We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 14
My ringing cell phone distracts me from Beloved and Felicia’s letters. I don’t recognize the number, but the 702 area code tells me that it’s coming from Vegas.
“Is this Yara?” a woman asks.
“This is . . . ?”
“Your cousin Alicia, Felicia’s twin.”
A weight presses my lungs, and I gulp air that smells like my inhaler.
She says, “Hello?”
“Hi.” With a shaky hand, I pull the first letter from the rubber band. The envelope is typewritten, the stamp postmarked August 6, 1998.
“I called you,” Alicia says, “and I left a message.”
“There’s nothing I can tell you,” I say. “Sorry about everything, though. We’re all shocked and confused.”
“Why did she come up there to talk to you?”
“No idea.”
“You know we’re blood, right? You know we went to school with your mother, right?”
“I do.”
“And you know Bee made life hell for my sister,” she asks, prickly and certain that, yes, I know this.
This is what I’ve been avoiding. This mess.
“Bee was just like Lolly in that, making people choose,” Alicia says. “And she always did that to Felicia. There were a bunch of us at Inglewood High, and we crisscrossed in our little groups, know what I mean? Some girls went to church together. Some of us were in Jack and Jill. Some of us did sports, and some of us danced. You know, ballet, modern, jazz dance.”
She sucks her teeth. “Lee was gifted, and so she participated in most things. Rotary, honor society, and track and field like your mother. She knew everybody. Lee did cotillion with a few of them girls and school government with some other ones. Got along with everybody. Bee, though, hated the dancers with the heat of a thousand suns. Ohmigod, for some reason, she was so jealous of them.”
I could picture my mother back in the day with that sexy sneer of hers, whispering to coconspirators like LaRain, making fun of a dancer’s calloused feet and crooked toes. Christmas would be especially hard for Mom with all those special holiday programs and the prettiest dancer starring as Clara in The Nutcracker.
“Lee and Bee were supposed to go to the mall one night,” Alicia says, “but the Alvin Ailey company was performing downtown, and Felicia wanted to go to that instead. Bee lost it and demanded that Lee choose between being her friend or not.”
“Let me guess,” I say. “Felicia chose the dancers.”
Alicia chuckles. “Yup. Bee told Felicia that if she didn’t come to the mall, she wouldn’t invite her to Bee’s annual pajama jammie-jam.”
“The what?”
“A party where you have to wear your pajamas. And Lolly didn’t mind—she’d be the one making people drinks.”
“And?”
“Lee didn’t show up at the mall. Bee invited everybody to the party, including the dancers she hated. LaRain was there being a kiss-ass. Everybody was there except Felicia.”
I fall back into the pillows. “Ouch.”
“I left for the party from my girlfriend’s house,” Alicia says, “and I didn’t realize until later that Lee wasn’t there, that she didn’t even get invited. That broke her heart, and she cried all night. Bee got her back good. Nothing that Felicia did or said to her afterward would ever top what Bee did.”
I scrunch my face. “Okay, I get the teenage drama, but all of this tension till now because Felicia didn’t go to the mall and my mother didn’t invite her to a party?”
Alicia sucks her teeth. “I know it sounds petty, but you ain’t got stupid grudges that grow larger every time you think about them?”
Sadness kicks around my heart. I tap the cache of letters written by Felicia to my mother. “I’m sorry that happened.”
“You ain’t gotta apologize,” Alicia says. “Felicia was sweet, but she didn’t let anybody decide her destiny.”
“They went their separate ways after that?” I ask.
“Not really,” Alicia says. “Bee popped in and out, calling Lee whenever it looked like she was having too much of a life.”
I purse my lips. “My mother can be a handful. And yes, she embraces loyalty, but you’re describing someone—”
“Bee was toxic,” Alicia interrupts. “She probably still is.”
“Nope,” I say, chin cocked. “She has tons of friends, and obviously Felicia missed her because she wanted to come to the party next weekend.”
Alicia sucks her teeth again. “I doubt that.”
“Believe whatever you wanna believe.”
“Felicia drove up there for a reason,” Alicia says, “and it wasn’t to toast Bee and Rob. We’re gonna come out there once they let us take her body back to LA. If I were you—”
“But you’re not me.” I squeeze the bridge of my nose, and then I touch the still-hot welt that Felicia made on my neck. “I’m sorry about your sister. I really am, but I’m not gonna sit here and listen to you drag my mother.”
Alicia bursts into tears.
I listen to her cry, and the queasy, anxious, tender parts of me want to join her until I’m lightheaded and free of weird guilt. Eventually, though, all things—including this call—must end. I apologize again for her loss and end the call even as she continues to cry. I wish I had answers, for her and for me.
My phone chimes. A text from Alicia.
Ask Bobby about Liz
WHERE IS LIZ???
25.
Bobby?
It’s so weird to hear people call Dad by another nickname. He’s always been Rob to me—that’s a grown-up nickname for a man with two daughters, a wife, and a retirement account. That’s the nickname of a high school football coach who always stays above the mess and drama created by his wife and her cast of The Real Housewives of Antelope Valley. And because of that, I sure as hell will not ask him about some chick named Liz.
Where is Liz?
Who cares?
I’m not scuttling my parents’ five-grand shindig for some High School Musical–Drag Race–Survivor bullshit-a-thon.
Mom’s face is still hidden beneath the now-cracking sunburn mask, which means she still hasn’t gone to pick up dinner from Lee Esther’s. Now on the phone with LaRain, she whispers to me, “Five minutes and I’ll leave,” before returning to her discussion about the bastard coach on that wack-ass-they-call-themselves-a-track-team.
“I can go get it,” I whisper back.
“Yara, bye,” she says, louder now. “May I handle my business, please?”
I leave the house by the kitchen door and wander out to the back garage.
The gnats find me and swirl around my head. The siphon stinks tonight more than usual. I look north. That strip of water lies out there somewhere in the dark, smelling of sulfur and still water until the next rain A soft breeze cools my face. It feels faint, like someone’s eyelashes fluttering against my cheeks. Like someone is watching me out there in the dark.
I am alone, though, and I push away the tarp protecting the Camaro from the desert.
“This car just feels cooler than everything else in the town,” I tell Shane minutes later, phone to my face. “How much would it take to restore it?”
“No idea,” he says. “Probably closer to ten grand than five. Does it run?”
“Dunno. She’s never taken us anywhere in it. Not to a practice, not on a road trip.”
The land beyond ours crunches, pants, and clicks. I pause, having forgotten the snap of dry brush and the squiggly breaths of field mice. I shiver and then shush it all.
“Who are you hushing?” Shane asks.
“The desert. It’s freaking me out.” I grab the door handle and squeeze. It’s unlocked. Surprised, I cough and taste the metallic saltiness that comes with wheezing.
Why is the car unlocked? First, the car cover is unlocked, and now . . .
Dominique and Ransom were looking at the Camaro yesterday. Uh-oh. Not too long ago, he and his crew ran a chop shop off Rancho Vista Boulevard. He stole a Dodge Caravan, a Kia Forte, an Acura Integra, and a few Honda Civics. A sheriff’s deputy was a part of the operation, prowling in his patrol unit for cars with in-demand parts.
Is Ransom Andrepont planning to steal Mom’s car?
A pop-pop-pop echoes from far away.
I pause, then poke my head into the car.
“How’s the interior?” Shane asks.
The inside of the Camaro takes my breath away. The black bucket seats look almost new, and it’s like the gods trapped my mother in this car’s leather upholstery. From the smoky mint of menthol cigarettes to Clinique Happy, the citrusy, upbeat perfume she used to wear.
Behind me, the kitchen door creaks.
Mom’s standing there. She’s rinsed off the mask. “Gonna pick up the food,” she shouts.
I toss her a thumbs-up.
She lingers there for a moment, probably sick of people loitering around her car, but she dips back into the house without comment.
“My mom just came out,” I tell Shane, grinning into the phone. “I know she wanted to tell me to get my grimy little hands off her car. If you haven’t noticed, I sometimes break things, and sometimes, a lot of times, I lose things, too.”
“You? No way.”
“Yes way, I do.”
“You have a lot happening in that head of yours,” he says. “Murder, death, Symbyax . . .”
“Albuterol, Ativan . . .” I send him pictures of the Camaro’s interior. “I was always scared she was gonna leave us in this car. That she’d throw that bag she keeps near the front door into the trunk and disappear in a cloud of dust.”
Shane chuckles. “I’d like to subscribe to your newsletter, Ms. Gibson. So, what song’s playing as she races down the dirt road?”
“Hmm . . . don’t know a title, but it’s definitely country western. Dolly Parton.”
Mom may have tried to leave last night, but she needs us as much as we need her. It’s easier to manipulate people up close and personal.
Pop-pop. My breathing quickens. Those shots sound closer. A nighttime hunter?
My eyes flick at the rearview mirror just in case the hunter decided to hop our fence. But no one’s there. Of course no one is there. Tell that to my lungs, now tight as knots in my chest.
Boom! Wood splinters maybe fifty yards away instead of a hundred.
“Someone’s out here shooting,” I say.
“With what?”
I close my eyes and call up the weapons training Shane offered the Tough Cookie writers. We learned how to load, shoot, and clean guns. We learned the sound of shots made by pistols, semiautomatics, rifles, and shotguns.
“Two separate shooters,” I say now, “cuz I hear a pop-pop and then a shotgun boom. Both are making me nervous.”
“Maybe you should go back in the house.”
I laugh. “If I’d gone into the house every time a gun blasted out here, we would’ve never met. It’s what they do in Palmdale. I just have to get used to it again.”
“Sure,” Shane says, “I get that, but maybe you should—”
“I’m good,” I say, firmer. “I’ll talk to you later, okay?” When he doesn’t respond, I sigh. “I’m good. For real.”
After ending my call with an annoyed Shane, I fish my inhaler out of my pocket.
Boom!
I startle, and the inhaler pops out of my hand and tumbles into the gap between the driver’s seat and the center console.
Just stupid, bored boys playing with their daddies’ guns.
I reach into the tight space. Carpet . . . Silver foil gum wrapper . . .
Where the hell did my inhaler go?
My breathing now sounds high, like a train whistle. I push away from the steering column and thrust my hand beneath the seat.
What’s this?
A piece of folded paper—it’s faded even in the shadow of a hot, stuffy car trapped beneath a tarp. Words written in purple ink take up half the page.
Bee, you know EXACTLY what you did, and I will never forget it. Payback is forever, and since you obviously didn’t learn, guess I’ll have to keep teaching you. Do not ignore me, not EVER! I’m watching you, and I’ll take everything and everyone you love. JUST. LIKE. THAT!! Try me. Smooches . . .
Hate throbs off the page. Gooseflesh covers every bare inch of my skin.
I take a breath but my lungs strain. I thrust my hand back into the crevice. There!
My inhaler’s plastic case. I also pull out a thin chain and hold it up before me.
A gold nameplate dangles in the light.
IRINA.
26.
Smooches?
Who the hell sent this letter to my mother? Regine from Living Single?
How old is this note, and did Mom do something about it?
And!
Who the hell is Irina, and why is her nameplate in my mother’s car?
The Camaro is now squeezing me with its tight black leather and low roof. If someone’s still blasting their shotgun, I wouldn’t be able to hear it over the blood banging in my ears.
My cup of aggravation has completely runneth over.
Daddy, are you happy?
He never answered my question because he couldn’t honestly answer my question.
Ask Bobby about Liz.
WHERE IS LIZ???
My question isn’t where. My question is who.
My scalp pulls so tight that I’m shaking. I grab the steering wheel to gain control.
Did Dad cheat on Mom with Liz? Or did he cheat on Mom with Irina? Hell, did he cheat on Mom with both women? Is that why Mom places a go bag by the front door? Is that the reason behind the arguments? Why he hasn’t completely bounced from their marriage? Because his guilt has kept him in place all this time?
I squeeze the inhaler’s pump twice, and the medicine rushes down my throat to open my lungs. I shove the chain into my hoodie pocket and return to the house.
Mom is still out on the food run, so I can’t ask her about the note. I retreat to my bedroom. Nothing’s changed here and order still reigns. My bed is made, the Van Gogh print still hangs on the wall, and the air still smells of shortbread cookies and medicine. I grab my laptop computer even though I don’t have much to search on, just a single name.
Irina.
Results tell me that the most famous Irinas are a Russian ballerina and a sports star.
I refine my search: Irina Antelope Valley.
The Irina who lives on Stanridge Avenue is ninety-seven years old.
The Irina on Willowvale Road died ten years ago. She’s survived by her son, Asher; daughter, Talia; and husband, Nolan. She worked as an actuary for an insurance company. Grew up in Akron, Ohio, and came to California as a teenager in 1983.
This Irina is a possibility.
Someone knocks on the door.
I shout, “Yeah?”
Dominique pops into my room. “Where’s Mom?”
“Getting dinner from Lee Esther’s.” I look up from the computer. “Where you been?”
“Livin’ my best life.”
“With Ransom?”
“Church.”
“Confession?”
“We aren’t Catholic.” She waits a beat, then: “Your eyes are red.”
“Comes from not being able to, you know, breathe.”
She squeezes beside me on the bed. She smells like bubble gum and soap. “I’m sorry.”
I click on the next result for Irina. Still too old.
“I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that.” Dominique slips her arm through mine. “I’m just frustrated. I hate this freaking place and you escaped and here I am, stuck.”
“Comes from being the favorite daughter.”
She glares at me. “I’m being serious.”
“Me too. You are her favorite, and that’s fine—I got over it a long time ago.” When she sighs, I look up from the computer. “If you’re stuck, Dominique, then unstick yourself. Do it before the dust and heat wear down the rest of your ambition.”
“How? Mom doesn’t want me to leave. She keeps telling me that I’m not ready, that I talk big, but I can’t figure shit out. And you know she’ll fight me if I even try.”
I blink at her. “Are you officially asking me for advice? You won’t get mad at me for saying, ‘Let’s talk about your long-term goals’?”
She lets her head fall back. “I’m so tired of this shit. I’m tired of Daddy staring at me like I ran over his favorite football. I’m tired of Mom saying, ‘That’s not how the world works, Dom. What kind of jackass are you?’”
I grunt. “Yeah. I’m exhausted just being here for a day.” I pull one of Dominique’s braids. “Mom said the same stuff to me about not being ready to leave, about being unprepared for living on my own, and I didn’t believe her. Don’t believe her, Dom.”
She nuzzles my neck. “I appreciate everything you do, for real. I’m a bitch sometimes.”
I disentangle my arms and lean away from her. “Yesterday wasn’t the first time you’ve said shit like that to me.”
Her cheeks color. “Facts, part two.”
“And I’m not being crazy or mean or stuck-up for saying that Ransom is a shark and a thief,” I say. “He’ll tell you that. It’s printed on his business card.”
She picks her nails. “He’s not as bad as you think. LaRain and Paul treat him like he’s trash, and he acts like it sometimes. He actually has photographic memory like LeBron James.”
“Really? Fine. Maybe I am a little biased, but that’s because he only shows his greedy, violent side.”
“On your stupid show, Cookie’s sidekick, Dalton, is greedy and violent, and you’re always talking about how you love writing scenes for him.”
“Bruh, stupid show again?”
Dominique bites the inside of her cheek. “I won’t call it ‘stupid’ anymore.”
Tears come, and I bow my head.
She holds out her pinkie. “I won’t. Promise.”
