
ful,” she whispered.
I stuck my feet in a pair of sandals and said, “Let’s hope Max agrees.”
Mom placed both hands on her hips. “If he doesn’t, he’s fired.”
I laughed and thanked her.
“Hey, it’s what I’m here for.”
Mom took advantage of getting me out of the house, doting on me, treating me to a meal at the pier (dark, corner booth) and gelato (chocolate). We were almost late to the airport.
Was it against the rules to buy a guy flowers? It was either roses, magazines from the Hudson News stand, or ten bucks toward something sketchy from the refrigerated case. I couldn’t show up empty-handed after a year, so I went with the roses. Yellow, because yellow was more masculine than pink.
“Yellow means friendship,” Mom said.
“Dammit.”
Mom laughed. “Max probably won’t know that.”
I stared a hole through the arrivals board from my corner of the small waiting area. Mom plopped down in one of those uncomfortable leather seats, tapping her foot while she checked email on her phone. When flight number 4563 from Miami changed from
On Time
to
Landed
, I came and stood next to her. Right on cue, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
Max:
On the ground.
Me:
Waiting area!
“You ready?” Mom asked.
“I’m . . . not sure,” I admitted. My hands poured sweat, and I wiped them on Mom’s shoulders to demonstrate. I figured she used to spit-clean my face in public, and paybacks were a bitch. She gave me an “Oh, gross,” but smiled the whole time.
“You look great,” she promised.
“We did our best.”
To keep from pacing, I tucked into a ball at her feet and smelled the roses. They were sure to make Max laugh—a nice way to kick off his return. Perhaps a distraction from my face.
Max:
At the gate. Warning! I smell like a plane & I sound like an engine.
Me:
I don’t care.
Max:
*Smiles*
Mom and I stood up, anxious. Sonia appeared first and waved.
“Hey, Sadie! Hey, Tara! I’ll be right there.” Her voice stretched down the monochrome hallway to greet me before she darted into the women’s restroom.
Behind her was Max. I nearly collapsed at the sight of him. When Max left for El Salvador he was five six and 175 pounds; I never dreamed he’d return at over six feet. Stocky and boyish transformed into lean and ropy and . . . sort of hot.
Hot.
(adj.) a word I never expected I’d use to describe Max McCall.
The closer he came, the more I realized he looked nearly
identical to Trent. I lowered the fedora, ensuring it fully covered Idaho, and prepared myself for his examination. Max half jogged, half ran toward the security exit and flipped an apologetic wave to the TSA lady guarding the Point of No Return.
I imagined the TSA lady smiling at him, loving her job of witnessing reunited families.
“Sadie.” His voice strained to reach above a whisper, but he sounded so happy.
“Max.”
There was no hesitation on his part. He threw out his arms as if he were catching the entire sky, and cinched us together.
Instinct took over, and I held him back. The fedora fell off.
Plane smell was a mixture of fajita, sweat, and Max. Plane smelled perfect. I dropped the roses on the fedora and held on all the way to my fingertips. Inside his hug was rough and firm and warm, like a cozy sleeping bag on a January night.
My
You look like Trent
came out as, “You’re so . . . tall.”
“I’m glad to see you, too.” Max lifted me off the ground and swung me side to side. It was such a Trent thing to do, or maybe now it was such a Max thing to do. Regardless, this total smash of muscle-against-muscle friendship was hard to put into words.
I didn’t try. I just enjoyed it.
When the hug ended, he latched on to his backpack straps and looked at me. I didn’t let him linger. I grabbed my hat and shoved it on my head, checking with Mom for a nod of approval.
She gave it as Max said, “You look amazing.”
That gravelly voice worked on me. He meant what he said, but I set my sights on the carpet, unsure of what to say or whether to argue. I had a hat over Idaho, jeans over Pink Floyd, and sleeves over Tennessee. Of the bigger scars, that left the jagged one that arched up from the right corner of my mouth that I’d never named. I’d considered Mississippi, because it was two crooked, jagged lines—a sideways squiggly lightning bolt—but it never stuck. If Max saw all these imperfections, plus other minor ones, then
amazing
wouldn’t be his word of choice. Piecing Frankenstein back together took time and money.
Max focused on my eyes. “Seriously, I like the hat.”
I switched the subject. “You look . . .” I inventoried Max. Cutoffs; sandals; worn University of El Salvador T-shirt; long, choppy brown hair that the sun had worked on; a dirty FSU baseball cap hanging out of his pocket. It wasn’t all those things that struck me most; it was the way they fit him. The way they would have fit Trent: loose in some places, fitted in others.
He flicked his head toward the restrooms. “Mom says it all the time. I didn’t want to tell you.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I hadn’t totally warned him about my appearance either.
Mom intervened in our awkwardness. “It’s good to have you back, sweetheart.”
Max coughed and touched his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was a little louder.
“Hey, Mrs. K. It’s good to be back.”
Years of neighborly surrogate-mom moments showed in their welcome-home embrace. If Max were Trent, he’d have said something profoundly silly. Max was just Max though, and the hug was enough.
I held my hand up and measured his height. “Good Lord, what have they been feeding you?” I asked.
He laughed. “Beans.”
“You’re taller than he was,” I said.
Max straightened his back and put out his chin, proud of the six or seven inches he’d gained in the past year. “Not by much.”
I saw a ghost of Trent put Max in a headlock and tease, “You’ll always be my
little
brother.” He would’ve wrestled him down to the floor until Max tapped out.
Shaking away the image, I said, “Well, I guess I can wear any size heel I want around you.” Which was total crap; I never wore heels. Still, I popped him on the chest, unable to control my happiness now that the initial meet-and-greet was over. “I can’t believe you’re home.”
“I know, right? My face hurts from smiling,” he said, and stretched his jaw.
His voice hurt too. I winced a little for him.
Max’s mom manifested out of thin air carrying two shopping bags and a purse made of Kit Kat wrappers. “Tara!” Sonia dropped her bags and gave Mom a hug and then me. Time away had been kind to her. She’d shed four skins of sadness
since last June, but she still wore some of it in her eyes and a little more in the gray hair above her ears. Max’s messages indicated Operation: Heal the Family had been relatively successful. Still, this trip home must be bittersweet.
“Dad caught a flight on Tuesday,” Max explained as I glanced around. He touched his throat, cleared it, and said, “He had some business in New York and had to fly into Panama City.”
“Hey, you sound good. Your voice is louder than I expected.”
He ignored my compliment the way I’d ignored his earlier. Instead, he picked up the flowers I’d dropped. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I had to do something.”
There are two kinds of laughter: at and with, and Max was brilliant at the with kind.
“You haven’t changed a bit, Sadie,” he said.
“I’ve changed several thousand dollars’ worth, Max McCall.”
Sonia interrupted her son’s reply. “I think Max is trying to say the roses are lovely.”
I swiped the roses from him and handed them to Sonia, feeling my cheeks turn pink with embarrassment. I wondered what that color looked like against my scar.
“We’ll put them in water when we get home. It’ll be nice to have that fresh smell in the house.” She turned to Mom. “George said the house looked wonderful. Thank you so much for taking care of us.”
Mom touched her friend on the arm. “It was a pleasure to help.”
The two of them linked arms like sisters and leaned their heads together. Max and I let them walk on ahead of us. He pointed to the Baggage sign and I fell into step with him down the short concourse.
When we arrived at the baggage carousels, Mom split away toward the exit and said, “I’m going to go pull the car up.”
Max spotted his mom’s bags immediately. He tugged two large crates and three pieces of luggage off the belt and dropped them next to me.
As I stepped away to grab a cart, a little girl, probably three or four, tugged on her mother’s shirt. “Mommy, Mommy, what happened to that lady’s mouth?”
“Trisha, it’s not nice to point,” the mom scolded the girl, and shot me a silent
Sorry
.
I shrugged to make the woman feel better, but everyone near us had already caught the spectacle. Great. Love being the local freak show. I made a mental note to stop smiling. Resting bitch-face calmed the scar at my mouth to a thin red line.
Max stroked my back the way Gray once had—in a way I could get used to—and said, “Shake that off. Kids are crazy.”
I went with it. “Yep,” I said, knowing my bravado failed.
Max pulled me into another full-body tackle-hug.
Somewhere in the distant past, I heard Trent’s voice say, “Hold on. Hold on. Hold on.”
