Behind Every Lie(4)

“Where’s Andrew?” She kissed Mom on the cheek.

“He’s been held up at court. He’ll be here shortly,” Mom replied.

“Well, this is lovely! It’s been ages since we’ve done anything together.”

“Too long,” Mom agreed. She turned to me. “Andrew mentioned you’ve moved in with Liam?”

I bit my lip. Mom had a fantastic poker face, but I still sensed her disapproval. It was there in the lift of her eyebrows, the purse of her lips, like when I dropped out of college to be a dog walker, or when I was fired from my job as a barista because I could never wake up in time, or when I decided to be an artist rather than studying thermodynamics or quantum theory.

“We’ve been together a year and a half and we’re getting married.…” I trailed off, realizing I sounded defensive.

“Well, I’m sure he’s lovely. We’ll meet him when you’re ready for us to.” Lily reached for a piece of bread from the basket the waitress had left and slathered a chunk of butter on it. It was too cold, the bread tearing as she stabbed at it.

I tossed her a grateful smile.

The waitress arrived, and Lily ordered a glass of champagne, Mom a pint of Post Alley Porter.

“I, um …” I scanned the drinks menu, my heart kicking into gear.

“Good Lord, it’s just a drink, Eva! Not a life-or-death decision.” Mom sounded irritated.

I felt like a deer in the headlights. I knew I was being stupid, but even choosing a drink seemed impossible.

“How about a vodka cranberry?” Lily suggested kindly.

“Yes!” I turned to the waitress. “Only no vodka. Just cranberry.”

I smiled at Lily, relieved she’d made the decision for me. Mom scowled at her. I almost rolled my eyes. They were best friends, but sometimes they were more like an old married couple, right down to the arguments and nagging.

“Tell us how you’ve been, Eva,” Mom said, putting her hand on mine. “We hear from you so rarely these days.”

I threw her a surprised look. Mom wasn’t one for physical displays of affection. She had helped me with my homework, made sure I behaved and was polite and didn’t skip school, but hand-holding? Not so much.

“I’m good. Busy. Lots of work coming up to Christmas, plus I’ve been packing and moving into Liam’s. You should see his house! It’s gorgeous! Here.…” I swiped through the pictures on my phone and held one out to them. “Here’s a picture.”

“It’s stunning!” Lily exclaimed. Mom nodded her agreement. I smiled, warmed by their approval.

The waitress returned with our drinks, and Lily raised hers to Mom. I quickly followed suit. “I believe congratulations are in order. To you, Kat, for saving a little girl’s life. We’re so—”

An elderly lady pushed past my chair, her elbow jabbing into my back. I lurched forward, my glass slipping out of my hand. Ruby-red liquid splashed across the white linen, onto Mom’s lap.

Mom and Lily both jumped up. An embarrassing red splotch was spreading across Mom’s pants.

“I’m so sorry!” I grabbed a linen napkin and tried to wipe Mom’s pants clean.

“Eva, stop! You’re making it worse!” she exclaimed.

I plopped, impotent, into my seat, cheeks burning.

The waitress whisked the stained linen away and brought a glass of soda water, which Mom used to dab at her pants, then bustled about relaying the table. A few minutes later we were settled again, fresh drinks in front of us.

“I’m sorry,” I said again.

Mom reached for her beer, her eyes filling with something I couldn’t identify. Resignation? Worry? “Honestly, darling, it’s fine. It wasn’t your fault.”

But it didn’t matter whose fault it was when you blamed yourself.

Mom smiled at me, and a jumble of emotions filled my chest. Uncertainty. Love. Hope. But just then, my brother rushed in, bursting the moment like a soap bubble. Andrew’s cheeks were bristly with a neatly trimmed beard, glasses glinting in the candlelight. He’d inherited our mother’s shitty eyesight; I’d gotten her pale English skin.

Mom’s gaze peeled away from mine, brightening at the sight of him. Andrew murmured something to the waitress, and she returned a second later with a short glass of amber-colored liquid.

He shed his coat and sat next to me, lifting his glass in a toast and smiling. “To Mom. The Messiah.”

I looked down at my cranberry juice, wishing I’d gotten the vodka after all.





three

eva




I COULDN’T MOVE.

Consciousness was a fickle thing, fading in and out. Everything in me hurt, a pain so deep it felt like I’d been cooked in a microwave.

Time passed. Sounds returned. A low thunking. A rhythmic beeping. Squeaking wheels. A periodic buzzing, material swishing, soft murmuring voices.

I propelled myself through a viscous darkness, bursting through the oily film of consciousness. My head hurt, hot, jabbing pain bolting around my temples and ricocheting through my body. A phosphorescent glow clung to the edges of my vision. The scent of burning hair lingered in my nostrils; under that, disinfectant and cold, recycled air.

What happened?

I tried to sweep through the cobwebs clouding my brain and figure out why the hell I hurt so much. The last thing I remembered was spilling cranberry juice all over my mom.