Behind Every Lie(63)

No, I did not worry about Eva. I, on the other hand, would never forget.



* * *



“Eva, stop faffing about!” I shouted up the stairs. “You mustn’t dally or we’ll be late for school!”

Eva slunk down the stairs, the hallway light glinting off her hair. She’d dyed it a horrific black after we’d moved out of Mike’s house last month, as if she were in mourning.

“What is this?” I waved at her outfit: a form-fitting T-shirt and a short blue skirt with long fringes that swayed when she moved. On her feet were shiny black lace-up ankle boots. “We just bought you new trousers and that lovely pink sweater-vest.”

“You chose it, Mom. I didn’t. I don’t want to dress like I’m fifty.”

I scowled. I didn’t dress like I was fifty. I punched my arms into my coat sleeves, trying not to feel foolish.

“Brilliant,” I muttered. It was too late for her to change. “You look like a bloody lampshade.”

Her hand moved to her mouth, her teeth worrying at her nails. I grabbed her hand and examined the ragged nails.

“Look at this! You mustn’t bite your nails, Eva! Do I need to make you wear gloves again?”

I tried to be understanding, but honestly, it was such a filthy habit! Last year she’d chewed her nails so badly one became infected. Nothing I did got her to stop—foul-tasting polish, cutting them short, manicures, gloves. She hated the gloves the most.

“No!” She folded her hands under her armpits. “I’ll try harder, Mom, I swear. Do you have gum?”

I rummaged in my handbag and handed her a new pack of Trident.

“Thank you.” She slid her coat on, grabbed her backpack, and headed for the door.

“And it’s Mum, not Mom!” I called after her. I grabbed my keys from the hallway key rack. “Don’t forget Dad’s picking you up from school today. You’re staying at his house this weekend.”

Her eyes darkened. At twelve years old, she was in the fever of prepubescence, her emotions a wild bevy of ups and downs. Or perhaps it was simply our divorce at the root of these flashes of petulance. Either way, Eva was no longer as eager to please as she’d been when she was small. We rowed frequently, and sometimes it felt as if we would draw blood. It rather seemed like a familiar text had turned into hieroglyphics without warning.

“Can’t I stay here?” she whined.

“Certainly. If you want to help me paint and unpack.”

She looked at the boxes still stacked in haphazard groups around the house. After years of not touching the money Rose had given us, I had withdrawn the funds necessary to purchase our new home. I had no other choice, really. I hadn’t saved enough during my marriage to Mike to afford a house, and now I was on my own again.

Quite a lot of work was needed on the three-bedroom Queen Anne–style house. But I loved it: the homey shutters on the windows, the sloping front yard and white picket fence, the decorative wainscoting and carved crown moldings. Mostly I loved that it was mine and mine alone. I no longer depended on a man for my security, and I swore I never would again.

“Fine,” she huffed. “I’ll suffer through Dad’s for the weekend.”

I rolled my eyes. Eva was a champion sulker.

“You might have fun. He’s chuffed to bits you’re staying the whole weekend.”

Eva slid her backpack over her coat, and we headed outside. Water was coming down in sheets from the sky, standing pools gathering on the pavement. We both groaned.

“Shall I drive you to the bus stop?” I offered.

“Yes, please!”

We got in the car and I pulled onto the suburban street, glancing in my rearview mirror every few minutes, an old habit I could not shake, even though I had never seen any sign of Seb in Seattle. Eva fiddled with the radio, landing on a rather appalling electro beat.

I winced. “It sounds like a record skipping.”

“What’s a record?” she asked. I looked at her, horrified. Was she serious? I opened my mouth to ask, but she turned the music up, blocking me out.

“Why isn’t Andrew coming over to our house this weekend?” she asked after a minute.

I turned the music down. “You were both here last weekend. You know it’s every other weekend.”

“Andrew’s almost always at Dad’s,” she pointed out.

“He’s still in school near there. It’s just easier.”

“Is it because I’m not his real daughter?” she asked quietly, teeth at her nails again.

I gave her a stern look. “Eva, that’s absurd.” I swiped her hand away from her mouth. “Your dad loves you and Andrew equally and you know it. It doesn’t matter if you’re biologically his or not. You’re his daughter in every way that’s important.”

I had told Eva from the time she was small that her own father had died in a fire when she was a baby. But since the divorce, she’d been questioning Mike’s love more and more.

“Hey, look, there’s Jacob!” Eva brightened, pointing at a lanky, dark-haired youth in a jean jacket walking on the sidewalk. “Mom, pull over. Let’s give him a ride.”

I recognized the boy as one of our neighbors and did as she asked. Eva was already rolling the window down and calling out to him. The boy had one of those utterly ridiculous bowl haircuts, the ends tatty and uneven, as if he had cut it himself.