The Lies I Told(2)
Outside, I looked at the grainy image of your face. I’d thought I had never forgotten one detail about you. But now I saw time had degraded my memory. Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz had jumped from black and white to Technicolor.
2
MARISA
Friday, March 11, 2022
Richmond, Virginia
7:45 p.m.
“Happy birthday to us, Clare.” The Stockton twins had hit the big three-oh. The last thirty years had been rough for me, and it was a minor miracle I was here. But it was bittersweet: I wasn’t the twin who’d been murdered thirteen years ago.
Perhaps that was why our older sister, Brit, believed celebrating our thirtieth birthday in style was imperative. Another decade bit the dust. We, or at least I, had officially grown up.
Despite several noes from me about a party, Brit had indicated that she’d already invited our high school friends, ordered our favorite cake, and chosen blue balloons—our favorite. No clowns, she swore with a smile. (We never liked clowns.) It would be fun, she said. Good to celebrate this milestone.
When Brit’s talking points didn’t sway me, she reminded me, as any good sister would, “You’re lucky to be alive.”
The comment cut deep and robbed me of a response.
“We were all worried about you after the accident in January,” she said. “Refusing is basically selfish.”
Selfish was a word Brit had aimed my way a lot over the years: I spent too much time squandering a life you never had. The truth pissed me off, and she knew it. I said yes to the party.
The party was being held at J.J.’s Pub, which was within walking distance of my apartment. J.J.’s Pub was a somebody-might-know-your-name kind of place that served killer fries and tall, cold brews. It was also owned by Jack Dutton, my high school drug buddy. We were both clean now, but back in the day . . .
My sister’s choice of venues was strategic. Not only was she tossing her high school boyfriend Jack some business, but she knew I’d always show up for J.J.’s Pub fries, even on birthdays that felt like a loss, not a win.
The restaurant’s dim light created sharp shadows, brightened only by soft pot lights and flickering table candles. The music was classic jazz piano and horns. Hard to believe I’d had an art show here two months ago. Felt like a lifetime now.
I walked up to the bar and ordered two shots of tequila. The bar was full tonight. Not a surprise on a Friday that was one of the first warmish evenings Richmond had seen this year.
The bartender, Chip, wore a light-blue collared shirt, khakis, and an eager grin. He was a prep who looked like he had driven too far east on I-64 and missed all the suburban exits.
Chip set up the shot glasses and filled each with a generous pour. He had flair—there was more than met the eye to the Boy Scout who had clearly heard about my birthday ritual. I settled on a barstool, knowing I’d have to make my way to the banquet room soon or Brit would hunt me down.
I glanced around at customers who were as prone to wearing suits and ties as they were torn jeans and graphic T-shirts. That was typical of Richmond’s Manchester district, located on the south side of the James River, across from the city’s financial district. Most of the residents were drawn by the district’s artistic urban vibe and river views.
The bar’s door opened and slammed hard.
Panic. It rushed me from out of nowhere, seizing my muscles and constricting my chest in tight strips of invisible rope. I pressed my foot on the bar’s footrest, as if pushing against my car’s accelerator, ratcheting an imaginary speedometer’s needle to nearly fifty miles an hour, a dangerous speed on the city’s narrow side streets.
Lights reflecting in the mirror behind the bar conjured headlights in my Jeep’s rearview mirror. The memory was hard to grab, but I knew my fogged brain, fragmented by adrenaline, registered that I was being chased. He’s going to kill me. I need to get away. Get help.
A man sat on the barstool near mine. New Guy glanced in my direction and unsettled my nerves more. I hadn’t hit the bars in a year, and I was out of practice. My first instinct was to simply retreat to the banquet room, but that would mean facing the buzz saw of birthday streamers and balloons.
New Guy cleared his throat, and I felt his unwavering attention. I wasn’t normally jittery, but I’d been in a single-car accident in January. Crashed my Jeep into a utility pole. I didn’t remember the accident or the days around it. A few days here or there shouldn’t have mattered in the big picture, but those lost memories felt as if they mattered a great deal. My sister said I’d been taking drugs. I didn’t believe I was, but with no memories, I couldn’t prove it.
My heartbeat kicked up as my palms grew damp—a fight-or-flight response triggered by the car accident. Pride kept me on the stool. I turned toward New Guy.
Broad shoulders filled out a gray brewery T-shirt, and he wore faded but clean jeans and scuffed hiking boots that didn’t jibe with winter-pale skin likely earned during hours behind a computer screen. He had a lean build, an angled face, deep-set eyes feathered with creases at the corners, and fading blond strands streaking chestnut hair. All suggested he loved the outdoors but paid the light bill with an office job that kept him really busy. Individually his features weren’t memorable or even attractive, but as a whole, they had an appeal. The Fifty Shades version of Jamie Dornan.
He nodded to the untouched drinks. “Waiting for someone?”