The Good Liar(17)

“It belonged to my mother,” Franny says. “I want to treat it with the appropriate respect.”

This logic is hard to argue with, and Robert keeps any further thoughts to himself. I watch Franny lift the mug from the box. She unwraps it and places it on the table in front of her, turning it so we can see the imprint of someone’s lips left like a kiss along its rim.

And then I couldn’t speak even if I wanted to, because I know that shade of lipstick. She wore it every day, a deep cranberry that would’ve looked awful on anyone else but fit her perfectly.

I’m not sure why it’s this thing rather than all the others that breaks me, but it does. As the rest of the room watches the cup like it might spit out the entrants to this year’s Triwizard Tournament, I lay my head down on the cold glass table and weep.





Chapter 8


Morning News


Kate

“What’s going on here?” Andrea asked as she walked into the kitchen. She was wearing her standard day uniform: lululemon yoga pants and a thin cotton hoodie that showed off her toned arms. Although her hair was on its third day after her weekly blowout, it was still as beach-wavy as when she’d left the salon.

Kate straightened up. She kept her back to Andrea as she wiped her tears away with the sleeve of the dark-blue sweatshirt she’d bought on sale for $12.99. It itched where it met her collarbone, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

“Willie was just being the sweet little boy he always is,” Kate said, ruffling his head. “That’s all.”

Andrea sighed, then tapped a finger against the touch screen in the wall to turn it on. Perhaps this was what Kate’s tears were about. An advance reaction to the fact that Andrea always had the television on when she was at home, usually the news. The morning news was how Andrea stayed “connected to the world,” she always said, “now that I’m not in the paid workforce.” Then she’d get this wistful look on her face. Remembering back, Kate supposed, to her job as the CFO of a magazine distribution company, which she’d given up a month after she found out she was having twins.

The television sprang to life with a loud chime. Kate didn’t have to look to know what the day’s banner would be: “A Year Later. Remembering Chicago,” or something similar. She tried to block out the low murmur of the announcer speaking in a somber tone about the upcoming memorial.

Kate walked to the sink. She should’ve told Andrea where she came from and why. Some version of it, anyway. Enough. Andrea wouldn’t foist the coverage on her if she knew the toll it was already taking. She wasn’t cruel. Perhaps she’d even have given her a day off. Allowed her to hide in the dark basement all day rather than face the cold sunshine. The darkened orange leaves as they fell from the trees. Her memories.

Kate filled up the sink with hot water and added the Andrea-approved amount of nontoxic dishwashing liquid, which she measured out with a shot glass. She made the water scalding hot. She’d forgotten to line the pan she made last night’s pork ribs in. There was a hard coat of sauce baked to the bottom of it. She’d let it soak overnight to tackle that morning. Perhaps the scrubbing would do her some good.

“This is so sad,” Andrea said in a tone that expected an answer.

“It is.”

“What’s sad, Mommy?” Steven asked as he entered the kitchen.

Kate turned to watch him. Steven was a more cautious copy of his brother. It was always interesting to see how he’d adapt to a situation. His eyes moved from where his brother was sitting, to Kate at the sink, to his mother, whose own eyes never left the screen. Satisfied that everyone was where they should be, he put his blanket down carefully and walked to Kate.

“Up,” he said, holding his arms above his head.

She took off her rubber gloves and did as he commanded. Lifting him up and then lowering him into his high chair. Then strapping him in tightly as he nodded in approval.

“What’s ‘sad’ mean, Mommy?” he asked again.

“It’s what you feel when bad things happen to people you love.”

“On the TV?” Steven asked, pointing.

Kate followed his finger. McCormick Place, Chicago’s convention center, was on-screen. It would be a convention of grief.

Kate felt feverish. She was going to fly into a million pieces. She was sure of it.

“Yes, Stevie. The TV’s showing the sad people.”

Steven cocked his head to the side, trying to puzzle it out. Kate refrained from suggesting that it would be better for the children if Andrea turned it off. Andrea wouldn’t comply. She didn’t believe in shielding her kids from harsh realities. Or, at least, not any more than the shield that came from living in the rich, mostly white enclave of Westmount.

“Why is TV showing sad people?” Willie asked. He picked a spoon up off the counter and started drumming it against the quartz. His spoon was in time with the quick cuts flashing by. A car. A picture. A wreath of bright flowers. Tap, tap, tap.

Andrea assumed the most serious expression she could on her newly Botoxed face. (She was “trying it out for fun,” she’d told Kate in confidence a week ago. Kate doubted that highly.) “What city do we live in?” Andrea asked.

“Montreal!” the twins said together.

“Correct. And there are lots of other cities in the world, right?”