The Lies I Told(14)

I stepped off the elevator, drawing in a breath and shoving aside the anger. It didn’t do anyone, especially me, any good to dwell on the negative. Positive thoughts, Brit. Positive thoughts.

As I fumbled with my keys, I glanced to the other apartment on this floor and saw an assortment of moving boxes stacked outside. Marisa had a new neighbor. Good. At least she wasn’t up here all alone. Why didn’t she tell me . . . ?

Positive thoughts, Brit.

I shoved the key in the lock and opened the door. After flipping on a light, I moved to the kitchen. I dug two cleanish mugs from the cabinet and rinsed each out. Marisa could sleep through anything but freshly brewed coffee. When I heard feet hit the ground in the back bedroom, I smiled, rewashed a couple of plates, and set them beside a bag of bagels.

Reaching for the birthday bag, I pulled out the presents. I set out the Leica, the camera strap, and the bag filled with disposable cameras. All thoughtful gifts. I walked to a shelf near the window and set the Leica next to a dozen other cameras she’d collected. As I turned, I spotted a small red point-and-shoot camera. Daddy had given the camera to Marisa and a pink one to Clare when they turned sixteen. Marisa had all but worn hers out, but Clare had been more selective with her digital pictures, shooting only when her subject wasn’t looking. Annoying but cute.

I folded up the bag and tossed the wrapping before I poured myself a cup, which I was sipping when Marisa appeared dressed in an oversize T-shirt that skimmed her knees. She was gripping her phone in one hand and a metal flashlight in the other.

“Good morning,” I said.

“I thought I had a break-in.”

“You know I have a key.”

“I’d forgotten.”

I filled another cup. “How’s your memory?”

“Good except for the missing chunk.” She set her phone and flashlight on the counter, took a sip, then grabbed milk from the refrigerator. She splashed enough in her mug to lighten it two shades.

“Have you seen the neurologist lately? I remember a follow-up appointment Wednesday.”

Marisa raised her gaze. Sipped coffee. “I rescheduled it for Thursday morning. Too much work for the first of the week, and I like morning appointments better.”

“You rescheduled? You can’t do that. This is your brain we’re talking about.”

“It’s one extra day, the last scan was clear, and this visit wasn’t critical. The doctor said as much at my last appointment. So you can stop.”

Drawing in a breath. “Stop what?”

Marisa grinned. “Mothering.”

The smile caught me off guard, not because Marisa smiled so little (which was true) but because I remembered Clare, the bright, happy twin. When they were born, our mother placed both babies in my three-year-old lap. Clare had cooed, whereas Marisa had cried. Marisa had never been one to cuddle or play, but she was serious and introspective. When the twins had been small, Clare had done all the talking, and Marisa had been content to let her younger twin communicate for them both.

And when that detective had told us they’d found Clare’s body after four days of searching, my father and I had turned to Marisa. Without makeup or her typical goth attire, she looked so much like Clare, and for an instant I thought the cops had made a mistake. Then Marisa spoke, her raspy voice shattering the illusion. She saw the disappointment mirrored on Daddy’s and my faces. We’d both tried to cover, but Marisa had read our expressions.

It wasn’t Marisa’s fault that Clare was more vibrant, playful, and compliant. She always brightened up a room with her smile, and she always let the doctor examine her when she was sick, and she’d always taken her medicine. Marisa had fought Mommy and later me every step of the way on everything. M was who she was, and that had never been quite enough for me.

“It was good to see everyone,” Marisa said. “Why’d you invite that group?”

“I thought it would be fun to go down memory lane.”

“You hate memory lane.” She dusted the everything seeds from her bagel onto her napkin.

“It wasn’t my birthday. It was yours.”

“Right. Well, thank you for the effort. It was nice.”

I picked up my purse and walked to the framed black-and-white pictures. Each time I’d come into the apartment while Marisa was in the hospital, I’d stopped and stared at them. Moody and distant, like Marisa. And they whispered a message that always taunted me. “You should have another show.” I turned, found Marisa cupping her mug in both hands, staring at the images. “Not still stressing about the missed ten days, are you?”

“Maybe a little.”

“Why?”

“They hold secrets. And you know how I hate secrets.” Marisa’s light tone barely skim coated over the frustration fracturing the words.

“There are no secrets. There was your art show. You had three prewedding planning appointments the week leading up. And then a wedding the Saturday right after. The accident was the following Friday evening. There was nothing to miss but work.”

“I sold one of my prints that week. To whom, I don’t know.”

“There was no entry in your Venmo account.”

“It was a cash deal.”

I walked to the door, opened it. “Call me if you need anything.”

“Will do.”