Black Flowers, White Lies Page 5

  “Grace? Sorry.” For a moment, I consider telling her I’m going out with Blake. But I’d never hear the end of it, I rationalize. “Mom’s hounding me to get some sleep. We’ve got a big day tomorrow. You know how she is.”

  “Okay,” she says, but she sounds disappointed that we didn’t finish planning. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  After we hang up, I throw on capris and my newest T-shirt, I would push you in front of zombies to save my cat. The silence means Mom and Stanley are already in bed. I give Oscar a quick pet, grab my wallet, then rush to meet Blake.

  We talk in whispers until we’re outside in the courtyard next to our building. Blake chooses a bench that’s half in the shadows, then opens a Poland Spring bottle and takes a swig that tells me it isn’t filled with water. When he offers it to me, I’m feeling high on rebellion. Sneaking out is more fun than I imagined. I take a polite sip even though it smells gross. My mouth crinkles in disgust.

  “Vodka tonic,” he says. “I couldn’t exactly hide a fruity drink in a water bottle.”

  I would never steal alcohol from my mom, but he doesn’t seem to mind taking risks. I’m a little impressed at his boldness.

  “I thought it would be good to get outside, away from Stanley and Andrea for a while.” He takes another swig. The white bandage covering his stitches stands out in the dim light.

  “Does your hand still hurt?” I ask.

  “It’s not bad. Your mom was great, by the way. She stayed totally calm. My dad, not so much.”

  “I’ve been wondering … you and Stanley aren’t close, right?”

  “Not since the divorce. My parents couldn’t make it work, Mom told me. After my baby sister died, my mom grieved for a long time. My dad found it easier to be away from us, I guess. Everyone handles death in their own way. His way was to disappear.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry. He didn’t mention it, only that it was a difficult divorce. I had no idea that he had a daughter who died.”

  “The death of a child causes a major strain on a marriage. Anything difficult with a child, actually—a serious physical problem, severe mental illness, a fatal accident—it can doom a couple. I learned about it in psychology. I also learned how unhealthy it is to hold a grudge, so I eventually decided to forgive him. Now with the wedding coming up, it seemed like a good time for us to make peace.” He takes another drink. “Enough about my drama. Who were you talking to when I knocked on your door?”

  “Grace. We’ve been friends forever.”

  “Does she love animals, too?”

  “Not exactly. She’s a movie fanatic. We have an unspoken agreement. I sit through whatever she picks, and she spends occasional afternoons with me in front of the grocery store, collecting donations for the animal shelter.”

  “I had a gray kitten in middle school, but he disappeared. Ran away, I guess. I was so upset that I missed a week of classes.”

  “That’s so sad. Did Stanley and your mom …” I try to calculate the timeline of their divorce. His parents split up way before my mom met Stanley, but I don’t really know when. “I mean, did anyone put up fliers?”

  “My dad had already left by then,” he says matter-of-factly. He pauses. “You’re probably wondering why I came to Hoboken early and didn’t say anything.”

  I nod.

  “I have a girlfriend here, so I stayed at her apartment. We met on my last trip to the East Coast.”

  “Oh.” A girlfriend? I never considered that. If she has her own apartment, she must be older. Not anyone I would know. “Why not just tell him that?”

  “Then he’d want to meet her and be all over-involved with my life. He hasn’t had much to do with me for years. I don’t need an insta-dad. Small steps,” Blake says. “Now you know my secret.”

  I wonder what she looks like. Beautiful, no doubt. “I won’t say anything.”

  “I know I can trust you.” Blake smiles. “Since we’re sharing secrets, I’ll tell you another one. I knew it was you when I saw you at the mall. Dad had sent me a photo of the three of you, and I recognized you from the picture. I wanted to introduce myself, but I chickened out. So I asked you about the ties instead.”

  “That makes sense. It felt like too much of a coincidence that we’d randomly run into each other.” It wasn’t fate after all, like I’d thought that afternoon. It makes me sad that our meeting wasn’t as destined as it seemed. “You do have good taste in ties.”

  “Thanks.” The cool breeze cheers me. It’s refreshing to sit outside on a summer night, after the oppressive heat of the daytime has lifted. I’ve been struggling with jealousy since Blake’s arrival, but it occurs to me that the family situation is weird for him, too. I feel almost warm from the fact that he trusts me with his secrets. It’s either that or the vodka.

  “Let’s play a game,” he says. “Deux vérités et un mensonge. You tell me two truths and a lie, and I’ll try to guess which one isn’t true.”

  I hate this kind of thing, but I do want us to be friends, to cement this moment of closeness. “Were you speaking French?” I stall while I try to think of something interesting.

  “Oui. My mom is Canadian. Veronique insisted that I study French,” he says. “Ready to play?”

  I think it over another moment. “Um, Veggie Paradise is my favorite take-out place. Pink is my favorite color. I secretly believe in ghosts.”

  “That’s easy. There’s no way pink is your favorite color.”

  I smile. “Right.”

  “Why is your belief in ghosts a secret?”

  I remember the car crashing over the curb and explaining to Mom how Dad told me to wait. She looked at me like I was lying that day. Or irrational.

  “Mom’s pretty skeptical about that stuff. So is Grace. I try to downplay it,” I say. “Now, it’s your turn.”

  “I’ve never been to the Atlantic Ocean. I’ve always wanted a sister. I love chess.”

  “You’re lying about the ocean?”

  He laughs. “You’ve got it. I’ve been to the Jersey Shore a bunch of times. My dream is to live on an island, surrounded by the ocean. And I love chess. It brings back good memories of my dad, before the divorce. Do you play?”

  “No. I understand how the pieces move but I’ve never been able to strategize.”

  “What games do you like?”

  “Backgammon.”

  “Ah, strategy plus luck. You never know how the dice will roll.” He drains the rest of the drink. “Do you want to sneak into Lana’s?” He motions toward the bar across the street. “I’ve got a great fake ID. I bet the bouncer would look away for a pretty girl.”

  He thinks I’m pretty. I hesitate. “Thanks, but Mom would kill me.”

  “She seems strict.”

  “It’s been the two of us forever. She always wants to keep me out of trouble, especially in a bar. A drunk driver leaving a pub killed my dad.”

  Blake looks away as if he’s deciding something.

  “What?” I ask. He doesn’t answer right away, but I let the silence weigh on him. It always works with Grace and Jana.

  Finally, he turns to me. “You seem like the kind of person who values the truth, no matter what.”

  “Yes. Who doesn’t?”

  “You’d be surprised. Some people don’t mind being deceived. They like to stay in denial. But I don’t ever want to be dishonest with you.”

  “Dishonest about what?”

  He hesitates. “I shouldn’t give away your mom’s secret,” he says. “She confided in Stanley, and he told me. You can’t let your mom know.”

  I jiggle my leg. All this dancing around the topic annoys me. “Fine.”

  “I know our parents getting married doesn’t guarantee us becoming friends. But I meant what I said about wanting a sister. And I hate dishonesty, especially about something as important as your own dad.”

  I suddenly wish there was more vodka left in his bottle. “What about him?”

  Blake meets my gaze. “He wasn’t killed
in a car accident.”

  “What? What are you talking about?”

  “Your dad … he died in a mental hospital.”

  “No. No, you must be confused. It was a car accident. Mom told me.”

  He’s silent.

  “You must have misunderstood.” Irritation creeps into my voice.

  “I don’t think so. She told Stanley about it.”

  As I consider it, I can hear everything nearby: glasses clinking in the bar across the street, car motors idling at the red light, cat cries in the distance. I let the sounds wash over me. What Blake said can’t be true.

  “Mom wouldn’t lie to me for all these years.” But even as I argue, Oscar the Second comes to mind. “Not about something this important. Besides, you’ve been out of touch with Stanley, and now all you can discuss is the secrets Mom keeps?”

  “I might have probed a little,” Blake says. “It’s easier to talk about your family than my own.”

  “You’re wrong about my dad.”

  “Am I?” Blake keeps his voice gentle. “Are you sure your mom never looked uncomfortable talking about the specifics of how he died? Did she always change the subject after telling you minimal facts about his death?”

  The smallest sliver of doubt wedges its way inside. I don’t know many details, except that Dad worked late to save an injured dog. Then he had a meeting, something related to vets, before a drunk driver killed him on his way home.

  Blake must sense my hesitation. “All right. I didn’t want to get my dad in trouble. But if it’s that important and you still don’t believe me, ask your mom tomorrow.”

  “On her wedding day? I don’t think so.”

  “Have you read the obituary?” he asks.

  “Of course.” I went through a phase where I read it often, hoping to find Dad somewhere in the black and white print. I practically memorized the brief paragraphs. “It said that he died in an accident and that it was under investigation.”

  Blake presses his lips together, as if he’s considering something.

  “What?” I’m nearly shouting.

  “An accident could cover a lot of situations,” he says.

  I work to control my voice. “Mom values her privacy. There’s no way she would put the whole story in his obituary, especially when there were criminal charges against the driver.” This conversation is ridiculous. I stand, ready to go home. After the honeymoon, I’ll ask Mom myself. Then I’ll show Blake that he is wrong.

  “I wouldn’t lie to you, El,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “If you don’t believe me, I’ll figure out a way to prove it.”

  7

  FACTS

  The morning sun peeks around the edges of my window shade like any other day. Then I feel the dread, the hollowness in my stomach, as I remember what Blake said about Dad.

  Why does the possibility that Dad was unwell irritate me so much? It’s not the mental illness itself that bothers me. Lots of people have problems and get treatment. Jana’s uncle is bipolar and my US History teacher talked openly about her depression. I can’t help wondering about my own anxiety. Maybe it is hereditary, something Mom could have mentioned to me, but didn’t.

  Oscar curls against me, and I rub his belly as he purrs. Mom lied. Again. Why come up with an elaborate story about a drunk driver? She could have gone with a simple fib, like a heart attack. And she didn’t need to lie at all when I became old enough to understand. The really bothersome part is that she would tell the truth to Stanley and not to me. Mom and I are always honest with each other. Or so I believed.

  Her one big lie makes all my smaller images of Dad feel false. What if he actually hated the color yellow? What if he didn’t even paint my room? My carefully constructed world-of-Dad feels like a sandcastle.

  No. Blake must be wrong. I feel it in my gut. Propped against my pillows, I use my laptop to search for new information to counter what Blake said. I find the obituary for Thomas Darren Benton, a popular Hoboken veterinarian who died suddenly. I’ve read it a gazillion times before. I always assumed the cause of death was vague because Mom’s a private kind of person or because the legal case against the man who killed him was still pending.

  The Internet offers nothing new. I close the laptop with more force than necessary. The apartment seems quiet. I find myself hoping I’m alone with Mom. Wedding day or not, maybe I could figure out a way to ask her about Dad.

  No such luck. I find Blake at the kitchen table in an NYU T-shirt, drinking his coffee. Oscar follows me and figure-eights my legs.

  “Andrea went with my dad to pick up his suit from the tailor,” he says. “They were giddy with excitement.”

  “Uh-huh.” I open cat food, plop the mush into the metal bowl. Oscar devours it in his usual ravenous style.

  “You ready for today?” Blake asks.

  “Mmm.”

  “You’re angry with me, aren’t you? I’m sorry for last night. My timing sucks. But I’m not a liar. You deserve to know the truth. What if I could provide evidence? Would that put your mind at ease?”

  Without answering, I fall into the kitchen chair like Alice down the rabbit hole.

  He pours a cup of coffee with one sugar, slides it toward me as he sits. I wonder how he remembers that’s how I like it. It’s thoughtful of him, and it softens my mood a little.

  “What’s your idea?” I ask.

  He leans toward me, his eyes serious. “We should contact the closest hospitals, the ones he most likely stayed at. I searched online and found three. You can call and say you want a copy of his records. There must be something about his death on file.”

  I sigh, staring at the calendar on the kitchen bulletin board. Mom marked today, August 6, “WEDDING” in her loopy handwriting. The box for August 8, Dad’s birthday, remains empty. His death date, August 30, is also blank, not that I would expect her to note it on the calendar.

  “We have enough time before they get back,” Blake says. “Do you want to call now?”

  “Not really.” The situation is absurd, but maybe if there are no records he’ll be forced to drop the whole idea.

  He hands me a printout of the hospital addresses and numbers. I enter the numbers slowly, thankful when I get put on hold after pressing six for “other information” from the automated menu. When a woman answers, I explain that I’d like copies of my father’s records. “Can you please send them to me?”

  “I’m sorry, but that’s against our privacy policy. Only someone designated as the patient’s personal representative can access them.”

  “But—”

  “Those are the rules.”

  “Can you at least confirm that the records exist?”

  “I can’t help you without proper authorization.”

  When I hang up, Blake is eager for a recap. I explain what the woman said. The next two calls go the same way. “I guess I’ll ask Mom after the honeymoon.” I hold the warm mug between both hands.

  “There has to be a way around it.” Blake pours himself more coffee. “Who would have been your dad’s personal representative? Your mom?”

  “I have no idea.” I don’t want to play this guessing game. “Maybe a lawyer. Why do you care so much about this?”

  “It bothers me that you don’t believe me. Deep down, don’t you want to know?”

  He interprets my silence as a yes. I’d prefer to keep my previous beliefs about Dad a little while longer, even if they’re wrong. The consequences of the truth are too much.

  But Blake is on a roll. “We have to make the request from a lawyer. Or me, impersonating a lawyer. Which of these hospitals is closest?”

  I point to Meadowview Psychiatric on the list. “But we don’t even know if this would be the right hospital. I don’t see—”

  “Let’s give it a try. It’ll only take a few minutes,” he says. “Look, I can do this better if you’re not listening. It makes me self-conscious.”

  Taking the phone into his bedroom, he closes the door. From my closet, I
bet I can hear every word. I push the bin of winter sweaters out of the way and sit on the floor under my hanging clothes, close enough to the wall to listen.

  Blake says he’s the family lawyer and that the insurance company is requesting the information about my father. Of course, he realizes it’s been sixteen years. How should he know why? Insurance companies are always difficult and he needs the records ASAP. Yes, even if they are in the archives. Yes, a summary would be fine instead of the whole file. Yes, he’ll fax a written request.

  It’s quite a performance and despite my reluctance I can’t help but admire Blake. If only it weren’t all happening so fast. I take some deep breaths, delay leaving my room. I don’t really want proof of Mom’s deception—especially not today.

  Blake’s already creating a fake lawyer letterhead when I scramble out of my closet and find him in the kitchen. “What’s Andrea’s date of birth?” he asks.

  I rattle it off as he types, prints, signs. Then he faxes it from his room.

  My stomach rumbles, and whether it’s nerves or hunger, I decide a bowl of cereal with rice milk will help. “Want some?”

  Blake waves away my offer and microwaves his coffee-gone-cold.

  “She said Saturdays are slow, that she can send it within the hour,” he says.

  He got a much nicer lady on the phone than the one I spoke to. I’m not sure I want the machine to churn out the answer to whether or not my mother has lied to me my entire life. As I’m mulling this over, the key turns in the door.

  Oh no. Blake and I look at each other, and I’m sure his panicked expression mirrors my own. The ringer on the fax is always off, but the machine will beep loudly once the transmission is complete.

  Mom and Stanley come in, bubbly and joyful. They describe their morning in great detail, telling us about the flowers and the suit and the optimistic weather forecast. I can barely focus.

  “It’s a beautiful day!” Mom says.

  When she pauses in her monologue, the crinkly noise of paper being faxed is so loud I think for sure she’ll investigate. But she launches into the reception decorations instead. Blake excuses himself, scraping his chair as he gets up from the table. His bedroom door clicks closed.