See How They Lie Read online

  I’ve heard it’s possible to search for anything on computers outside the Creek, that a lot of people don’t even consider the dangers of what they might come across. In the search box I type Louelle Ballard family.

  No results.

  I have two emails. One tells me that the vintage fountain pen I ordered for my collection last week, through a website I’ve been given individual access to, has been dispatched from India. The other is from Greta. She used to be home-schooled with us until she got a place at college in Pattonville. She lives there in term time, in an apartment by herself. She’s nineteen, old enough to do whatever she likes, but what she wants is to keep telling the rest of us what to do.

  The subject of her message is: Make sure you buy…

  The message says: … a birthday present for Drew.

  Does she truly think I’d forget to buy him a present if she didn’t remind me? I reply, telling her that I’ve bought a tennis racquet from the bespoke range in an exclusive online sports shop, and that it’s already wrapped and waiting in my closet for him. I browse through a couple of the clothing sites to see if my favourite sneakers have been made in any other colours yet, and play a couple of games of Scrabble with the computer.

  When my hour is up I leave the main building by the side entrance, past the grounds staff office and the schoolhouse for us staff kids, towards home, which is the fifth floor of Hibiscus. We – Dad, Mom and I – have the penthouse suite with a roof terrace and a view of the main lawn and the buildings: all that Dad built up over these last ten years after we moved here from England. Mom would probably have preferred the view from Greta’s family’s apartment on the floor below, with a large balcony looking out the other way, over gardens and fields, and no buildings in sight.

  I take an elevator to the fifth floor. If Dad was with me, he’d make me run up the flights of stairs while he raced me in the elevator.

  “Hey!” I call as I walk in through the front door. Doors in Hummingbird Creek are never locked, apart from admin and the solitary rooms in the medical suite, and occasionally rooms in Larkspur. It’s a fact that’s always mentioned on open days. We work in a climate of trust.

  Mom is where she usually is at this time, on the sofa in front of the television with a guava juice and a pre-weighed bowl of roasted nuts on the polished wooden table next to her. “You OK, honey?” she says. Her eyes are bright. She must be having one of her better days.

  “Yeah,” I say automatically. “You?”

  “Not bad,” she says and tells me a story about somebody ripping their jacket. I don’t catch the beginning of it, so I can’t tell if she’s talking about one of the grounds staff she works with, or someone in the TV soap she’s watching. It doesn’t matter. I smile anyway and study the silver-framed photos on the shelves by the TV. There’s Dad with his parents on his graduation from medical school. They look pretty ancient in the photo – now they’re too old to travel.

  There’s a photo of Mom with me in her arms as a chunky baby, a smile on her face so wide it makes my chest hurt. Mom and Dad in the reception lobby of Hummingbird Creek, when it was first opened. Me in a series of posed black-and-white shots when I was about five with my dark brown hair in two high pigtails, tied with ribbon: English me.

  Mom’s photo albums were damaged in a flooded basement before I was born. “It’s a shame we don’t have any photos of your family at all,” I say. I don’t just mean around the apartment. I mean in the slim leather photo albums in the bookcase in Dad’s study. They begin with Mom and Dad on their wedding day, Mom just nineteen, Dad aged thirty-five. Dad conventionally handsome, and Mom like a model with shining brown eyes and a big red flower tucked into her long dark hair.

  Mom shrugs. “My parents have been dead so long, I hardly remember them.” She leans forward to take a sip of her drink. Her hands are shaking ever so slightly. “Let’s talk about something more cheerful.” She smiles – it’s one hundredth of the intensity of the smile in that photo. “Has Drew chosen his meal for Thursday yet?”

  “Think so.” He usually has the same birthday meal: burger and fries with vanilla milkshake, followed by Key lime pie. His dad, who runs Creek catering, says people outside eat a junk food version which is crammed with fat and sugar and empty calories. Staff kids get to eat their birthday meals wherever we want in the Creek – in the movie theatre or by the pool or up a tree – and there are fireworks and goodie bags.

  “Sixteen,” says Mom. “It’s a nice age.”

  “What were you like at sixteen, Mom?” She rarely talks about the past because we try to live in the moment, in order to appreciate the here and now.

  Her forehead creases. “Hopeful. Full of energy…” I wait for more, but she picks up the bowl of nuts and offers it to me.

  I’m not supposed to eat from her calorie allowance but I take one and nibble it slowly.

  Our watches beep at the same time with the ten-minutes-to-dinner reminder.

  “Where’s your father?” asks Mom. “It’s unlike him not to be home by now.”

  The folding glass doors to the roof terrace are open, so I walk past the dining-room table and step out on to the warm terracotta tiles to see if I can see Dad over the railings. I spot him straight away, striding across the lawn, talking into his two-way radio. He’s never off-duty. Even when he’s away from the Creek, he’s at a meeting or conference, or doing something to promote the work he believes in.

  I sit on one of the pale-grey outdoor chairs. From here I can see across the living room, down the hall to the front door of the apartment. I count the seconds from when I hear the main door of Hibiscus bang shut, to Dad walking in through the door. Ten. He’s definitely taken the elevator. As he places his radio on the narrow table in the hall, our food trolley arrives, and he helps the catering assistant negotiate the heat-insulated trolley into the dining room end of the living room.

  “Thank you, Dr Ballard,” she says with a blush. She’s one of Dad’s many admirers, eager for his charm to be turned towards them. A patient once told me she saw Dad on a TV show about how to heal troubled teens. She says he’s a household name, a doctor who’s not afraid to tell parents where they’re going wrong with their kids.

  “Hello, you two,” Dad calls to us. He hands Mom a couple of the pre-portioned plates and turns back for the third. The catering assistant hands me a platter of peeled and sliced exotic fruits, asks if we’ve got everything we need, and then disappears.

  I pour water into the heavy crystal glasses while Dad fetches the multivitamins from the sideboard. Two clear glass bottles from the on-site pharmacy in the medical suite. He shakes out a couple of pills from the first bottle and hands one each to Mom and me.

  “How was your day, Hunter?” Mom asks, before popping her vitamin pill in her mouth and gulping it down with water.

  I swallow mine with a mouthful of grilled fish. Even though I’m used to the chalky, bitter taste of the pill, it still makes me shudder.

  “Irritating,” says Dad. He tips out one of his multivitamins into the palm of his hand. “A patient’s anger-management issues are worse than I was told.” He bites his pill. His are white, different to our beige ones because he needs more vitamin B than us.

  I’d like to talk about the phone call, but Dad says never to speak about Mom’s family because it upsets her too much. It’s a rule.

  Rules are for our own good. I need to remember that. But the curiosity is killing me.

  “How was the new teacher, Mae?” asks Dad.

  “All right,” I say.

  He raises his eyebrows for more, but out in the hall his radio bleeps. He drops his linen napkin on to the table, and goes to answer it. “Hi, Abigail,” he says. “Austin? You want me to calm him down?”

  Mom stops eating and gazes at her plant pots on the terrace. I wonder when she last thought about her family.

  “I have to go,” calls Dad from the hall. “Don’t keep my food. I’ll get the kitchen to make me something else.”

&nb
sp; After the front door slams, I abandon my fish and move on to the fruit. Mom talks about a new online boutique that Drew’s mom somehow knows about, which is going to be added to the approved list.

  I cut in and ask, “What was my grandma’s first name?”

  She looks at me, startled. “Pam, of course.”

  “Your mom, not dad’s mom.” She takes a long pause, and I laugh gently, trying to make a joke out of it. “It’s not that hard a question, is it?”

  She taps her fist repeatedly against her mouth. What’s so problematic about recalling her own mother’s name? She drops her fist a couple of inches. “Vonnie,” she says, slowly as if she’s a child trying out a word for the first time.

  “Vonnie,” I repeat. “Nice.” I’m not sure it really is. I just want to encourage her to tell me more. “What was her last name?”

  She pulls in her lips and says nothing.

  I try something else. “What was the name of the place you lived in?” I move my chair closer to her, in case that helps. “Was it a city?”

  Mom shakes her head and says slowly, “No. There were horses.” She stands up and stacks the plates noisily.

  “Tell me more,” I urge. “Please. Did you have brothers or sisters?”

  “I can’t…”

  I can see that breaking the rule about mentioning her family is upsetting her, but it’s never felt important before. “I answered the phone in reception to a guy who said he was your brother, Frank.”

  Her eyes connect with mine and there’s a flash of shock. “He said to tell you that your mom died a couple of days ago.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  But I’ve seen her steady herself by gripping the edge of the table. I’m sorry for her, but my sudden anger makes me keep going. “He wanted to speak to you.”

  Her face is set in a stubborn line.

  “Why did you tell me your parents had already died? Why didn’t you say you had a brother?”

  “Stop!” she yells. She slumps backwards into her chair, hands over her ears. “Just stop. I don’t want to hear any more.” Then she’s sobbing and rocking back and forth, her head in her hands.

  I crouch down beside her, and touch her arm very gently. “Mom, please. It’s OK. I’ve stopped. I’m sorry.”

  She gulps for air.

  “What’s going on?” Dad’s standing in the doorway to the living room, back way too early from his call-out. I didn’t hear him come in above the noise Mom was making. She falls silent but remains bunched over in her chair.

  I can’t speak.

  He walks towards Mom. “Why’s she so upset, Mae?”

  I spring up, away from Mom, my mouth dry and my stomach lurching. I’m going to have to say it. “We were talking about her family.”

  He frowns and places a firm hand on Mom’s shoulder. Ever so slightly, she shrinks away from his grip. “That was a poor choice of subject. Why did you bring it up, Mae?”

  I’d like to ask him why he’s so sure that Mom didn’t start the conversation, but the fury in his pale blue eyes unnerves me. “We were talking about family histories in lessons today. For a project. I want to write about both sides of my family, so I was asking Mom…”

  Mom lifts her head. Her make-up is streaked across one cheek. “My mom died, Hunter,” she says in a flat voice.

  “How do you know that, Louelle?” I’m scared of the way he asks. Slowly. Ominously. He repeats, “I asked you how you know.”

  Don’t tell him, Mom. Act like you’re too spaced out. Say you dreamed it.

  “Frank spoke to Mae. He phoned reception and she was the one who took the call.” Mom reaches for her napkin and wipes her face.

  “Is this true, Mae? That you picked up the phone in reception?” The room is silent apart from a creak as Mom shifts in her chair.

  “I was helping Jenna. She had to step away from the phone for a moment.”

  “I see,” says Dad. He sits at the table, apart from Mom, and presses the top of his nose.

  I wait for my punishment. When he’s angry there’s always a punishment. It’s how self-discipline’s learned.

  “I guess I have to do this.” He places his hands on the polished table, in between two placemats. They are freckly with pale hair growing out of them. “This is something I’m going to say once, then I never want to talk about it again. We told you your grandparents were dead because they were dead to us. As you know, they had terrible addictions. They were toxic people who caused your mom great unhappiness.” He looks at me. “Do you understand?”

  I nod. “But Frank?”

  “Frank was not a good role model either.” He pauses. “Mae, you answered the phone without permission. You upset your mother, and almost let a damaging individual back into her life.” He pauses again, then clears his throat. “I didn’t want to bring this up, but you also did a search in your computer session today that demonstrates poor judgement, and you lied about a school project. These behaviours go against everything the Creek stands for. I’m extremely disappointed in you.”

  I should have kept quiet. I shouldn’t have answered the phone. Rules are there for a reason. No more risks. I’m going to stop smoking. I’ll tell Drew tomorrow.

  Mom is on her feet now, pale and breathing strangely.

  “Go to bed, Louelle,” says Dad. “I’ll bring you a pill to help you sleep.” Before she’s out of the room, he turns his gaze on me. To say anything now would be classed as back-chat. “Your punishment is…” he says, and pauses. I know he has to do this – that when there are rules, there also have to be punishments. “You’re banned from taking part in Drew’s birthday celebrations.”

  My head is hot and I’m dizzy. I’ve been a part of Drew’s birthday ever since he came here nine-and-a-half years ago, a few months after us and the Jesmond family. He’s chosen to eat his dinner on the building site where the cycling track’s going to be. Of course he’s only doing it to be awkward. I can’t imagine what it will be like to hear the fireworks in my room and know I’m not standing next to him, laughing at the crazy noises and the blistering bursts of colour in the sky. Being outside at night is a rare treat.

  “I decide what you study and what projects you do, not your teachers,” says Dad. His face is very close to mine but his voice is a whisper, and I have to strain to hear. “Don’t ever try to pull a trick like that on me again.”

  THREE

  The alarm on my watch startles me awake, as it does every morning apart from Sunday. A minute later the light starts to fade up. Today I feel even more sluggish than usual, so I stay in bed an extra five minutes to think about yesterday’s phone call. I wonder how Mom’s doing, but I won’t see her until this evening. I force myself to move. If I’m late for my first fitness or brain-training session of the day I’ll be fined twenty tokens, and dragged out of bed by an orderly anyway. It’s only happened to me once, but it was humiliating.

  I can’t tell what the weather’s like yet because of the automated metal shutters at the windows, which are controlled centrally, like the lighting and air conditioning. They roll up silently at exactly eight-thirty a.m., and shut again at eight-thirty p.m., locking into place. Established routines that follow our bodies’ natural rhythms are essential for well-being. Once, a patient’s finger was almost severed because she didn’t hear the shutter coming down. Now every shutter has a cushioned strip at the bottom, but it’s still sealed tight.

  I’m not going outside, though, so the weather doesn’t matter. I pull exercise clothes at random out of my sports closet, and when I’m dressed, I shove my hair into a hair elastic without brushing it. But then an image of Drew comes into my head, and I undo the ponytail and reach for my hairbrush, checking in the mirror at the same time that there’s no gunk in the corner of my eyes.

  After a quick brush of my teeth, I take a lift to the lower basement level. Patients are divided into groups and there are three start times, six-thirty, seven and seven-thirty. Staff kids are in a separate group, and
we always start at seven-thirty. Having an easier start to the day is one of our extra privileges, like the birthday dinners and very rare trips outside the Creek to shop or participate in sports competitions.

  I scan the list on the noticeboard quickly and see that I need to be in Studio 4. I’m in a distracted mood this morning, so I’m glad I’m not in a schoolroom for neurocognitive-reinforcement therapy, or brain-training as we call it, even if there’s the chance of earning tokens.

  Apart from Drew, everyone else is there: Zach, Greta’s brother, who’s fourteen, and then the youngest three, all from the same family: Ben, Luke and Joanie, ages ten, eight and five. Their dad devises the exercise programmes. Other lower-ranking members of staff have children, of course, but they’re not allowed to live at the Creek.

  Joanie pats the empty mat next to her that she’s reserved for me. I don’t want to go there. I want to be on a mat next to Drew, so I can whisper that I’ve got something important to tell him later.

  I have an uncle. And a grandmother who just died. Perhaps I have a grandfather too. Maybe cousins.

  Joanie pats the mat again and I walk across to her and sit down. “Morning, Mae,” she says and leans over to give my bare shoulder a quick kiss because it once made me laugh. She’s a mini version of Ben, sturdy with a mop of blonde-hair. Luke, their middle brother, is thinner with brown hair that grows close to his scalp, as if his hair is as timid as he is.

  I mumble morning back, but I’m looking at Drew who’s just managed to walk through the door before our instructor. He hasn’t pulled his sports top down properly. It’s hitched up slightly on one side, and when he bends to grab a mat, I can see the line where his tan fades to white at the waistband of his shorts.

  Our instructor today is a solidly built physical education grad student, one of several on internships, here for a few months to make a chunk of money and enjoy the lifestyle.