The Last Time I Lied(76)

“Why?” Miranda asks.

I know I should stop. I’ve already said too much. But there’s no turning back now. I’m tired of omitting things, which is practically the same as lying. I want to speak the truth. Maybe that’s what might finally heal me.

“Because I locked the door behind them.”

Miranda sucks in air. A muted gasp. Trying to hide her shock.

“You locked them out?”

I nod, another tear falling. It traces the path of the first, deviating only when it reaches my mouth. I taste it on my lips. Salty. Bitter.

“And I refused to let them back in. Even after they knocked. And jiggled the doorknob. And pleaded with me to let them in.”

I look to the cabin door, picturing it the way it appeared that night. Pale in the darkness, dusted with moonlight, doorknob rattling back and forth. I hear the sharp rapping on the wood and someone calling my name on the other side.

Emma.

It was Vivian.

Come on, Em. Let me in.

I shrank into my bottom bunk, squeezing myself into the corner. I pulled the covers to my chin and huddled beneath them, trying to will away the sound coming from the other side of the door.

Emma, please.

I slid under the covers, lost in the darkness within, staying there until the knocking, the rattling, Vivian herself faded away.

“I could have let them in,” I say. “I should have. But I didn’t. Because I was young and stupid and angry. But if I had let them in, all three would still be here. And I wouldn’t be carrying around this awful feeling that I killed them.”

Two more tears follow the designated path. I wipe them away with the back of my hand.

“I paint them. All three of them. Every painting I’ve finished for years has included them. Only no one knows they’re there. I cover them up. And I don’t know why. I can’t help myself. But I can’t keep on painting them. It’s crazy. I’m crazy. But now I think that if I can somehow find out what happened, then maybe I’ll be able to stop painting them. Which means that maybe I’ve finally forgiven myself.”

I stop talking and look up from the floor. Sasha, Krystal, and Miranda stare at me, silent and motionless. They look at me the same way children eye a stranger. Curious and skittish.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m not feeling well. I’ll be fine in the morning.”

I stand, woozy, swaying like a storm-battered tree. The girls slide out of my way and start to climb to their feet. I gesture for them to stay where they are.

“Don’t let me spoil your night. Keep playing.”

They do. Because they’re nervous. Because they’re scared. Because they don’t know what else to do but to keep playing, appeasing me, waiting until I pass out, which likely will be any second now.

“One more round,” Miranda says, her decisiveness not quite masking her fear. “I’ll go.”

I close my eyes before crawling into bed. Rather, they close on their own, no matter how much I try to keep them open. I’m too tired. Too drunk. Too emotionally flattened by my confession. Temporarily blinded, I feel my way into bed, reaching for the mattress, my pillow, the wall. I curl into a ball, my knees to my chest, back turned to the girls. My standard humiliation position.

“One: I once got sick after riding the Cyclone at Coney Island.” Miranda’s voice slows, cautious, pausing to hear if I’m asleep yet. “Two: I read about a hundred books a year.”

Sleep overwhelms me immediately. It’s like a trapdoor, opening up beneath me. I willingly fall, plummeting into unconsciousness. As I tumble, I can still hear Miranda, her voice faint and fading fast.

“Three: I’m worried about Emma.”





This is how it continues.

You scream again.

And again.

You do it even though you don’t know why. Yet you also sort of do. Because no matter how much you try, you can’t rid your mind of those too-terrible-to-think thoughts. Deep down, you know that one of them is true.

So you scream one more time, waking the rest of the camp. Even standing in the lake, ten feet from shore, you can sense a wave of energy pulsing toward you. It’s a sudden jolt. A collective surprise. A heron on the shore senses it and spreads its long, elegant wings. It takes flight, rising high, riding the sound of your screams.

The first person you see is Franny. She bursts onto the back deck of the Lodge. The screams have already tipped her off that something is wrong. One quick glance at you in the water confirms it. She flies down the wooden steps, the hem of her white nightgown fluttering.

Chet is next, all sleepy eyes and bedhead. He stays on the deck, unnerved, his hands gripping the railing. After that comes Theo, not even pausing, racing down the steps. You see that he’s clad only in a pair of boxer shorts, the sight of all that exposed skin obscene under the circumstances. You look away, queasy.

Others have gathered along the shore, campers and counselors alike, standing motionless in the mist. All of them scared and startled and curious. That above everything else. Their curiosity comes at you like a frigid wind. You hate them just then. You hate their eagerness to learn something you already know, no matter how terrible it may be.

Becca Schoenfeld stands among them. You hate her most of all because she actually has the gall to chronicle what’s happening. She elbows her way to the front of the crowd, her camera raised. When she clicks off a few shots, the noise of the shutter skips across the lake like a flat stone.