Page 3 of Count My Lies

He nods. “Harper’s preschool is closed for spring break, so I took the week off, too, to spend some time with her.”

“What do you do?” It’s another bad habit of mine, talking too much, asking too many questions. It’s probably the same reason I lie: to fill the silence, keep people from walking away.

Look, I’m painfully aware of how pathetic that sounds. It’s just that my job is so boring. My life is so boring. Bland and dreary. I’d do almost anything for a sneak peek into someone else’s. And his seems especially interesting. Technicolor, so bright you have to squint. I’d bet everything that I’m right.

“I started my own company last year, in online game development.Which basically means I’m a big nerd,” Jay jokes, smiling, eyes flashing. I notice he has a dimple in his right cheek.

He’s not a nerd. Far from it. He never has been. You can tell just by looking at him. Like I said, he’s tall, really tall, at least six-three or six-four, with dark hair that he keeps raking his hand through, brushing it from his eyes. His jaw is strong, clean-shaven, skin tanned and smooth.

“Sounds exciting,” I say. “Starting your own company.”

“It can be.” He shrugs. “Not as altruistic as a career in nursing, but it pays the bills.”

Right, I’m a nurse. I smile modestly as if I deserve his compliment. I wish that I did.

Jay glances at his phone. “Shit, we have to head out. I promised I’d have Harper home by three.”

“Is it that late already?” I say, feigning surprise. “Shoot, I have to run, too.” Of course, it’s back to my real job, nary a patient in sight. “It was nice to meet you.”

“You too, Caitlin.” His smile makes me feel like he means it, my stomach flip-flopping. “Like I said, I’ll tell my wife to keep an eye out for you.”

I grin back, showing my teeth. “I’dlovethat.” I’m a liar, remember?

I watch as he and Harper leave the park, hand in hand, their arms swinging. When they reach the gate, Jay turns, gives me one last wave. I wave back but wait until they disappear from sight before I turn and leave, too.

It occurs to me, though, on the walk back, that the reason I’d thought he might be single is that he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. I can’t help but wonder why not.

2

Mom?” I call out when I get home from work, easing the front door shut behind me and setting my keys on the little table in the entryway. “I’m home!”

“Sloanie? Is that you?” That’s my real name, Sloane. Sloanie, Sloanie, full of baloney. And yes, I live at home with my mother. I know, I know, another notch on my belt of accomplishments. I’m working on it. Really, that’s the truth. Hand to heart.

“Yeah, it’s me, Mom,” I answer loudly. I kick off my shoes, drop my purse next to them, and walk down the short hallway into the living room. She’s in her recliner with the TV on, wearing a light blue tracksuit and thick wool socks like a character from a seventies sitcom. I cross the room and bend over to drop a kiss on her cheek, glancing at the screen.Murder, She Wrote, her favorite old show. She’s likely seen this episode at least three times before.

“How was work?” she asks, lowering the volume from blasting to blaring. She squints up at me, looking far older than her age, her short, wiry hair almost all gray, the lines across her forehead, around her eyes and mouth, deep.

“Fine,” I say, shrugging. “I’m going to get dinner started. You hungry?”

She nods and points the remote back at the TV, the sound returning to an assaulting level. I’m surprised the neighbors don’t complain.

Both my mother’s eyesight and hearing are declining. Years of working on her feet as a house cleaner have ruined her back, leaving her hunched and aching, her joints stiff. She’s had rheumatoid arthritis since her thirties, managed by medication, but it’s taken its toll, finally rendering her unable to move most days, let alone work.

She spends her days in a well-worn corduroy armchair in the corner of the living room, a heating pad on her backside, legs stretched out before her, peering through smudged glasses at the TV as reruns ofUnsolved MysteriesandForensic Filesdegrade the screen. She drinks cup after cup of oversweetened, lukewarm coffee, followed by one whiskey at five, then another cup of coffee before bed, this time, decaf. It wasn’t my plan to be living with my mother in my thirties, but at least I can keep an eye on her. By now, taking care of her is second nature, something I’ve done for as long as I can remember.

I head into the kitchen and open the fridge. There’s some leftover roast chicken from the dinner I made last night that I warm up and shred into a bowl, along with a handful of chopped-up cucumbers and carrots, some romaine lettuce. A modest attempt to counterbalance the Chinese takeout my mother frequently has delivered for lunch. I divvy the salad between my plate and my mom’s, then head back into the living room.

“Thanks, Sloanie,” my mom says, taking the plate from me. Then she mutes her show. She likes to hear about my day when we eat.

“I did Dolly’s nails today,” I say, biting into a carrot.

I’ve been working at the day spa—Rose & Honey—for almost a yearnow. I wandered in one afternoon when I saw theHelp Wantedsign posted in the window. I’d walked by the black-and-white awninged storefront at least a hundred times, but had never gone in. By that point, I’d been out of work for months. I couldn’t get hired anywhere, at least not doing what I was qualified for. I’d get through a few rounds of interviews, but no job offers materialized. I knew why, of course, so it didn’t come as a surprise, but that didn’t make it any easier. Doing nails sounded like a reasonable alternative, something I could be good at if I tried.

The woman at the front desk looked pleased when I asked for an application. She pumped my hand vigorously, introducing herself as Lena, the owner of the spa. She was a heavyset, Eastern European woman with impeccable makeup, kohl-rimmed eyes framed by long lash extensions, porcelain skin, pouty red lips. She’d opened the shop a few years ago, she told me in thickly accented English, and she was adding another manicurist to her team, someone reliable, someone she could count on. Why not, I thought, how hard could it be?

When Lena asked if I had a cosmetology license, I said that I did, that I’d recently passed the exam. I figured I could find a certificate to doctor, if and when she offered me a job. I was invited back for a practical interview, which, she explained, meant I’d be demonstrating my skills and giving her a manicure. I spent the next week on YouTube, pausing the videos at each step to practice on my mother, filing and refiling, painting and repainting. I memorized the steps, which were easy enough—clean, clip, file, buff, cuticle care, exfoliate, moisturize, base coat, paint, top coat—and showed up with my own set of manicure tools that I’d bought at a local beauty supply store with a twenty-five-percent-off coupon. When I was done, Lena examined her nails, smiled, and offered me the job.

“You have good hands,” she’d said, nodding appreciatively at them. I looked down. Next to Lena’s, they seemed even bigger than usual. Who’d have thought my big hands would turn out to be an asset? The pay was twenty-one dollars an hour, she continued, plus at least an extra thousand a month in gratuities, sometimes more; her clients were generous, Lena told me, alluding to the deep pockets in Cobble Hill. It was slightly less than I made in my last position, even with the tip money, but as they say, beggars can’t be choosers.

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