We Lie Here: A Thriller, page 4
I have information that will change your life.
Who do you think you are?
How will my life change?
Have I inherited a haunted mansion, but I’ll have to sleep in it overnight to claim it?
Am I a princess but years ago Mom renounced her throne to marry a high school football coach because of love?
I don’t have a lot of time—that’s also what Felicia said.
I don’t care. She ain’t getting none of my ca-ber-net demi-glock. She broke my pendant, and she’s lucky that Dominique kept her hands on my shoulders instead of letting them find their way around that middle-aged neck of hers.
As I try to cough up dirt lodged in my throat, I study my cousin’s business card again.
I have information that will change your life.
Though the hair on my arms stands up, excited for this mystery, I say “No” aloud. Right now, I don’t have time for side quests from a woman my mother never talked about.
So . . .
Bye, Felicia.
4.
What could possibly change my life?
Being out nearly five grand if this event doesn’t hit right? Mom knowing that I’m staying at the Holiday Inn because Dominique has already told her?
And why did Felicia yank my chain?
Mom gave me that lightning bolt pendant two years ago, on the day I graduated from USC with a film degree. Light up the sky, she told me. I don’t think Daddy ever stopped crying. Also a Trojan, he stared at that lightning bolt around my neck and kept saying, My girl, my Yaya over and over again. I’ve never taken off the pendant, a rare gift from my mother. My mysterious, sexy-witchy-woman talisman fills me with wonder-working power.
But Cousin Felicia broke my chain, and now it lives in Dominique’s pocket. My neck feels bare and vulnerable without it, and I’m back to being the short-stack word nerd that I’ve always been, on the way to meet Good Witch Barbara (or Bad Bitch Bee) with my throat exposed.
I’ve stopped following Dominique’s turquoise Jeep.
She’s now chopping space between a Subaru and a minivan, and I’m not trying to be killed today. She drives like a nineteen-year-old, all short stops and last-minute pedal-to-the-metal runs, never believing that a truck could run a red light and plow into her. Unlike me, Dominique learned early that spending $200 in Antelope Valley to detail a car is a waste of money, and so her Jeep’s bright-blue paint has dulled from the dust.
The road to Gibsonville rolls through the west side—the closer my destination, the more my stomach cramps. I worked one summer at that boutique over there. During my rising-junior-year summer, I fell in love with Cayden Decker at Amargosa Creek Natural Park over there. Once I drive past my high school, I’m surrounded by houses the color of desert stones. Because of the midday dust storm, a few neighbors sweep their porches and walkways. The swish-swish-swish of a broom against concrete is as natural a sound in the Antelope Valley as the chirps of crickets and howls of coyotes.
Mrs. Duncan’s front yard tree is leaning even more to the right than last year this time. Mr. Abernathy’s American flag has been moved to hang above his garage doors instead of his house’s second-story balcony. Foothills roll on and on behind our cul-de-sac, and creatures that live in those hills—bobcats, coyotes, reptiles, and arachnids—often visit at night.
By the time I reach Edgewater Court, my stomach has twisted so much that I’m damn near hunched over the steering wheel.
Our home, a taupe two-story California/Spanish, sits at the end of the cul-de-sac. The second garage behind our house hosts Mom’s classic 1970 gold Camaro, protected beneath a tarp against the elements. She doesn’t drive it, but she won’t get rid of it neither because, duh, it’s a classic. Behind that garage, the land rolls on until it hits the Ritter Siphon, where rainbow trout and largemouth bass swim part of the year. Past that is the Angeles National Forest.
Dominique already stands in the driveway with Mom—the duo hover at five feet ten. At five feet four, I’m the runt of the family. Wearing a Purple Rain tank top and jeans, Mom looks younger than forty-nine years old. A cigarette burns in one hand, and she holds a soft pack of Newports in the other. She whispers something to Dominique, and my sister glances at me, then laughs. Mom throws me a smile and waves as I park.
Talking about me already.
“Yaya,” Mom shouts. The diamond, onyx, and yellow sapphire honeybee pendant twinkles against her skin. She takes me into her arms. “Miss Yara’s home.”
She smells like Chanel No. 5 and cigarettes, and she feels thin but healthy. Today, she wears a long, high ponytail and baby hair whorls like fire around her face. She’s been in the sun—freckles sprinkle like cinnamon across the bridge of her nose. She takes a long drag from her cigarette and appraises me through the smoke.
I hold my breath.
“Lemme get this right,” she says.
Here we go.
“Dom told me that you’ve been hypnotized.”
I laugh. “Uh-huh. I told you I was gonna stop smoking. I’m doing hypnotherapy.” I lift my wrist to show her the rubber band. “Behavior modification. It’s working.”
She pulls a pack of Nicorette from her back pocket. “I’ve been trying to quit, too. Chewing these all day, but”—she takes a puff from her Newport—“I don’t think it’s working.”
I point to the cigarette between her fingers. “You’re not supposed to smoke that as you chew those.”
She gapes at me. “For real?”
I nod.
She appraises the gum box, reads the directions. Grunts. Shrugs. Sticks the box back into her pocket. “I’m over it already.”
“No, don’t stop trying,” I say. “Do hypnotherapy, like me. It’s just a ten-dollar copay.”
She kills the cigarette on the sole of her flip-flop. “I don’t want people messing around in my head, making me remember everything I’m trying to forget. Anyway . . .” She holds out her arms again for another hug. “You’re home.”
I tiptoe to kiss her cheek. “Where’s Daddy?”
“School—football tryouts today,” Dominique says.
“He’ll be home soon. C’mon.” Mom grabs my hand and leads me to the porch.
She throws open the door, pulls me across the threshold and into the bright foyer. Nothing’s changed since my visit on Easter weekend. The white couches remain spotless. The high, vaulted ceilings are free from cobwebs. Dominique’s trophies and awards from her days playing high school volleyball crowd the fireplace mantel and china cabinets.
Mom’s Louis Vuitton duffel bag sits in the foyer’s nook, its contents as mysterious to me today as they were fifteen years ago, when that bag first appeared after a vicious argument between my parents. Dad had canceled one of my doctor’s appointments without first consulting Mom, telling her that the therapist was a quack who only wanted to pump me with drugs. Mom told Dad to keep throwing balls through the air and leave the big thinking to her. He called her a petty dictator, and after that, the house banged and burned with fire and spit. Dad apologized, Mom placed the duffel bag in the nook, and it’s remained in this spot ever since, a reminder of that night’s warning. This petty dictator will leave your ass here with these girls, Robert, since you know so much. Try me. Dare me.
He didn’t try her.
He didn’t dare her.
An hour after every argument, he clamps his mouth and drops his head.
Dominique does, too.
I’ve dared her only once—Go, then, thirteen-year-old Yara shouted back. She called me disrespectful and ungrateful, said that I’d cease to exist if she ever, ever left me. Little girl who can’t even breathe, she spat. You ready to go there with me?
Frightened by the infinite darkness in her eyes, I clamped my mouth and dropped my head. All just to avoid being taken deep into the Mojave Desert and abandoned on the side of the road like an unwanted puppy.
Why hasn’t she unpacked that bag? No clue. Maybe she no longer sees it. Maybe it’s become a piece of furniture forever in its spot like the fireplace tools.
The house smells of comfort food drenched in butter, coated in flour, fried in canola oil (because it’s healthier). I smell biscuits and sweet onions and gravy over smothered chicken bubbling in the slow cooker. My tastebuds tingle, ready for all that fat and salt.
Dominique plops on the couch in the den. She aims the remote at the large-screen television on the wall and finds The Wendy Williams Show. Nothing in here is different except for that television—a springtime gift from me after the old set died.
Mom walks toward the kitchen. “Turn that off and come eat.”
I trail after her. “Oh, I’m not hungry yet.”
“Nope,” Mom says. “Over the next eight days, I’m not listening to that. You need to eat better, Yara. When you’re hungry and skinny and drinking too much—”
“I don’t drink too much.” I pluck a biscuit from the basket.
“Cabo last year,” she says, eyebrow cocked.
“Uncle Stoney’s wedding,” Dominique shouts from the den.
“Those were special occasions,” I say, nauseated from recalling four nights of drinking too many all-inclusive Tequila Sunrises and Long Island Iced Teas.
“You’re not some rail-thin chick who can get by on Diet Cokes and cocaine,” Mom says. “Your meds can’t fully absorb if you’re only eating salads and drinking green shakes.”
“Which meds?” Dominique snarks. “The ‘I can’t breathe’ meds or the ‘my brain isn’t working’ meds?” She nudges me and grabs a biscuit.
Mom squints at my sister and says nothing, but that well-placed moment of silence craters Dominique’s cockiness and she blushes and slumps.
I’ve taken anxiety medication since third grade, after waking too many nights screaming, thrashing around in bed, and drenched with sweat. I never remembered my night terrors, but I do recall the worry in my parents’ eyes the next day. I’m on Ativan and switch to Symbyax occasionally to control bouts of depression. For the last three months, I’ve been flying without them, and I’ve been . . . good.
Mom eases the casserole dish of bubbling macaroni and cheese out of the oven and hustles it to the sideboard in the dining room.
Through the dining room window, I spot Dad climbing out of his blue Suburban. His crimson Highland Bulldogs T-shirt is dark with sweat.
Dominique retrieves the dish of sweet potatoes from the kitchen counter. “Mom, you cooked like it’s Thanksgiving.”
“Well, I’m thankful that both of my daughters are home,” she says.
I grab the basket of biscuits and container of black-eyed peas. I peer at the speckled bits of meat in the peas. “This pork?”
“Turkey,” Mom says. “It’s healthier.”
Dad bangs into the foyer and shouts, “Is my girl home?”
I rush over to greet him in the entryway. At six feet three, he’s a redwood of a man, and now he’s sweaty from running drills with fifty high school boys.
“Kicking and throwing?” I ask.
“Blocking and sprinting,” he says.
“Shower, Rob,” Mom shouts from the kitchen. “Yara’s hungry.”
My ears tingle. I’m not hungry, but Happy Mom must stay happy, so I say nothing.
He kisses the top of my head and trudges up the stairs. “Showering right now.”
Mom breaks out the holiday wineglasses she found on Home Shopping Network. She pulls out two bottles of Pinot Grigio from the fridge, as well as a can of Coke and the jar of olives for Dominique.
My sister settles on the chaise in the den. She makes a duck face and holds up her phone to take selfies.
Upstairs, Dad sings Steely Dan’s “Dirty Work” in the shower. His voice drifts down the stairs along with scented steam.
My heart is full and I’m filled with light. I’m no fool, though—this feeling won’t last.
Minutes later, we’re all seated around the round dining room table. After I offer the blessing, I open my eyes and survey the feast Mom has prepared.
“Looks good, Bee.” Dad helps himself to the smothered chicken.
I select sweet potatoes, now glistening with butter and brown sugar. “Are there any . . . ?”
Mom scoops macaroni onto her plate. “Any . . . what?”
Dominique grins at me from across the table. “Any what, Yara?”
My cheeks burn. “Any veggies?”
Mom points to the dish of macaroni and cheese. “Black-eyed peas. Sweet potatoes—”
“Not those kinds of vegetables,” I say. “I mean . . . broccoli, green beans, veggies high in fiber. Like your collard greens.”
Mom uses her fork to point at Dominique. “You were supposed to remind me.”
Dominique says, “Oops,” and bats her eyes at me. “But Yara doesn’t mind. You’ve been cooking for her all day. A badass on the track, a culinary goddess in the kitchen. A devoted wife and a wonderful mother—”
“Is this an ad for tampons, Dom?” I ask, eyebrow cocked. “Or are you simply kissing up to Mom cuz you need something?”
Dominique and Mom say, “Need something,” together.
We laugh.
All good.
Fool’s gold.
Dominque plucks an olive from the jar. “Somebody wanted an invitation to the party.”
Mom smiles, thrilled that she’s the guest of honor for what will be the hottest event next weekend. “That’s the third person today. Who was it?”
“Some woman from LA,” Dominique says.
Dad chuckles. “A bit more specific?”
I drain my first glass of wine. “Not ‘some woman.’ It was Cece’s daughter Felicia.”
“Felicia?” Mom smirks at Dad.
He rolls his eyes.
“There’s room,” I say, “if you want to invite—”
“Nope,” Mom says.
Dad focuses on his mound of sweet potatoes.
I drop it. If Mom wants Felicia Campbell to come, she’ll extend the invitation herself.
Conversation turns to sports since my parents and sibling are all athletes. Their competitive dinnertime banter makes me smile—whose team had a better season, which team trains harder, which squad has more endurance. In other families, the way Dad reaches to squeeze Mom’s hand could be a reassuring gesture, an expression sweeter than the honey coating my biscuit. Because yessir, they’ve lived their vows for twenty years, a feat that many of my friends can’t say about their own parents.
Really: I picture them on next Saturday night, Barbara and Robert Gibson dancing to Luther Vandross. Then Dominique and I join them on the dance floor for Sister Sledge’s “We Are Family,” shimmery butterflies fluttering around the King and Queen of Palmdale. Then I picture them changing into their going-away clothes in one of the club’s hotel rooms. Dominique and I hunker near the door listening to the Queen of Palmdale tell the King of Palmdale to go fuck himself before she races to a mysterious paradise in her classic Camaro, all because he didn’t want to dance anymore. Yeah, I could write that episode in my sleep.
Would Shane fit into this treacherous family alchemy?
Mom made blackberry cobbler for dessert, and Dad takes his bowl to the den to watch the Lakers game. Mom and Dominique retreat to the backyard with their bowls of cobbler and cigarette cases. Back in the day, I would’ve joined them out there, and together, we’d watch the foothills turn slate blue as smoke mixed with the sugar on our tongues.
Loneliness ripples across my heart, and I’m tempted to light up just to be a part. But I can’t go backward—I deserve to breathe . . . right? I pop the rubber band on my wrist to tamp down that desire, and I take my dessert to the den and plop in the armchair across from Dad to watch the game. We don’t talk much, just . . . LeBron is a badass and The Jeep’s running good, DeShawn caught a twenty-pound tuna down in San Diego last Thursday, and I bought a doorbell security camera for my apartment. Dad stares at the television, unblinking, waiting for me to say more. But I don’t know, can’t possibly know, anything else that needs to be said.
At halftime, my phone vibrates. A text from Unknown a.k.a. Cousin Felicia again.
Please Yara
Talk to me before it’s too late!
5.
Right now, I don’t wanna talk to anyone, especially to a strange woman who broke my pendant and scratched my neck. Right now, all I wanna do is take a nap and sleep off Mom’s soul food. Then I wanna drive to my hotel room, find Cheers on cable, and zone out for three hours with Sam and Diane.
As Dad snores on the couch, and the sun melts across the valley, I text Felicia.
Eating dinner
I’ll call you later
Pushy broad. She’s like algae—barely there but too slick to ignore. Is that why she and Mom aren’t tight? There can be only one alpha in a pack, and that must be Mom, no exceptions.
Anyway, I don’t have time to chat.
I have work to do.
On the way to the attic, I grab my IDEAS-QUEEN OF PALMDALE journal from my purse and jot down the ballroom scene of the happy dancing family, the argument, the Camaro racing into the moonlight. Idea captured, I shove the journal back into my bag.
To make the ballroom more personal, I’m placing items that symbolize my parents’ love journey as table centerpieces. Like . . . pictures of my parents at Inglewood High School back in 1985. A framed love letter Dad wrote Mom once they reunited after college. Their first Christmas ornament as a couple.
Two weeks ago, Dominique seemed excited with the centerpiece concept. But now that she’s here in the attic with me, not so much. She paws through a box filled with souvenirs and itineraries from our Bahamas cruise ten years ago. “How long are we gonna keep looking through all this?” Dominique asks. “Mom will be back from Big 5 any minute now, and you’re supposed to clean the kitchen.”
The attic is tall enough to house a low-slung chair and a lamp. Boxes and plastic tubs line the whitewashed sloped walls.
Dominique lounges like a cat in that chair. My back aches from sitting cross-legged, cramped between the boxes and the lamp. With all the dust, I can’t stop sneezing.
My sister grimaces. “For real, how long are we staying up here, cuz you’re about to die.”
