The Good Liar(55)

“Maybe they’re sad.”

“I don’t like being sad.”

“Me, neither.”

Steven looked at her, and then back at the iPad. “That other girl looks like you.”

His fat finger pointed at Em. No one ever said that she and Emily looked alike, but that was back then. When her hair was a different color and her face had a different shape. Now there was a resemblance. It was like looking at a memory of herself as a child.

“She kind of does.”

“Are you a mommy, Aunt Kwait?”

And that was the question, wasn’t it?

The real question she’d been asking herself this whole time.





Interview Transcript

TJ: Why would you say that, Franny? That this documentary isn’t about your family?

FM: Because it’s supposed to be about . . . You said it was about three families and how the compensation process affected them. Three families a year after October tenth.

TJ: That’s right.

FM: So who’s the third family? I mean, you’ve got the Graysons and the Rings, but who else are you talking to besides me?

TJ: That’s it.

FM: I’m not part of a family?

TJ: I didn’t say that. Of course you are.

FM: And that’s why you keep asking me questions about my adopted family?

TJ: That’s part of it, yes. It’s also to get a better sense of who you are as a person.

FM: I don’t want to talk about them.

TJ: I understand that, Franny, but I’ve explained to you how this works. We shoot several long interviews, and then the narrative will be shaped from that. We’re asking these questions to all the participants.

FM: They’re not my family.

TJ: I’m sorry you feel that way.

FM: I have a new family now.

TJ: Did you want to elaborate on that?

FM: Elaborate?

TJ: Expand. Tell me more about it.

FM: No, I don’t think so. You’ll see.

TJ: What am I going to see?

FM: Now that would be ruining the surprise, wouldn’t it?





Chapter 25


Where Does the Time Go?

Cecily

Two years ago, there was a story floating around our neighborhood. A man—a black man or a brown man, some people would say, lowering their voices—was walking around at night, peering into windows. Someone’s dog had kept him from entering a house, went one story. Two teenage lovers had scared him away another time. Other rumors had less detail, but the point was always the same—something had to be done about this before something bad happened. The police were called and the cameras were checked and nothing could be found. There were no fingerprints on the windowsill the dog had supposedly defended. No footprints beneath the window where the man had supposedly been seen.

“A ghost,” Tom called him (if it was a him). “Our very own Halloween ghost.”

“But Halloween’s not for forever,” Henry said.

“And Halloween is for losers,” Cassie said.

“I’ve always loved Halloween,” I said.

Cassie rolled her eyes, and Henry, who was on the cusp of maybe not trick-or-treating though I knew he wanted to, gave me a smile, and Tom shook his head at all of us.

“You’re not scared?”

“Tom!”

“It’s nothing, Lil. A bunch of overhyped, hysterical people who think too much.”

“Are you speaking of me?”

“Of course not.” He winked at me. “You know what they’re like, that playground crowd. One black guy takes a walk and . . .”

“Tom.”

“You know it’s true.”

“What’s true, Dad? Are you talking about racists? We learned all about that during Black History Month.”

Henry started hopping on one foot and patting the top of his head at the same time—a coordination exercise his baseball coach had introduced him to that he continued doing after the season was over because it drove Cassie nuts.

“Dad! He’s doing it again.”

“Henry, you know that makes your sister crazy.”

Henry stopped jumping.

“So, is that what it is, Dad? Racism?” Henry was speaking as if he were in a museum. Like he was looking at a diorama meant to explain what it was. A kid in a hoodie, a man stopped for “driving while black,” another senseless police shooting.

“Yes, son. That’s exactly what it is.”

“Why are people racist?”

“People are afraid,” I said. “If something’s different or they haven’t experienced it before.”

“But everyone’s different,” Henry said. “I’m different.”

Tom and I smiled at each other. Our little blond boy who had every advantage in life was special and different, and how could we tell him otherwise? Once when he was seven, we tried to explain to him why the autistic boy in his class couldn’t help it when he said “hi” twenty times a day. “Some people are different,” I said. “I’m different,” Henry responded. “Some people are special,” Tom tried. “I’m special,” Henry said emphatically.

“Everyone’s different, and no one’s better than anyone else,” Tom said. “Some people are luckier, and some people have bad luck, and some people work hard and get things, and some people work very hard and don’t get things. We’re all entitled to the same respect.”