Whispers and Lies (35 page)

I noticed she was beginning to perspire. “I think you’ll start to feel better soon.”

“No. I mean about me staying.”

“You can stay as long as you like.”

Tears immediately appeared in the corners of each eye. “Really? You mean that?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re not kicking me out?”

“How could I? This is your home.”

Alison brought her hands to her mouth, muffled a gasp of pure joy. “Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. You won’t be sorry. I promise you.”

“But no more lies.”

“I promise I’ll never lie to you again.”

“Good. Because lies destroy trust, and without trust …”

“You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She ran her hand through her hair, rolled her neck from side to side, wet her lips with her tongue.

“Are you all right, Alison? Would you like to lie down?”

“No. I’ll be okay.”

“What was K.C. doing here before?” I asked, slipping the question in casually as her eyes struggled to stay focused.

“What?”

“No more lies, Alison. You promised.”

“No more lies,” she whispered.

“What was K.C. doing here?”

She shook her head, then raised her hands to her temples, as if to steady her head, prevent it from rolling off altogether. “His name isn’t K.C.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. It’s Charlie. Charlie something-or-other. I don’t remember. He was Erica Hollander’s fiancé.”

“Erica’s fiancé? What was he doing here?”

“I don’t know.” Alison’s eyes struggled to find my face. “He was talking crazy.”

“What did he say?”

“Nothing that made any sense.” She laughed, but the weak sound wobbled, then died in her throat. “He says that she didn’t run off, that she never went anywhere. He has this ridiculous idea that you know where she is.”

“Maybe it’s not such a ridiculous idea.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“Maybe I
do
know where she is.”

“Do you?” Alison tried to stand up, stumbled, collapsed back in the chair.

“I really think you’d be much more comfortable lying down. Why don’t we go into the living room?” I helped Alison to her feet, lifting one long, slender arm over my shoulder, and guiding her from the kitchen, her feet shuffling along the floor, like whispers from a crowd.

“What happened to the Christmas tree?” she asked as we entered the living room.

“It had a little accident.” I directed her to the sofa and sat down beside her, lifting her feet into my lap.

“Are you going to give me a pedicure?” she asked with a smile that refused to settle.

“Maybe later.”

“I feel so strange. Maybe it’s the pills.”

“And the cake,” I said, removing her sandals, massaging her bare feet the way I knew she liked. “And the coffee.”

She regarded me quizzically.

“I believe you had four spoonfuls of sugar this time. Not a good idea, Alison. They say sugar’s poison for your system.”

“I don’t understand.” For the first time, a look of fear flashed through Alison’s beautiful green eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You thought you had me, didn’t you, Alison? You thought all you had to do was smile and pay me a few stupid compliments, and I’d fall under your magic spell all over again. Except it didn’t work. This time I’m the one with all the magic: Terry’s magic chocolate cake; Terry’s
magic sugar; Terry’s magic pills.”

“What are you talking about? What have you done to me?”

“Who are you?” I demanded.

“What!”

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am. I’m Alison.”

“Alison Simms?” I didn’t give her a chance to answer. “I doubt that. There is no Alison Simms.” I watched her flinch, as if I’d raised my hand to strike her. “Just like there’s no K.C.”

“But I didn’t know about K.C. I didn’t know—”

“Just like there’s no Rita Bishop.”

She rubbed her mouth, her neck, her hair. “Who?”

“Your friend from Chicago. The one you were looking for at Mission Care when you just happened to stumble across my notice.”

“Oh, God.”

“Let’s play our little game. Three words to describe Alison.”

“Terry, please. You don’t understand.”

“Let’s see. Oh, I know: liar, liar, liar.”

“But I haven’t lied. Please, I haven’t lied.”

“You’ve done nothing
but
lie since the moment I met you. I read your journal, Alison.”

“You read my journal? But then you know—”

“I know you’re coming here was no accident. I know you and Lance have been plotting for months to get rid of me.”

“Get rid of you? No!” Alison swung her legs off my lap, tried to get up, only half-succeeded before her knees gave
out and she teetered to the floor. “Oh, God. What’s happening to me?”

“Who are you, Alison? Who are you
really?”

“Please help me.”

“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” I said coldly, in my mother’s voice.

“It’s all a huge misunderstanding. Please. Take me to the hospital. I promise I’ll tell you everything as soon as I feel better.”

“Tell me now.” I pushed her back on the sofa, watching her disappear into the deep, down-filled cushions, their pretty pink and mauve flowers threatening to swallow her whole. I settled into the striped Queen Anne chair directly across from her and waited. “The truth,” I warned her. “Don’t leave anything out.”

“C
an I have a glass of water?” Alison asked.

“Later. After you tell me.”

Tears fell the length of Alison’s face. Her color was ashen, a once vibrant photograph fading before my eyes. “I don’t know where to start.”

“Start with who you really are. Start with your name.”

“It’s Alison.”

“Not Simms,” I said matter-of-factly.

“Not Simms,” she repeated dully. “Sinukoff.” A sudden spark of interest. “Does that name mean anything to you?”

“Should it?”

She shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it would or not.”

“It doesn’t.”

“I didn’t know if it would. I had to be sure.”

“Sure of what?”

“I didn’t want to make another mistake.”

“What are you talking about? What kind of mistake?”

Alison’s head rolled back across her shoulders, swayed precariously, as if it might fall off. “I’m so tired.”

“Why did you come to Florida, Alison?” I demanded. “What were you after?”

“I came to find you.”

“I know that. What I don’t know is why. I’m not rich. I’m not famous. I have nothing that could possibly interest you.”

She steadied her head, concentrated all her attention on my face. “You have everything,” she said simply.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to explain that one.”

Her eyes fluttered to a close, and for a moment I thought she might have succumbed to all the sedatives in her system, but then she started to speak, slowly at first, and with obvious effort, as if trying to keep track of her words, as one thought merged with another, and one word slurred into the next. “I’d been looking for you for a while without any luck. I decided to hire a private detective. The first one didn’t work out, so I hired someone else. He said you were working in a hospital in Delray. So I went there to see for myself. That’s when I saw your notice at the nurses’ station. I couldn’t believe my luck. I made up the story about Rita Bishop. I thought it would give us a chance to get to know one another before …”

“Before what?”

“Before I told you.”

“Told me what, for God’s sake?”

“Don’t you know?”

“Know what?”

“I don’t understand. You said you read my journal.”

“Know what?” I repeated, my voice a low roar, like the
sound of an approaching wave.

Her eyes locked on mine, snapped into focus, as if seeing me for the first time. “That you’re my mother.”

For an instant I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did both, the strangled sound emerging from my mouth foreign even to my own ears. I jumped to my feet, began pacing back and forth in front of her. “What are you talking about? That’s impossible. What are you talking about?”

“I’m your daughter,” she said, fresh tears forming in her eyes.

“You’re crazy! Your mother lives in Chicago.”

“I’m not from Chicago. I’m from Baltimore, like you.”

“You’re lying!”

“I was adopted as an infant by John and Carole Sinukoff. Did you know them?”

I shook my head vigorously, distant images flashing through my mind like a strobe light. I shielded my eyes, struggled to keep unwanted memories at bay.

“They already had a son, but they couldn’t have any more children, and they wanted a daughter, so they picked me. A mistake,” she acknowledged, licking at her lips. “I was this awful kid. Pretty much like I told you. I never felt I belonged. I was so different from everyone else. And it didn’t help that my perfect older brother kept reminding me I wasn’t really part of the family. One Christmas when he came home from Brown, he told me that my real mother was a fourteen-year-old slut who couldn’t keep her legs together.”

“Oh, God.”

“I kicked him where it counts. He certainly didn’t have
any trouble keeping
his
legs together after that.” She attempted a laugh, wheezed instead.

“But what you’re saying is impossible,” I told her, my head spinning as much as hers. Images of the past snuck through decades-old defenses to assault my brain: Roger Stillman clumsily pushing his way inside me in the backseat of his car; my frantic eyes checking my underwear every day after that for signs of a period that stubbornly refused to come; my child’s belly growing more distended every day, no matter how baggy the clothes I wore. “It’s impossible,” I repeated, more forcefully this time, trying in vain to frighten the images away. “Do the math. I’m forty. You’re twenty-eight. That would have made me twelve—”

“I’m not twenty-eight. I’m twenty-five. I’ll be twenty-six …”

On February 9, I mouthed silently as she spoke the words out loud. I covered my ears with my hands in an effort to block out her voice. When had it gotten so loud, so strong?

“I was afraid if I told you my real age, you might figure everything out before you had the chance to get to know me. And I didn’t know how you’d feel about having me back in your life. I wanted so much for you to like me. No, that’s a lie,” she said, correcting herself. “I wanted more than that. I wanted you to
love
me. So you wouldn’t be able to give me up again.”

I sank back into the Queen Anne chair. She was crazy, of course. Even if some of what she said was true, it was impossible for her to be my daughter. She was so tall, so beautiful. Just like Roger Stillman, I thought. “It’s not
true,” I insisted. “I’m sorry. You’ve made a mistake.”

“No. Not this time. The first detective I hired found some woman in Hagerstown he thought was you. I got so excited, I went to see her, but it turned out he was wrong. Then I found you. Lance said I was crazy to come all the way down here, that I was only going to get hurt again, but I had to see you. And the minute I did, the minute I talked to you, I knew I was right. Even before you told me about Roger Stillman, I knew you were my mother.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong. You know I’m not.”

“The only thing I know is that you’re a stupid, stupid girl!” I heard myself shout.

My mother’s voiced bounced off the walls.

You’re a stupid, stupid girl!

“No, please don’t say that.”

How could you do this? How could you let some ridiculous boy stick his awful thing inside you?

I’ll take care of the baby, Mommy. I promise I’ll take good care of it.

Don’t think for one minute that I’m going to allow a bastard child into this house. I’ll drown it in a basin, just like I drowned those damn kittens!

“Terry,” Alison was whispering. “Terry, I’m not feeling very well.”

I moved swiftly to her side, wrapped her in my arms. “- It’s all right, Alison. Don’t worry. You won’t throw up. I know how much you hate throwing up.”

“Please take me to the hospital.”

“Later, sweetheart. After you’ve had a little nap.”

“I don’t want to fall asleep.”

“Ssh. Don’t fight it, darling. It’ll all be over soon.”

“No! Oh, God, no! Please. You have to help me.”

We heard the noise at the same moment, our heads twisting in unison toward the kitchen door. Pounding, yelling, ringing. “Alison!” a voice bellowed over the cacophony of sounds. “Alison, are you in there?”

“K.C.!” Alison exclaimed, her voice scarcely audible. “- I’m here. Oh, God, help me! I’m in here.”

“Terry!” K.C. hollered. “Terry, open this door right now or I’m calling the police.”

“Just a minute,” I called back calmly, gently extricating myself from Alison’s side, hearing her groan as she toppled over, too drugged to move. I walked quickly to the back door. “I’m coming. Hold your horses.”

“Where is she?” K.C. pushed roughly past me into the house. “What have you done with her?”

“Who are we talking about?” I asked him pleasantly. “Erica? Or Alison?”

But K.C. was already in the living room. “Alison! My God! What has that lunatic done to you?”

I reached into the sink and carefully removed the butcher knife from the white enamel basin. It fit comfortably into the center of my hand, as if it belonged there. I squeezed it, felt it damp against my tender skin as the cut reopened in my palm. Then I returned to the living room, watching from behind the dying branches of the Christmas tree as K.C. struggled to lift Alison to her feet.

“Can you walk?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Put your arms around my neck. I’ll carry you.”

How can I describe what happened next?

It was as if I’d been handed the starring role in a play.
No, not a play. More like a ballet, full of grand gestures and exaggerated mime, each move carefully planned and choreographed. As Alison raised her arms, so did I. As K.C. was bending to scoop her up, I was swooping down. As he took the first of several awkward steps, I was flying across the room with savage grace. As Alison was resting her head against K.C.’s shoulder, I was plunging the foot-long blade into his back with such force the handle snapped off in my hands.