The Lies We Told (5 page)

R
EBECCA AND
I
SAT IN THE BACKSEAT OF
B
RENT’S
P
RIUS
, while the men sat in the front. The three of them were talking about DIDA, Rebecca with her seat belt unbuckled so she could lean between Adam and Brent’s seats, monopolizing the conversation, as usual, but I wasn’t listening. I wished I’d stayed home. I was still achy and bleeding a bit from the miscarriage and not up to trekking into the bowels of Durham for a meal I would never enjoy. But Adam was excited about it, and Brent was leaving early in the morning for Ecuador, where an earthquake had wiped a couple of villages off the map the day before. How could I say no?

It was still light out, light enough to let me see the neighborhood deteriorate block by block. I glanced at my sister, whose tanned and superhumanly toned arm was stretched across the back of Adam’s seat. Her mouth moved with words I barely heard. She was talking about the last time she was with DIDA in South America. Someone had boarded the bus she was riding and stolen money from all the passengers, threat
ening them with a machete.
Nice, Bec,
I thought.
Nice, reassuring conversation for Brent the night before he leaves.
But Brent was laughing, as was Adam. I was the only one who felt like I was on that bus. The only one who could see the guy coming toward me, the sharp blade of his machete catching daylight as it sliced through the air. I reached for my purse, opened it, poured my money onto the floor of the bus.
Take it. It’s yours.

When Brent suggested this restaurant the other night, I thought for sure Adam would realize its location and offer an alternative. He knew this was hard for me. Either he just wasn’t thinking, or he was truly angry with me and didn’t care how I felt. But really, I was a grown woman. If I hadn’t wanted to come, I should have said so. It wasn’t up to them to take care of me. I’d kept my lips sealed, though. Adam was psyched and I was not going to give him one more reason, no matter how trifling, to be disappointed in me. He’d been cool toward me since our appointment with Elaine. I’d apologized over and over for keeping the abortion a secret from him and didn’t know what more I could do. One thing I’d learned over the years was that I couldn’t change the past, no matter how much I might want to.

“The only time I was in Brazil,” Rebecca was saying, “my friends ordered this dish for me in a restaurant and it turned out to be boiled alligator.”

Oh, great,
I wanted to say.
And why do we want to go to a Brazilian restaurant?

We drove past a liquor store, where a string of women—clearly prostitutes—posed and preened on the sidewalk.

“There it is.” Brent pointed to a tiny glass-fronted building squashed between a pawnshop and a video store.

“That’s
it?
” Rebecca sounded both astonished and delighted.

There was no sign above the door. The word
Restaurant
was hand painted on a piece of cardboard taped inside the window.

“Yeah,” Brent said. “They’re so new, they don’t have their sign yet.”

“Cool,” said Adam.

“Do you see any parking?” I asked, craning my neck. I wanted a spot right in front of the restaurant so we wouldn’t have to walk any farther in this neighborhood than was necessary.

“Nothing.” Brent looked left and right.

“Is that one?” Rebecca asked. “Up there on the right? Oh. Mini Cooper.”

We drove one block. Then another. “Maybe it’s not a good night for this,” I said.

“There’s one!” Brent shouted, and he started to whip the Prius nose first toward the curb, stepping on the brake just in time to avoid creaming the motorcycle that had been hidden from our view in the parking place. “Damn!” he said. “Dude’s taking up two spots.”

“It’s puny,” my sister said. “Let’s move it!” Before I knew what was happening, she and Adam were out of the car, laughing as they half lifted, half rolled the bike out of our way. I watched the lightness in their movements, the energy, unable to remember the last time I’d seen Adam laugh, and I was glad I’d agreed to come despite my reservations. I wanted to see that smile on my husband’s face, even if I wasn’t the person to put it there.

Brent managed to squeeze the car into the parking place once the motorcycle was out of the way. We were in front of a wig store. The window was full of mannequin heads, most of them dark skinned, wearing wigs in every shade of the rainbow.

Adam offered me a hand as I got out of the car. “Oh, Maya,” he said, sudden sympathy in his voice. “We should have dropped you off out front. Are you up to the walk?”

He meant physically, and physically I was fine. “I’m okay,” I said, already starting to walk, setting a brisk,
brisk
pace.

“Look out,” Brent said as we bustled past the wig shop, “this woman’s hungry!”

The restaurant was long and narrow and packed, but we found a table in the rear. As we walked toward it, I saw one of the E.R. docs from Duke sitting against the far wall, and she waved. I waved back. Seeing her there gave me courage, as if it had not been a stupid idea to come to this part of Durham for dinner after all. I began to notice the other patrons. Some dressed up; most dressed down. White, black, brown. Probably some native Brazilians, happy to enjoy a meal that reminded them of home.

Rebecca and I took the far side of the table and sat down, facing the front of the room. By the time Brent and Adam sat down across from us, I was starting to relax. I liked this place, I decided. I liked the lively atmosphere. The laughter. The spicy smells.

The menus were handwritten in Portuguese and filled with bad photographs of the entrées. Sitting across from each other, Adam and Rebecca leaned over their menus, trying to pronounce the names of the dishes. The table was so small that their heads nearly touched. Their hair was the exact same shade of brown, I noticed, and very nearly the same length, Adam’s too long and my sister’s too short.

“I want this one.” Rebecca pointed to one of the pictures. “It’s the most bizarre-looking thing on the menu.” From where I sat, the entrée looked like a pile of pink flesh covered with some sort of leafy green vegetable.

“I’m going to pass on that,” Adam said with a laugh, and I was glad he hadn’t fallen completely under Rebecca’s spell. When he told me he was joining DIDA, I knew he’d finally succumbed to her persuasion. I’d always been glad that she and
Adam got along so well, but I wished she’d left him alone about DIDA. I loved my sister, but she could be a steamroller.

We ordered beers while we continued to study the menu, and Adam held up his bottle in a toast to Brent.

“Drink up!” he said. “This’ll probably be your last cold brew for a while.”

Brent groaned, but he was grinning. “It’s going to be so bloody hot down there,” he said.

“Next trip is yours, bro-in-law.” Rebecca tapped her bottle to Adam’s.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Adam asked.

“Both,” she said.

An African-American woman was walking toward the rear of the restaurant, a little girl in her arms. I suspected she was heading for the restroom, but she was looking straight at me, a broad smile on her face.

“Do you know her?” Rebecca whispered.

She wasn’t the least bit familiar.

“Dr. Ward!” she said, and for a moment, I thought she meant Rebecca, but her eyes were definitely on mine.

“Hi.” I smiled, struggling to place her. Then I noticed the little girl in her arms. “Taniesa!” I said, jumping to my feet. I reached for her, and Taniesa came easily into my arms, as though she’d never connected the pain from her surgery the year before with me. She clutched a small stuffed panda bear in her hand. “You’re getting
huge,
baby girl.” I planted a kiss on her cheek.

“I seed you and Mama said no, that isn’t you, but it is too,” Taniesa said.

“And you were right. How are you, honey? How’s that arm of yours?”

“Good,” she said, and she lowered her head to my shoulder
as if she wanted to go home with me. I could picture the X-ray of Taniesa’s left arm, shattered in a tricycle accident, as clearly as if I’d seen it only minutes before. I’d never had a photographic memory when it came to reading, but show me a juicy X-ray or CAT scan or MRI image, and I’d never forget it.

“You mean the world to us, Dr. Ward,” Taniesa’s mother said. I couldn’t remember her name. Taniesa’s last name was Flanders, but I knew her mother’s surname was different.

“I’m so glad we could fix her up,” I said, reluctantly letting go of the little girl and handing her back to her mother. Taniesa had on a sweater against the air-conditioned chill of the restaurant, but I ran my fingers down her arm, picturing the scar beneath the fabric.

Rebecca gave the girl’s mother a little wave. “I’m Dr. Ward’s sister, Rebecca,” she said.

“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. This is Brent Greer and my husband Adam Pollard, and this is—”

“Lucy Sharp.” Taniesa’s mom saved me the embarrassment.

“I like that panda, Taniesa,” Adam said. “Is it a girl or a boy?”

Taniesa looked at the stuffed toy as if she was just noticing it. “Girl,” she said.

“She have a name?” Adam asked.

“Taniesa.”

We all laughed, and Taniesa grinned.

“That was so smart!” Adam’s eyes were wide with feigned wonder. “You’ll never forget her name, will you?”

God, it was strange watching Adam with other people! I’d forgotten what he was like. How playful he could be. How he used to be playful with
me
. Our lives had become far too consumed by fertility and pregnancy and worry. We needed to change that, yet I knew he wasn’t ready to give up. I knew he wanted a child more than he wanted the sun to rise in the sky.

“Isn’t this some place?” Lucy Sharp asked. She glanced down at our plateless table. “You haven’t tried anything yet?”

“Not yet,” I said.

“What do you recommend?” Brent asked.

“Oh, Lord, anything you get’s going to fill you up. Try the Churrasco. It’s barbecue, Brazilian style. I never thought I’d like Brazilian food. Who would’ve guessed? But my sister-in-law got me in here a couple weeks ago and now she can’t get me out.”

Our waitress came to the table just then, and Lucy Sharp took a step backward. “I’ll get out of your hair,” she said, “but Taniesa wanted to be sure we said ‘hey.’”

“I’m glad you did,” I said. “Bye, Taniesa.”

The little girl reached for me one more time, and her mom leaned over to let her kiss my cheek.

I have the world’s best job,
I thought. I watched them walk back to the front of the restaurant, and even before I saw them sit down again, I felt happy and at home and hungry enough to eat alligator meat.

The food was delicious and I was eating coconut flan when I noticed that the crowd was beginning to thin out.

“I’m drunk,” Brent admitted happily. He was. Adam was not far behind him. His eyes were glossy and a little unfocused, and the grin he’d been wearing most of the evening was lopsided in a way that made me smile.

“I’ll drive,” Rebecca said. “Though I’m so stuffed I may not fit behind the wheel.”

Adam said something in response, but I didn’t hear him. My gaze was on a man who had walked into the restaurant. He was Caucasian, dark haired, wearing a white T-shirt and beige pants and he stood in front of the door, shifting his gaze quickly from table to table. Something about him sent a shiver through me.

He started walking toward us—or at least, I thought he was heading toward our table. His stride was deliberate, his nostrils flared. Then I saw that his eyes—his
ice-blue
eyes—were locked on the two men at the table in front of ours. Adam said something that must have been funny, because Brent and Rebecca laughed, but I’d set down my spoon and was gripping the corner of the table, my heart thudding beneath my breastbone.

I knew better than anyone how quickly these things could happen. The man reached behind his back with his right hand, then whipped his arm out straight, the gun a gray blur as it cut through the air, and I saw the tattoo of a black star on his index finger as he squeezed the trigger.

B
EFORE
I
COULD SCREAM OR DUCK, THE SHOT RANG OUT AND
the man at the table in front of ours slumped in his chair. Then I
did
scream, the same way I’d screamed twenty years earlier in my driveway. This time, though, I had plenty of company. The congenial atmosphere of the little restaurant gave way to utter chaos. I bent over in my chair, making myself as small as possible, and I felt Rebecca cover me with her body like a shell. My hands were pressed to my ears, but I still heard footsteps racing toward the restaurant door.

“Get him!” people shouted. “Stop him!” Chairs scraped against the floor, and I heard the
thud
of a table falling on its side.

“Call nine-one-one!” I heard Adam yell.

Rebecca sat up and I straightened slowly from my crouched position, my stomach clenched around the meal I’d eaten. Brent and Adam were already on the floor next to the injured man, who had fallen from his chair in a crumpled heap. Rebecca sprang from her seat to the floor next to the men, while I remained frozen in my chair. The table blocked my
view, and I caught only snippets of their conversation. “Press harder,” my sister was saying. “Can’t get a pulse,” Adam said. “Dude’s gone,” Brent added.

Should I try to help? Could I? This is why the three of them belonged in DIDA and I didn’t. I loved my work because it put me in control. “Maya knits teeny little bones back together,” Adam always said when introducing me to someone. That’s what I loved doing: fixing the fixable.

My gaze sank to my dessert plate, and I saw the splatter of blood across the remnants of my flan. The room spun, and I sprang out of my chair and raced toward the ladies’ room in the rear of the restaurant. The tiny restroom was crammed with crying, frightened women who let out a collective scream when I pushed open the door. Just looking at the small sea of hot bodies stole my breath away. I let the door close and sank to the dirty tiled floor of the hallway, my back against the wall.

I couldn’t seem to pull enough air into my lungs.
Those cold eyes. The steady aim of the gun.
Gulping air, I lowered my head to my knees and fought the darkness that seeped into my vision. I’d never once fainted. Not the first time I’d worked on a cadaver. Not during my medical training. Not as an intern in the O.R. I’d never even come close. Yet, I could feel the pull of unconsciousness teasing me now.
He’s gone,
I told myself.
The danger’s over.

Above the voices and commotion from the restaurant, I heard the distant sound of sirens. The women left the ladies’ room en masse, stepping around me, trying not to trip over my feet. I pulled myself into a ball, wrapping my arms tightly around my legs. The sirens grew louder, multiplying in number. I pictured the police cars and ambulances squealing to a stop in front of the building, and I heard new voices adding to the din in the restaurant.

A few minutes passed before Adam walked into the hallway. He squatted down in front of me, his hands on my arms.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

I nodded.

“The guy died,” he said.

I nodded again.

“I’m sorry, My,” he said. “You didn’t need this tonight. I know you still feel like shit.” He glanced behind him as if he could see the interior of the restaurant instead of the peeling paint on the wall. Then he sat down on the floor across from me. The hall was narrow enough that, even leaning against the opposite wall, he was able to keep one hand on mine. God, I loved his touch! During the past week, I’d wondered if I’d ever feel him touch me again.

“The cops locked the door, because they want to talk to everyone who was here when it happened,” he said. “Especially you and Becca, since you were facing the shooter. But if you’re not up to it…I can tell them you’re only six days out from a miscarriage and to leave you alone. You could go into the police station instead of—”

“I’m okay,” I said. I’d be strong for him. I wanted his admiration, not his pity.

Adam turned his hand to lace our fingers together. “You know,” he said, “it was so crazy in there, that when you disappeared, I was afraid you’d been shot. I even looked under the table for you. It scared me.” His voice was heavy with emotion, and I knew he still loved me. Only then did I realize how much I’d come to doubt that love.

“I’m okay,” I said again, getting to my feet. “I can talk to them now.”

The ride home two hours later was quiet and dismal. We were talked out from the interviews with the police, and Brent, now stone-cold sober, drove.

He dropped Adam and me off in front of our house. We started walking up the curved sidewalk to our front door, but I turned as I heard a car door slam and saw Rebecca running toward us.

“Just want to talk to my sis a minute,” she said to Adam.

He nodded, pulling his keys from his pocket. “I’ll see you inside, My,” he said.

We’d left the outside lights on, and I could see the worry in Rebecca’s face. “Are you all right?” she asked.

I nodded. “Fine.” I looked toward my house, hoping the sight of the light-filled windows and overflowing planters by the front door would erase the image of bloody flan from my mind.

“I was afraid when we picked that restaurant that you wouldn’t want to go,” she said. “I know you don’t like going to that part of town. But it seemed great at first. We were having so much fun. And then
this
had to happen.” She shook her head. “It was terrible.”

“I’m okay,” I said.

Rebecca looked toward Brent’s car, then faced me again. “We haven’t had a chance to talk about the baby since I got back. I mean, you and me alone. Let’s make time before I end up on the road again, okay?”

I wasn’t thinking about the baby at that moment. I didn’t want thoughts of my baby—my
son
—to be connected in any way to this horrible night, but she was waiting for some response from me. “Okay,” I said. “I really…” I looked toward my house once more, thinking of Adam inside. “We have to figure out whether to try again.”

“Or adopt.”

I shook my head. “I don’t think Adam ever will.”

“What is his
problem?
” She sounded annoyed. “I want to pound some sense into that man’s head.”

“No. Don’t. He and I have to figure it out. Okay?”

Rebecca ran a hand through her short hair, glancing again toward Brent’s car. “This is a terrible send-off for Brent,” she said, “but then, you get kind of used to the unexpected when you work for DIDA.” It was the wrong thing to say to me now that Adam had signed on as a volunteer, and she caught herself. “But nothing like this has ever happened in all the years I’ve worked for DIDA,” she said. “Really, Maya.”

I didn’t want to talk about DIDA. What I wanted to say was,
Did tonight remind you of the night Mom and Daddy were killed?
But I would never say those words. Our relationship was so complex. We were close in so many ways. Distant in others. If tonight had reminded her of that other night, I would never know.

“You get some sleep,” she said. “Do you have some Xanax lying around?”

“Somewhere,” I said.

She touched my cheek with the back of her fingers, the way a mother might touch her child. She was not usually tender, and I was moved by the gesture. Then she pulled me into a hug.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you, too.”

We stayed that way, holding on to each other, for close to a minute. No matter how tightly I held her against me though, I felt that long-ago night wedged between us like a solid wall of stone.