See How They Lie Page 6

  If the plant nursery had wifi, I could try to research Mom’s family there. But I’d rather go to the mall where it’s guaranteed.

  “What about the mall, Mom? It’s been ages since we’ve been there.”

  “You’d prefer that?” says Mom. She rubs one eye. “OK. I’ll speak to your father.” Everything has to go through Dad. Next to him she’s like a piece of tissue paper, easily crushed. I’m sure she never used to be this bad. My vague memories of her playing games and laughing with me when we lived in England, while we waited long periods for Dad to come home from work, can’t be made up. Whenever I’ve tried to speak to her about anything important, it’s as if my words drift right through her. She has set phrases which she repeats whether they’re relevant or not.

  It’s for the best.

  Don’t make life hard for yourself.

  I’ll speak to your father.

  Unfortunately I don’t make the rules.

  You have so much here at the Creek, honey.

  I can’t change anything, but I love you, Mae. More than you’ll ever know.

  The plants on the terrace are Mom’s pride and joy. Some hang heavy with large rich-coloured petals; others have buds in various stages of unfurling. One has no flowers at all, but leaves of multiple shades of green and burgundy. I water them, carrying the watering can from the kitchen through the living room five times. She’s always wanted an outside water tap but Dad says it would look ugly. Even if there was a plant in front of it, hiding it from view, he says he’d know it was there.

  After I’ve showered, I go back in and check on Mom. Her eyes are closed. I touch her hand. It’s dry and cold. I open the linen closet to find something to cover her. Everything is neatly folded. Uncluttered and ordered. I find a cashmere blanket. As I drape it over Mom’s legs and pull it up to her chest, she opens her eyes. “Tell Frank I’m sorry I didn’t make the funeral,” she says.

  Her words bounce through my head. She’s thinking about her family. “How do I contact Frank?” I whisper.

  She closes her eyes again. “The back of my neck, it feels prickly…” She has it too. Is there a virus circulating?

  I try something different. “Mom, what was your name before you got married? You were Louelle what?”

  “I’m Louelle Ballard.”

  “I know. But before then.”

  I wait.

  “Hill.” She says it as if she’s only just remembered, and then she says, “The Hills lived on a hill,” as if she’s reading one of Joanie’s chapter books.

  “You were Louelle Hill?”

  She turns away from me and doesn’t say any more.

  Later, when I hear the soft sound of her sleep-breathing, I search the living room for anything that will tell me about Mom’s family. There’s nothing. I move into Dad’s study and tug at the top drawer of his filing cabinet. It’s locked. I stop when I hear movement from Mom. I look into the bedroom and see her easing herself off the bed. She smooths out the duvet cover and folds the cashmere blanket. By the time Dad comes home a few hours later, she’s sitting on a chair on the terrace looking at a gardening magazine, her forehead shiny with sweat.

  EIGHT

  The following day, Mom seems a little better. She tells Dad at dinner that she and I need to go to the mall to buy key items of summer clothing. She’s applied more make-up than usual, and she still hasn’t the energy to water her plants, but Dad hasn’t noticed. He’s preoccupied with his patients, as usual.

  “What about online shopping, Louelle?” he says.

  I keep my face neutral. I haven’t been able to search the apartment more thoroughly yet because Mom, Dad or the cleaners have been here. But if I can get to the computer store, at least I’ve got a last name now. Hill. Louelle Hill sounds strange, though. As if there are too many ls for it to be a real name. I imagine typing it into a keyboard.

  “Hunter, Mae’s body shape is changing and we need to work out what suits her. It’s easier than ordering lots of sizes.”

  She looks at me and I say with some embarrassment, “I need more underwear.”

  Dad cuts up his grilled chicken. “All right,” he says. “Mick can drive you to the mall at nine-fifteen a.m. tomorrow morning. Never let it be said I don’t listen to sensible requests.”

  When I return from breakfast the next morning, Mom’s still in bed.

  “Why aren’t you up?” I shriek when I walk into her bedroom. I was expecting her to be spraying herself with perfume or choosing which shoes to wear. My shouting startles the cleaner who stops her vacuum cleaner for a moment. In a quieter voice, I say, “We’re supposed to be going to the mall today. Remember?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry,” says Mom.

  I bite my lip. I want to step inside that computer store so badly, but she’s not well. I can’t do this to her. “Stay in bed, Mom,” I say. “We’ll go another time.”

  “No. I’m definitely coming shopping with you,” says Mom, and she lifts the bedcover as if it’s an effort, as if the sparkly watch on her arm is too heavy for her wrist.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “I insist. I’m not going to miss a day out with you, Mae.”

  “Wait.” I see she’s still in her night clothes. “You didn’t do your morning exercise or eat breakfast?”

  She shakes her head. “I just … couldn’t.”

  “Did you tell admin?” Mom wouldn’t be fined for not going like I would, but a health team might come and assess her. Illness at the facility has to be carefully monitored to keep anything contagious under control.

  “Oh,” says Mom, standing up. “No. I forgot.”

  I run to fetch the phone in the hall. It has plenty of buttons but only one of them connects anywhere. I press the zero and hand the phone to Mom while it rings the reception switchboard.

  She takes a deep breath, and makes her voice stronger. “Hello there,” she says. “This is Louelle Ballard.” She makes the usual chit-chat with the receptionist for a few seconds, then says, “Please would you put me through to Earl.” After a couple of seconds, she says, “I’m going to the designer outlet mall with Mae today, so I needed extra time to get myself ready this morning. You know I don’t like going out with my make-up not quite right. So that’s why I was absent from my exercise class this morning… Thank you. Yes I’m having a quick breakfast on the terrace before we go.” After finishing the call, she goes into the bathroom while I make her a cup of lemon-and-ginger tea.

  It’s only in the last week or so that I’ve seen how good Mom is at lying.

  I think I’m being polite and doing the right thing when I call in at the schoolhouse at nine a.m. to say I won’t be in class, but Ms Ray’s face instantly shows annoyance.

  “Why would you go to a shopping mall in the week when you’ll miss important lessons?” she asks. “Why can’t you go at the weekend?”

  I don’t know what to say. Doesn’t she realize that I have no control over when I get to do things? She doesn’t have the authority to tell me I can’t go, but I wasn’t expecting her to make me feel so bad.

  “Whenever we go, we’d miss something,” calls out Drew who’s supposed to be ripping an old sheet into strips with the others for our chemistry project.

  He gives one end of the sheet to Joanie and yanks her along the floor.

  “And I guess you don’t get vacations,” says Ms Ray quietly.

  I remember hearing a patient talk about vacations and having to ask what they were. “No.”

  Ms Ray sighs, and indicates that I should sit in a chair near her desk at the front of the room. “I won’t hold you up for long, Mae.” She lifts an ancient CD player from a battered shopping bag and plugs it into the wall. I see the others giggling at the low tech. Within seconds there’s the shock of incredibly loud piano music filling the classroom. Joanie slaps her hands over her ears, and Ms Ray turns it down, but not by very much.

  “Five minutes’ creative writing, please, about how this music makes you feel,” she
says, then leans against the desk, next to me. The others won’t be able to hear what she’s saying.

  “Mae, we have so much work for you to get through. You’re behind most kids your age who’ll be looking to get into a decent college.”

  My heart sinks. “I’m sorry. But I don’t get the chance to be with my mom outside here very often.”

  “OK.” She takes a sheet of paper from another bag. It’s a long list in tiny type. “These are the books you need to read, fiction and non-fiction.” She points behind her to the shelving unit that used to hold the art materials. Now there are piles of books, stacked on their sides so more can fit in. “Use these. Some of the textbooks are out of date. My school resource budget isn’t big enough to buy the latest editions, even though you’d think…” She trails off. “I’ve got some books in my car which will be useful. You can’t access the internet in your computer sessions, can you?”

  “Some of it,” I say. “At least one hundred websites, including an encyclopaedia. I can get access to even more, too. Like, I’m allowed on to pen collector sites.”

  “Right.” There’s a pause. Ms Ray clearly isn’t a fan of pen collector sites. “Most schools block certain content, but this is extreme.”

  “It’s because Dad’s seen the damage the internet can do.” I’m not sure why I feel I have to defend him. She must know the Creek philosophy. She must have covered this in her induction.

  “Hmm.”

  This tiny utterance shocks me. All adults at the Creek think Dad is inspiring, visionary and charismatic. I’ve never heard anyone question his views.

  “We have a library,” I say. “Have you seen it?” The library which is on the ground floor of the main building was recently upgraded. There are sofas in pastel colours, shelving with inspirational quotes carved into the wood, loads of books and a magazine stand, stacked mostly with fashion and home interior publications.

  Ms Ray nods. “Have you ever been to a library outside Hummingbird Creek?”

  “No.”

  “They can be incredible places – with up-to-date books and computers and space to study, and journals and newspapers.” Her cheeks are flushed. She seems quite worked up.

  “The people from the outside who saw ours on the last open day thought it was nice,” I say in a stiff voice. I shouldn’t let myself be wound up by Ms Ray. It doesn’t matter what she thinks of the library. It’s what the parents think that matters.

  “It’s very attractive,” says Ms Ray. “And the books are all in great condition and you have magazines. But there are no important books there. Fiction about difficult subjects or decent scientific books or respected journals, and it doesn’t have long enough opening hours. At first glance the library here looks amazing, but it’s…” She stops abruptly. “Don’t worry about your trip to the mall. I’ll help you catch up.”

  Mick waits in the parking lot, standing next to one of the six silver Creek cars. He doesn’t suit non-sports clothes. His big biceps and thigh muscles make his short-sleeve shirt and cargo shorts too tight in the arms and upper leg. He has a thick gold chain round his neck, and an immaculate pair of sneakers: super-expensive limited edition Nikes.

  “Looking forward to your shopping day, ladies?” he says. He’s chewing gum, making a sucking, saliva-y sound. “All set?”

  I nod. He doesn’t know how close Mom and I came to not being able to come on this trip.

  He holds open the car door for us, first Mom, then me, and anyone watching would think it inconceivable that a few days ago he’d directed phlegm at my bare legs because he didn’t think they were moving fast enough.

  At the security building, Mick signs us out and picks up his cell phone, and as the gates open he whacks on some bass-heavy music. “This all right for you?” he asks.

  Mom blinks.

  “Yes, we’re fine with it.” I answer for us both, because I don’t want him to notice that she’s more spaced out than usual.

  When he’s growling along to the lyrics and thumping the steering wheel to the beat, I whisper. “How are you feeling?”

  She pats my hand. I clamp it between both of mine for as long as I can before she tugs it away overdramatically, just how she used to years ago to make me laugh. I raise a smile.

  “I’m happy to be with you,” she says.

  As we enter the underground parking lot for the mall, Mick quietens the music and I lean forward to say, “Mom’s my chaperone today, right?”

  “Yes. Why?” says Mick. He turns slightly.

  Because you’re harder to escape from than Mom.

  “Because I want to buy some new bras and it would be embarrassing to have you hanging around.”

  Mick holds my gaze for a moment and then nods. Before we step out of the car, we arrange to meet him in four hours.

  “Are you sure that’s enough time for your shopping, ladies?” he asks with a sarcastic edge to his voice.

  “Yes, thank you,” I reply. I want to ask where he’s planning to be for the next four hours. The perfect answer would be waiting in the car, but he’s a Creek person. He’ll probably be walking endless circuits round the corridors of the mall, timing himself and aiming for a personal best. As long as he doesn’t spot me inside the computer store I should be OK.

  Mom and I walk to the elevator and, as soon as I step inside and feel the upward whoosh, I’m excited. Stitched through the excitement is a thread of anxiety. It’s not just about finding a way to leave Mom so I can go to the computer store. It’s also about stepping into the strange world of the mall again: the noise, the brightness, the people, the overpowering smell of junk food, the choices. It’s easy to see how life on the outside messes people up.

  When we come out of the elevator, we have to think about which way to turn for the shops we want, and a woman with a buggy sighs loudly at us because we’re blocking her way. I pull Mom to one side, and we stand for a moment, adjusting. Mom understands the outside world better than I do because she didn’t grow up at the Creek, so she usually only needs a few moments, but today it’s me who tugs her to say, Let’s go.

  We set off in the direction we remember, slowly because I want to look at the window displays, at the mini scenes that some of them depict: picnics, wedding guests, a kitchen with primary-colour gadgets. Slowly, too, because I sense Mom can’t walk at her normal speed. When we walk past the computer store, I see that it’s not as busy as it was before Christmas. There are two assistants in navy polo shirts with lanyards round their necks leaning against a wall, one chewing a fingernail while the other one is talking. I can’t imagine being bored around real computers, tablets and phones. I wonder if that means I have the potential to be addicted to them.

  Mom probably wouldn’t mind if I begged to go in, but she might blurt it to Dad by mistake, so I keep walking. When we reach a clothes shop I like where Mom can sit in a leather armchair, I pick out some things that catch my eye – things that will make me look, and hopefully feel, more grown up. I aim for what the popular girls at the Creek wear: tighter fitting tops and shorts, evening-ish trousers, a black dress with gold-zipped pockets and sexy underwear that’s not so sexy that the Creek laundry will confiscate it. I picture Drew looking at me as I try on each item, trying to appraise myself through his eyes. Mom hands over her platinum credit card without asking how much anything is.

  I persuade Mom to visit her favourite store, and we hold up garments on their hangers, inspect the quality and cut of the fabric, and murmur, “What d’you think?” I wait outside a cubicle while Mom tries on floaty clothes in peach and grey. She buys a couple of dresses, not watching as they’re folded and wrapped in tissue paper. When the assistant suggests she buy a necklace that’s new in that morning, Mom holds it in her hand for a brief moment before saying yes, as if that’s the easiest option.

  I keep checking my watch. My best bet for having time alone at the computer store is for us to eat lunch at the Oh My Goodness café nearby and, before Mom’s finishes, tell her I need to go to the
restroom.

  I know Mom won’t consider eating lunch until one o’clock, the time she has it at home. At precisely one minute past we sit down at a booth in the café, and I read through the menu. Even here, at the healthiest food outlet, there are dishes that are clearly laden with fat and sugar.

  Mom doesn’t need to remind me that our itemized bill will be looked at to see whether we can be trusted to come here again. She orders vegetable soup and a Vitamin C Boost smoothie. I order the same smoothie and ham on a seeded roll with no butter.

  “You want salad or potato chips with that?” asks the waitress.

  Across the restaurant, a little kid is crunching potato chips into his mouth like a machine. They look thinner and crunchier than Creek potato crisps. The waitress taps her pen against her notepad.

  A “sss” sound is coming out of my lips, but it turns into “so…” instead of “salad”. I clear my throat. “So I have a question. If I asked for potato chips, would you be able to put it down on the bill as salad?”

  Mum makes an air-suck noise but I ignore her.

  “Er…” The waitress screws up her face. “I suppose I could…”

  I need to know for sure. “Please can you find out?”

  “OK, I’ll be right back.” She goes off and before Mom says anything, I say, “Just this once, Mom. Please?”

  “There are rules,” says Mom. “And why would you want to harm your body with saturated fat and all sorts of additives?” Her words are wispy, almost half-remembered.

  “A few potato chips aren’t going to hurt us,” I say. “Don’t you want to taste them, Mom?”

  “I have tasted them,” she says. “A long time ago.” She pushes the heel of her hand into her eye socket. “Oh. This headache of mine.” She leans her elbows on to the table. “Mae, my head hurts too much to argue. If the waitress can sort the bill, and you want them, have them.” She lifts her head up. “But eat them quickly.”