If I Lie
Page 47
“Yeah. He asked me to tell you how much he misses you and that he loves you.”
Her eyes look a little less empty than before. Again I wish I could hug her or touch her hand. But I don’t dare. My father waits for me at the end of the aisle with surprise and something like sympathy on his face. I pace toward him.
If I thought Mrs. Breen would thank me, I was wrong.
But she does call my name. “Quinn.”
Tears track down her stony face like rivulets of rain on a statue. “He’s a hero. That’s what his squadron leader says. The last they heard he was going after a rebel using a child as a shield. They didn’t find him, but he helped that child get away.”
I inhale a breath that turns into a smothered sob. “That sounds like Carey.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. Her shoulders pull back and she stands straight. “Good-bye, Quinn.”
The conversation’s over. I can see she’s finished with me. Permanently.
My father follows me when I rush past him, holding my stomach to keep the kerosene in. One good light and I’ll take down everyone around me in an explosion of truth.
* * *
At the hospital, I wait for George to wake.
He dropped off to sleep almost midsentence, something he’s doing more and more frequently. I pretend it’s the medication, but there’s a reason he’s in the long-term care ward. A reason I don’t want to face.
Sitting in the chair by the window, I listen to George snore and watch the window do a pas de deux with the rain skipping over its surface. I finger the piece of paper with my mother’s phone number and obsess over last week’s confrontation with Carey’s mom. Both women said they loved me once-upon-a-perfect-time. But they have both washed their hands of me.
At least with Carey’s mom, I get it. Her anger comes from her love for her son. I’m desperately afraid for him too. I miss him so much, like half of my heart’s been cut away. And suddenly, I feel a horrible sadness for Carey. He hid so much from all of us, and maybe if I’d been a better friend, he would have come out sooner. Maybe I would have had the chance to know the side of him that he kept tucked away. How can I blame him for longing to be himself? Isn’t that what we all want?
“What’s the matter, kid?” I look up to find George studying me from his bed. His eyes droop, but they are as sharp as ever. He adds, “You look so sad, Sophie.”
I pull my legs into my chest, propping my chin on my knee. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I admit.
I’ve told George what happened with my mother and Mrs. Breen. I could see on his face that he wished he had the solution to make all my problems go away. He doesn’t know that only Carey has that ability.
“You’d be surprised what you can take. To everything there is a season. . . .”
My lips quirk into a weak smile. “You quoting scripture at me now, old man?”
He doesn’t laugh like I think he will. “This pain won’t last forever. You’ll see.”
An ache starts in my throat. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re amazing, kid. You have so much to give. You have the kind of heart that can’t be hidden forever. One day, people will see that about you, and you are going to knock them on their asses with how stunning you are.”
I sniff and hug my legs.
We sit in silence, and he begins to drop off to sleep again.
I wait until his eyes go heavy and his breathing evens out before I tiptoe to the side of his bed and drop a kiss on his creased cheek. I turn back to my chair.
That’s when George whispers, “Love you too, kid.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
George decides to make a big deal of my eighteenth birthday.
I’d thought the day would pass like any other, but he rejects that notion. He arranges for a small party in the atrium, and even convinces some of the staff and patients to help him decorate the garden with lights and balloons. When I push his chair into the indoor garden, everyone yells “Surprise!” even though I saw them all through the atrium’s glass. Nurse Espinoza places a silly plastic tiara on my head.
It’s pretty much the best birthday ever.
I hadn’t realized how many friends I’d made at the hospital in my time there. There’s Don and the other soldiers I’d interviewed with George. Of course, not all of them are there. Some have transferred out, gone home, or gone back to the war front. Some have died.
Then there are the nurses and doctors I’ve spent time with. George is a favorite patient, and I’m his favorite person. His friendships have rubbed off on me. Sitting in the midst of these people, I am so grateful to George and so glad my father made me come here to work. I wonder if he’ll ever know the favor he did me.
Then, I notice George glance behind me to the atrium door. He says, “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
I laugh, still riding high on buttercream frosting. “How could I be?”
“Well . . . ,” he says, looking guilty.
“Hi, Sophie,” my mother says from behind me.
I shoot George a venomous glare, before turning to face her. “Hey.”
She looks out of place. These are my people. Maybe they’re not my age, like Ang or Nikki, but they are my friends. We are the Island of Misfit Toys, all broken or smashed in some way. She is too perfect to fit in among us, and she knows it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable dance. A bright purple and lime green box lies forgotten in her hand, until she pushes it toward me with a huge, nervous smile. “Happy birthday!”
Her eyes look a little less empty than before. Again I wish I could hug her or touch her hand. But I don’t dare. My father waits for me at the end of the aisle with surprise and something like sympathy on his face. I pace toward him.
If I thought Mrs. Breen would thank me, I was wrong.
But she does call my name. “Quinn.”
Tears track down her stony face like rivulets of rain on a statue. “He’s a hero. That’s what his squadron leader says. The last they heard he was going after a rebel using a child as a shield. They didn’t find him, but he helped that child get away.”
I inhale a breath that turns into a smothered sob. “That sounds like Carey.”
“Yeah,” she whispers. Her shoulders pull back and she stands straight. “Good-bye, Quinn.”
The conversation’s over. I can see she’s finished with me. Permanently.
My father follows me when I rush past him, holding my stomach to keep the kerosene in. One good light and I’ll take down everyone around me in an explosion of truth.
* * *
At the hospital, I wait for George to wake.
He dropped off to sleep almost midsentence, something he’s doing more and more frequently. I pretend it’s the medication, but there’s a reason he’s in the long-term care ward. A reason I don’t want to face.
Sitting in the chair by the window, I listen to George snore and watch the window do a pas de deux with the rain skipping over its surface. I finger the piece of paper with my mother’s phone number and obsess over last week’s confrontation with Carey’s mom. Both women said they loved me once-upon-a-perfect-time. But they have both washed their hands of me.
At least with Carey’s mom, I get it. Her anger comes from her love for her son. I’m desperately afraid for him too. I miss him so much, like half of my heart’s been cut away. And suddenly, I feel a horrible sadness for Carey. He hid so much from all of us, and maybe if I’d been a better friend, he would have come out sooner. Maybe I would have had the chance to know the side of him that he kept tucked away. How can I blame him for longing to be himself? Isn’t that what we all want?
“What’s the matter, kid?” I look up to find George studying me from his bed. His eyes droop, but they are as sharp as ever. He adds, “You look so sad, Sophie.”
I pull my legs into my chest, propping my chin on my knee. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take,” I admit.
I’ve told George what happened with my mother and Mrs. Breen. I could see on his face that he wished he had the solution to make all my problems go away. He doesn’t know that only Carey has that ability.
“You’d be surprised what you can take. To everything there is a season. . . .”
My lips quirk into a weak smile. “You quoting scripture at me now, old man?”
He doesn’t laugh like I think he will. “This pain won’t last forever. You’ll see.”
An ache starts in my throat. “What makes you say that?”
“You’re amazing, kid. You have so much to give. You have the kind of heart that can’t be hidden forever. One day, people will see that about you, and you are going to knock them on their asses with how stunning you are.”
I sniff and hug my legs.
We sit in silence, and he begins to drop off to sleep again.
I wait until his eyes go heavy and his breathing evens out before I tiptoe to the side of his bed and drop a kiss on his creased cheek. I turn back to my chair.
That’s when George whispers, “Love you too, kid.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
George decides to make a big deal of my eighteenth birthday.
I’d thought the day would pass like any other, but he rejects that notion. He arranges for a small party in the atrium, and even convinces some of the staff and patients to help him decorate the garden with lights and balloons. When I push his chair into the indoor garden, everyone yells “Surprise!” even though I saw them all through the atrium’s glass. Nurse Espinoza places a silly plastic tiara on my head.
It’s pretty much the best birthday ever.
I hadn’t realized how many friends I’d made at the hospital in my time there. There’s Don and the other soldiers I’d interviewed with George. Of course, not all of them are there. Some have transferred out, gone home, or gone back to the war front. Some have died.
Then there are the nurses and doctors I’ve spent time with. George is a favorite patient, and I’m his favorite person. His friendships have rubbed off on me. Sitting in the midst of these people, I am so grateful to George and so glad my father made me come here to work. I wonder if he’ll ever know the favor he did me.
Then, I notice George glance behind me to the atrium door. He says, “Don’t be mad at me, okay?”
I laugh, still riding high on buttercream frosting. “How could I be?”
“Well . . . ,” he says, looking guilty.
“Hi, Sophie,” my mother says from behind me.
I shoot George a venomous glare, before turning to face her. “Hey.”
She looks out of place. These are my people. Maybe they’re not my age, like Ang or Nikki, but they are my friends. We are the Island of Misfit Toys, all broken or smashed in some way. She is too perfect to fit in among us, and she knows it, shifting her weight from one foot to the other in an uncomfortable dance. A bright purple and lime green box lies forgotten in her hand, until she pushes it toward me with a huge, nervous smile. “Happy birthday!”
