Page 1 of Count My Lies

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I’m a nurse.” The words fall out of my mouth before I can stop myself from saying them, loud and clanging like a pair of tin cans tied to a back bumper. If I could reach out, catch them by the tail, and reel them back in, I would, but it’s too late. They’ve been heard; two heads turn.

I should walk away. Or laugh, say I was just kidding. But when the dad and little girl look up at me from the park bench, his eyes shining with hope, her eyes shining with tears, I feel such a rush that I don’t do either. Instead, I kneel beside the girl and smile broadly, first at her, then at him.

“You need to ice it,” I say to the man, my voice clear and steady, the slightest air of authority that I assume someone in the medical field would naturally possess.

The thing is, I’m not a nurse. I never have been. What I am is a liar.

I had heard the little girl’s wails from across the playground, long drawn-out sobs that drew me toward her. I’ve always been nosy, leaning in to hear strangers’ conversations, taking a step closer to read over someone’s shoulder, glancing at the person next to me on the subway,straining to see the text messages on their phone. It’s another bad habit of mine. Add it to the list, okay?

“Let me see,” the dad was saying to the little girl as I walked up, holding her bare foot in his hand. “Where’d it sting you? Here? Or here?”

I’d wanted to help; he’d seemed so flustered, so unnerved by it, that, almost without thinking, I’d opened my mouth and the lie had dropped out. Clunk, onto the sidewalk, startling them both. I meant well, really, I did. I know, the road to hell, right?

Now, I glance around at their belongings. Just a paper sack lunch beside them, contents strewn over the bench. A half-eaten sandwich. Apple slices, already browning, carrot sticks. Two drinks: a can of grapefruit-flavored sparkling water, a juice box.

I grab the can. It’s cool, not cold, but it might help. “Here,” I say, holding it toward the man. He takes it. Our fingers brush, just slightly, his surprisingly soft. “Is the stinger out?”

The dad frowns at his daughter’s foot. She’s still whimpering, but the intensity has lessened. She’s looking up at me, eyes wide. Her face is tear-streaked. Snot leaks from her nose. She’s doll-faced with bangs and long lashes, a real cutie. So is he, to put it mildly. I can still feel his fingers against mine.

“I think so,” he says. “Would you mind taking a look?”

A flick of pride. He trusts me. Of course he does. I’m a good liar—and, well, there’s the convenient fact that I’m wearing scrubs.

“Sure,” I say, smiling. Still kneeling, I reach out and lift up her little pink sole smudged with dirt. She’s four or five, her foot tiny in my too-big hands. They’ve always been large for a woman, even when I was a kid. Mitts, my aunt would always tease, holding her palm up to mine. I’m still self-conscious about them, keeping handshakesbrief, tucking them into my pockets, under my thighs when sitting.

I squint at the bottom of her foot. There’s a small red welt and, in its center, a black dot. The stinger. I suck in air between my two front teeth, shaking my head. “It’s still in there.”

He frowns and peers down at it. “Should I—?”

“You need to scrape it out. With a credit card or something with a flat edge. Don’t squeeze it; it could make it worse.”

I’m pleased by how competent I seem, how knowledgeable, like I actually know what I’m talking about. I do, I guess; I also happened to step on a bee in this very park, late last summer. I’d spread out a blanket and kicked off my shoes before I lay down to read. When I got up, my sneakers still in the grass, I felt a sharp jab on the bottom of my foot. I sat back down to examine the injury, cursing under my breath, and saw the crushed bee, the stinger still stuck in my skin. I squeezed carefully, forcing the stinger to the surface. It was only later, when I googled it in a blind panic, that I realized my mistake.

By the end of the day, my foot had almost doubled in size, turned bright pink, swollen as a little sausage. It took three days for the itching to stop and another four before the swelling went away entirely. I limped on it dramatically for the whole week, recounting the saga to anyone who so much as raised an eyebrow in my direction. Although, truth be told, I might have claimed it was a swarm, not a single bee. The point is, I do havesomeexperience in this area.

The dad reaches into his back pocket, returning with his wallet. “Thanks,” he says gratefully. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably have called 911.” He smiles to show me he’s joking. His teeth are bright white, straight and even. He’s handsome in an obvious, teenage-heartthrob sort of way, probably early thirties, my age.

He slides a credit card from one of the wallet’s slots. “Let me see your foot, sweetheart,” he says.

As he drags the card across her sole, I see the name on the card. Jay Lockhart.Jay Lockhart.I like the sound of it, like it would roll off my tongue if I said it out loud. Jay as in Gatsby, love-crazed millionaire, charming, hot-blooded. I look back at the man—Jay—and decide it fits him, with his boyish smile, playboy face.

“Got it!” Jay announces, triumphant, holding up an infinitesimal black speck—the stinger, presumably—between his thumb and forefinger. “See?” He shows it first to the little girl, then to me.

“Good work!” I say, smiling at him. He looks so proud, like he’s just placed in an Olympic event. Maybe not gold, but bronze, still very respectable.

When he smiles back, I feel a slight blush color my cheeks. It feels like we’re sharing the victory together, like he might reach out and hug me, his winning teammate.

“Feel better?” he asks the little girl. She nods, stops sniffling. He reaches out and wipes her wet cheeks with his thumb, smooths her silky bangs. I notice he isn’t wearing a wedding band.

“You should ice it when you get home,” I say, standing back up, “to keep the swelling at bay. And you might want to give her some Benadryl, just a half dose, maybe. It’ll help with any itchiness.”

“Seriously, thank you. Can you say ‘thank you,’ Harper?” Jay turns to the little girl. “Say, thank you, Miss…?” He trails off and looks back at me, for my name.

“Caitlin,” I say. Another lie. I don’t even know where it comes from. Have I ever even met a Caitlin? Once, maybe. When I was younger, I think I did ballet with a girl named Caitlin. Or was it Carly? We were in the same class at a local community center, but that’s whereour similarities ended. She had long, waist-length hair she wore in a beautifully woven braid down the center of her back, sparkly barrettes clipped into the sides, and brand-new ballet slippers, their pink satin gleaming. I danced in old socks. She was the best, whatever her name was, the lead in the recital. I was Sugar Plum number six. The young girl with the bee sting, Harper—her name bougie, but cute, exactly what you’d expect in this neighborhood—also has a single, glossy braid, her bangs neatly combed. Maybe it’s why I thought of the name: she reminds me of her.

“Thank you, Miss Caitlin,” Harper dutifully recites.

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