The Lifeguards(73)

“Is this the Packers’ doomsday bunker?” I said.

Whitney continued to grip my wrist. “Yes,” she said. It must have been the fluorescent lighting: I could see the bones of her skull under her skin. Her face was sharp and nightmarish. Was she sick? I blinked to try to dispel the vision.

“What are you doing here?” I said.

When I think back, I can see that these were the last moments I could still cling to the belief that Whitney was the person I’d wanted her to be: generous, larger than life, queen of a mythical place I’d always dreamed of belonging. A “summer girl” grown up. She was the foundation of my “Liza” persona. I thought that without her, I was nothing, a fraud.

“Mom,” said Charlie, his tone low and grave. “You need to listen to me, Mom.”

“I had to talk to Charlie somewhere private,” said Whitney, cutting him off. “I’m in trouble, Liza. I’m in real trouble.”

“What’s going on?” I said, bewildered. Why would Whitney contact my son if she were in trouble?

“I saw her,” said Charlie quietly, speaking only to me.

“What?” I said.

“Liza, listen—” said Whitney.

“Mom,” said Charlie, his eyes aflame. “I saw her at the 7-Eleven. She was in the parking lot. It wasn’t Roma selling drugs that night. It was Whitney.”

My gaze skittered between them, taking in this extraordinary statement. Whitney met my astonished glance and shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyebrows raising and her lips in a bit of a benevolent smirk: Kids say the darndest things.

I half-returned her smirk.

We remained in this strange space for a moment, as if things were the way they had always been between us. Whitney had not let go. I tried to pull free, but her nails cut deeper. I must have conveyed pain, because Whitney became authoritative.

“Charlie’s wrong,” she said, releasing me, placing her hands out, as if smoothing an invisible blanket.

“I’m not wrong,” said Charlie.

“Whitney selling drugs?” I said. “Honey, that doesn’t make sense.” Whitney nodded, her shoulders relaxing.

“I know what I saw,” said Charlie ferociously. “And I know you won’t believe me.”

My son’s words hung in the air. He watched my face, his jaw tensing. He made a disdainful noise—a sharp, disappointed exhale. Hopelessness washed over his features.

“Why would Whitney be selling drugs?” I pleaded, my own voice childlike in my ears.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Liza,” said Whitney, grabbing my wrist again. I felt a flicker of fear, a cold knowledge seeping into me, the understanding that Whitney was unhinged, that she might do me real harm.

And worse: she might hurt Charlie.

A dull pain throbbed in my stomach. It was a familiar feeling, one I’d learned to accept as the price of being Whitney’s friend. The ache was the cost of ignoring my heart to remain inside a fantasy. Have you ever stood still while someone lied to you? If so, you know the sickening feeling. Your brain wants to make the situation less disturbing, and oh, how you want to convince yourself the liar is telling the truth.

I wanted to continue believing in Whitney so much.

But the ache grew in my gut as I looked at her, the room almost dissolving around us, only Whitney’s eyes still penetrating and clear.

My real family had been screwed up and poor, riddled with addiction and bad decisions. I had thought escaping them, making a different life for my son, was an obvious win. But suddenly, in this dungeon meant to keep a family safe indefinitely—trapped together underground—I was stabbed with regret.

“Whitney, you’re hurting me,” I said.

She pulled me toward her forcefully, encircling me in her skinny arms. Her grip was too tight. She smelled of lilies. I remembered resting my head on my mother’s chest, the smell of her: cigarettes, the tang of last night’s alcohol in her sweat, and the Werther’s caramels she loved.

What if I couldn’t escape who I was?

What if, even though they were poor and screwed up, my blood family was the only family I could have?

What if, instead of devoting myself to making a new life entirely, I had tried to stay?

In Whitney’s feverish embrace, I was pierced with yearning. I missed my mom.

Get out.

My heart spoke to me clearly.

For the first time in a very long time, I overrode my desire to be someone I was not, and I listened.

Get Charlie and get out.

Over Whitney’s shoulder, I scanned the room, noted the fake windows. I took in the staircase, where I knew a door led to the Packers’ outdoor pool. I saw a patio, which was lit with natural light—or a near-perfect facsimile.

When Whitney’s hold on me loosened, I took a tentative step toward the staircase.

She reacted immediately, grabbing a remote from the desk and pushing a button. Metal walls descended, blocking the patio and the windows.

“What the hell?” said Charlie.

“Whitney!” I said.

She looked crazed, her eyes moving quickly between Charlie and me. “I didn’t know what else to do,” she muttered, her voice almost robotic. “She tried to kill him. She’s going to keep trying.” Her face changed before me, growing older, exposing her private desperation. She looked haggard, exhausted, and suddenly real.