Page 13 of Count My Lies

“He’s really sweet with Harper,” I say. It’s cute that he’s worried about her sugar intake, that he’s the one who fills her tub, who wraps her in a fluffy towel when she’s done.

“She adores him. Everyone does,” Violet says, letting out a little laugh. “He’s like that; he makes people feel really…” She searches for the right word. “Special.”

I know what she means. I felt it at the park the other day. He has this way about him, a charisma that pulls you into his orbit. Even if he wasn’t married, I’d never stand a chance with him—he’s leagues out of my own—but there was something about how he smiled at me that made it feel like maybe, in some alternate reality, we were fated.

I insist on helping Violet clean up, an excuse to stay more than anything else, clearing the table, rinsing dishes, loading the dirty plates and silverware into the dishwasher. We work in a comfortable silence, laughing when one of us bumps into the other, pots and pans clanging in the background.

When the kitchen is clean, counters wiped down, Violet takes off her apron and hangs it on a hook near the fridge.

It should be my cue to leave, but I linger. I’m not ready to go. I’m afraid if I walk out now, I’ll never see the inside of this house again. Violet and Jay and Harper will fade until I’ll wonder if I made them up.

Violet looks at me and smiles. I brace myself, waiting to hear that it’s getting late, how she should head upstairs to help put Harper to bed. Maybe, before she does, I’ll offer to run out, grab some pastries from a nearby bakery for dessert. I kick myself for not picking any up on the way. But as I open my mouth, she asks, “Want some tea? Coffee?” She sounds hopeful, like she’s afraid I might say no.

I nod, biting down on my lip to keep from grinning like a buffoon, silently cheering in my head. “I’d love a tea.” She’s not ready for me to leave, either.

“Great, I’ll heat some water,” she says, smiling. “Go sit down.” She motions to the living room. “I’ll be right in.”

I leave the kitchen, head toward the oversized couch against the wall. Gingerly, I sit down. I sink into the cream-colored cushions, pillows soft against my back.

From the couch, I look around the room. Across from me is a big bay window, gauzy white curtains pushed wide. It’s dark outside, and the light from the lamp in the corner creates a reflection on the panes so I can’t see out. Under the window, two armchairs are angledtoward each other, a small side table between them, a stack of books on top. I can’t make out the titles, but they look like novels, thick and worn. And in the corner, to the left of the armchairs, is a small kid-sized table for Harper, the one she was coloring at earlier this evening, topped with canisters of crayons and colored pencils. Next to it, a bookshelf and a few woven baskets piled with toys, stuffed animals, baby dolls.

It’s one of those homes that feels cozy and warm, but fastidiously neat. Everything is in its place; no piles of junk mail or kicked-off shoes, no discarded jackets, no unhomed tchotchkes. Then I notice something strange.

Other than one framed picture of Harper on the bookshelf, grinning at the top of a slide, her hair in pigtails, there are no photographs. Everything on the walls is art; watercolors and oils of seascapes, waterlilies, one painting of a faded white-and-red umbrella on an empty beach. Oddly, no pictures of Violet or Jay. No wedding photos, no images of her, hair pinned back, elegant in a white gown, walking down the aisle, or him in a tuxedo, gazing at her adoringly. No vacation pictures, no family portraits. Only the one lone picture of Harper. Which seems weird. If I looked like Violet, if my husband looked like Jay, the walls would be plastered with our faces.

I get up and walk toward the entryway. Allison had photos everywhere. Blown-up, gallery-framed prints of her children, of herself, her husband. It was how I knew about their annual summer trip to the Catskills, that she wore a marigold flower crown at her baby shower. For her fortieth birthday, I surprised her with a bouquet, bright yellow. “My favorite,” she’d said, burying her nose in their petals. “How’d you know?”

There were other pictures in Allison’s house, too, not on the wall,ones she hadn’t wanted me to see. An image of them, dozens strewn across her carpet, pops into my head. I force it out. Maybe Violet hung their family photos upstairs, or—

“Here you go.”

I turn, startled. Violet is standing by the coffee table, two mugs in her hand. I hadn’t heard her come into the room.

I walk toward her and take the tea, smiling in thanks. The cup is steaming, the porcelain warm to the touch. I sit back down and inhale deeply. It smells like orange rinds and spicy cloves, nutmeg. The bags are the expensive kind, delicate meshing instead of the flimsy paper ones filled with overdried, ground-down leaves.

“So,” Violet says, settling next to me on the couch, smiling warmly. She curls her legs under her. “Tell me about yourself. You used to be a nanny and now you’re a nurse?”

I don’t let my smile falter. I knew it would come up; I’d thought about what I’d say when it did on the way over. But now, I have another idea. A better one—for me, and for Violet.

“Iwas,” I wheedle, slowly reeling back the lie, one turn of the spool at a time. I take a sip of my tea. “Well, nursing school. My second year. But I just put in a leave of absence, today actually, to take care of my mother.”

It was another thing I’d learned. If pressed about the lie, you backpedal. Answer noncommittally, add some new details, so that later, when they think back on it, they’re not sure exactly what they were told. Then change the subject, but just slightly, a natural segue. In this case, introducing my mother into the conversation.

Violet takes the bait. “Oh, I’m so sorry, is she sick?”

I nod. “She has lupus.” It’s lie number three. I’m Caitlin, I am a nurse, and my mother has lupus. One, two, three. “It’s been rough, buther doctor started her on a new medication that seems to be helping. I just want to be available to her while she adjusts.”

“That’s good to hear!” Violet says. She smiles as if she really does care.

It’s Natasha’s mother who has lupus. She’s described it to me in detail, from her initial symptoms to the diagnosis. They had no idea what was wrong with her for almost a year. They thought it was Lyme disease at first, or fibromyalgia. The whole thing fascinated me. Only recently had she found a course of treatment that gave her some relief. Arthritis, in comparison, doesn’t quite hold the same weight.

“I gave up my apartment and moved in with her, to keep an eye on her,” I continue. “It was cheaper than hiring a live-in nurse. It’s temporary, of course, until we figure something else out, or she gets better.”

Violet nods understandingly. A woman living with her mother in her thirties is pathetic—unless said woman is a caretaker and said mother is ailing; then it is selfless, noble, really.

Then, before Violet has a chance to probe any deeper, I plant the seed that’s just occurred to me. “You know, since I’m taking some time off, I could babysit Harper if you ever need an extra set of hands. I mean, if that’s helpful.” I hold my breath.

I need her to say yes just once, to give me the chance to show her how good I am at the job. Because once could turn into twice, especially if Harper asks for me to come back, then into a third time, then a weekly occurrence, a set schedule. Most of the families in this neighborhood have live-ins, and I’m sure the Lockharts have an extra room in this big house; maybe, just maybe, one day Violet might realize how helpful having me around is. It won’t matter if Lena fires me. Or, if shedoesn’t, I could quit. I’d finally be able to tell my mom I’m moving out. The thought is exhilarating.

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