The Lies I Told(35)

“Marisa’s been in trouble with the law?” Richards asked.

“Yeah, since her mother died. That really messed her up. Brit tried to play mommy, but it never worked. Marisa resents her, and I think she does half the shit just to piss off Brit and her father.”

“Her father is about to be married.”

“Yeah, Sandra. Nice, I guess. Marisa said they started seeing each other when Mrs. Stockton’s mental health started declining. Brit really hates her. Clare never talks about Sandra.”

“What about Clare’s relationship with Kurt?” Richards asked.

“What about it? They’ve been dating about six months.”

“But he sees other girls?”

“Not really. I think Tamara was about making Clare jealous.”

“What’s Kurt like around Clare? Possessive? Easygoing?”

“He’s cute but not the brightest. Clare likes him, but she sees other guys. She fought with him at my party.”

“About the other guys?”

“Yes.”

“Who else was Clare seeing?”

“I’m pretty sure she hooked up with a guy before Thanksgiving. I don’t have a name. Maybe Brit would know.”

“Did Clare hook up a lot?”

“She got around. She said the sex made her feel less lonely.”

“Sleeping with Kurt wasn’t enough?”

“She’s kind of like Marisa. Trying to fill a bottomless hole, you know.”

“And Brit?”

“She tried to hold it all together, but since she went off to college, Clare and Marisa got more out of control.”

“The drugs and boys,” Richards said, flipping to a clean page on his pad.

“Everything. It was like the twins were asleep and then they woke up.”

“Because Brit left.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Why?”

“Who knows?”

“You must have a theory. You and Clare were good friends, right?”

Jo-Jo’s answer is not in the notes, but I pictured her nodding. “The twins were sick a lot after their mother died. We all figured it was stress.”

“Sick how?”

“Stomachaches, mostly. Tired. They were pretty low key for a couple of years because they just didn’t feel well. Mom said given their mother’s suicide and their father’s affairs, it’s no wonder they were a neurotic mess.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. Nothing Jo-Jo had said was a lie, but it hurt to know she’d spilled secrets so easily. Jo-Jo had sworn she’d never tell anyone.

I’d been so angry in those days. My mother had been dead three years and yet the pain cut fresh wounds every day. Brit had left for college, and I started physically feeling better. Which allowed me time to play with my cameras and think about Mom. The loss. I’d shoot pictures until I was exhausted, but when that didn’t work, I turned to my father’s liquor cabinet.

The first time I drank the vodka, it tasted bitter. But immediately, a warm glow settled over my body, and for the first time since my mother had died, I felt relaxed. The next day, I’d had a raging headache, and I’d thrown up. I’d felt as awful as I had in the first two years after Mom died, and I’d sworn I’d never drink again. But within a couple of days, the flu-like symptoms had vanished, and the sadness and anger roared to life. And so, I drank again.

Within a few months, it took more booze to get the relaxed feeling, but I also didn’t get as sick. Even if I did, I didn’t mind. Better to barf than to hurt.

“I might have been a bitch, but I didn’t hurt my sister,” I muttered to myself as I rose and went into the kitchen.

I grabbed a can of seltzer from the fridge and popped the top. Clare had left the party alone, but no one had seen where she’d gone.

Suddenly hideously restless, I set the can down, slipped on a jacket, and grabbed my purse. Jo-Jo was sleeping now, but Jack usually worked at J.J.’s Pub this time of night. Maybe talking to him would shake something loose.

Outside, I welcomed the cold rush as I burrowed my hands into my jacket and braced against the wind as I walked the two blocks to the bar. I pushed inside, greeted by warm air smelling of beer and fried food.

Jack was behind the bar and, when he looked up, smiled as I approached. “What brings you out on a night like this?”

I wouldn’t lead with Clare. Whenever I told my friends, they would get that sad, faraway look in their eyes, and even though they pretended to listen, I sensed they were not.

I sidled up to the bar as he set a soda water and lime in front of me. At one time, he’d supplied me with drugs; now he was the most supportive of my sobriety. Jack no longer dealt, and I’d not seen him take a drink in at least a year. If he’d been behind the bar on my birthday, the tequila shots (which I had never intended to drink) would have been water.

“How about a burger and fries?” I asked.

“Sure, kitchen is still up and running.” He punched a few keystrokes of the computer. About nine years ago, after my second rehab stint, he’d just bought J.J.’s Pub, and I’d asked him for a job. He’d laughed. Said the last place I should work was in a bar. But I’d needed the money, so he’d agreed as long as I always stayed in the kitchen. Come in through the alley door, leave the way I came in. One step in the bar, and I was fired.