We Were Liars(35)

“And jelly,” says Johnny.

But I know Downyflake only makes cake doughnuts. No glazed. No Boston cream. No jelly.

Why are they lying?





52




I eat supper with Mummy and the littles at New Clairmont, but that night I am hit with a migraine again. It’s worse than the one before. I lie in my darkened room. Scavenger birds peck at the oozing matter that leaks from my crushed skull.

I open my eyes and Gat stands over me. I see him through a haze. Light shines through the curtains, so it must be day.

Gat never comes to Windemere. But here he is. Looking at the graph paper on my wall. At the sticky notes. At the new memories and information I’ve added since I’ve been here, notes about Gran’s dogs dying, Granddad and the ivory goose, Gat giving me the Moriarty book, the aunts fighting about the Boston house.

“Don’t read my papers,” I moan. “Don’t.”

He steps back. “It’s up there for anyone to see. Sorry.”

I turn on my side to press my cheek against the hot pillow.

“I didn’t know you were collecting stories.” Gat sits on the bed. Reaches out and takes my hand.

“I’m trying to remember what happened that nobody wants to talk about,” I say. “Including you.”

“I want to talk about it.”

“You do?”

He is staring at the floor. “I had a girlfriend, two summers ago.”

“I know. I knew all along.”

“But I never told you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“I fell for you so hard, Cady. There was no stopping it. I know I should have told you everything and I should have broken it off with Raquel right away. It was just—she was back home, and I never see you all year, and my phone didn’t work here, and I kept getting packages from her. And letters. All summer.”

I look at him.

“I was a coward,” Gat says.

“Yeah.”

“It was cruel. To you and to her, too.”

My face burns with remembered jealousy.

“I am sorry, Cady,” Gat goes on. “That’s what I should have said to you the first day we got here this year. I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

I nod. It is nice to hear him say that. I wish I weren’t so high.

“Half the time I hate myself for all the things I’ve done,” says Gat. “But the thing that makes me really messed up is the contradiction: when I’m not hating myself, I feel righteous and victimized. Like the world is so unfair.”

“Why do you hate yourself?”

And before I know it, Gat is lying on the bed next to me. His cold fingers wrap around my hot ones, and his face is close to mine. He kisses me. “Because I want things I can’t have,” he whispers.

But he has me. Doesn’t he know he already has me?

Or is Gat talking about something else, something else he can’t have? Some material thing, some dream of something?

I am sweaty and my head hurts and I can’t think clearly. “Mirren says it’ll end badly and I should leave you alone,” I tell him.

He kisses me again.

“Someone did something to me that is too awful to remember,” I whisper.

“I love you,” he says.

We hold each other and kiss for a long time.

The pain in my head fades, a little. But not all the way.



I open my eyes and the clock reads midnight.

Gat is gone.

I pull the shades and look out the window, lifting the sash to get some air.

Aunt Carrie is walking in her nightgown again. Passing by Windemere, scratching her too-thin arms in the moonlight. She doesn’t even have her shearling boots on this time.

Over at Red Gate I can hear Will crying from a nightmare. “Mommy! Mommy I need you!”

But Carrie either doesn’t hear him, or else she will not go. She veers away and heads up the path toward New Clairmont.





53




Giveaway: a plastic box of Legos.

I’ve given away all my books now. I gave a few to the littles, one to Gat, and went with Aunt Bess to donate the rest to a charity shop on the Vineyard.

This morning I rummage through the attic. There’s a box of Legos there, so I bring them to Johnny. I find him alone in the Cuddledown great room, hurling bits of Play-Doh at the wall and watching the colors stain the white paint.

He sees the Legos and shakes his head.

“For your tuna fish,” I explain. “Now you’ll have enough.”

“I’m not gonna build it,” he says.

“Why not?”

“Too much work,” he says. “Give them to Will.”

“Don’t you have Will’s Legos down here?”

“I brought them back. Little guy was starved for them,” Johnny says. “He’ll be happy to have more.”

I bring them to Will at lunch. There are little Lego people and lots of parts for building cars.

He is ridiculously happy. He and Taft build cars all through the meal. They don’t even eat.





54




That same afternoon, the Liars get the kayaks out. “What are you doing?” I ask.