Page 49 of Count My Lies

Then I get up and take a sheaf of paper-clipped papers and a pen from my purse. I set the stack on the coffee table and uncap the pen.

“Here.” I tap my finger on a blank line. “This is where you sign.”

I hold my breath as Sloane picks up the pen. She presses it against the page. The dark blue ink bleeds through the page, leaving the paper wet. I’m pleased to notice that instinctively, she signed her real name. Her real name is also listed throughout the document, but I correctly assumed that she wouldn’t ask to see it, too swept up in the fantasy I’ve just sold her.

I downloaded the form—an addendum to our will—off of a legal site last night and forged Jay’s signature earlier this morning, laying the paper over an old signed check and tracing the curvature of his name. It’s critical to my plan, as is the other legal document I’m bringing with me to the island. The other, however, I didn’t need to download—or forge Jay’s signature. My lawyer prepared it and couriered it to meyesterday. I’ve already hidden it in my suitcase, tucked the manila folder between the pages of a magazine in a zippered pocket.

Later, when Sloane leaves, I’ll log into Jay’s email and send the newly signed documents to our lawyer from his account, copying myself. Then I’ll block our lawyer’s email address so when he writes back a confirmation of receipt, Jay won’t get it, Jay none the wiser. Who’s the fucking fool now, Jay?

Sloane finishes signing, then re-caps the pen.

“Seriously, thank you,” I say again, with as much earnestness as I can muster. I shuffle the papers back into a neat stack. Then, “Oh, before I forget!” I get up and go to the hall closet. I return with a big Bloomingdale’s gift bag, a crumple of pink tissue paper peeking up from the top. “Here.” I hand it to Sloane, grinning.

“What is it?” she asks.

I shrug coyly. “Open it.”

Carefully, Sloane reaches inside and pulls out a soft bundle, unwrapping it gently. It’s a white, gauzy, robe-like shirt, soft and expensive-looking, delicate stitching around the seams and a braided tie around the waist. She looks up at me in wonder. “It’s a swimsuit cover-up,” I say. “Keep opening!”

She reaches in again and removes another wrapped item, this time a sleek black bathing suit. It’s a one-piece, but sexy, with a plunging neckline. “There’s more!” I wink.

When she’s done, she’s opened three swimsuits in total, another cover-up, a pair of brightly patterned, wide-legged linen pants, shorts, a button-up cotton shirt, and two pairs of sunglasses. I spent the afternoon at Bloomingdale’s with Harper last Sunday, picking out a new summer wardrobe for Sloane. I wanted to make sure she was dressed the part of Mrs. Lockhart. I have a look, remember? Carefully cultivated,aimed to please—please my husband, to be specific. Speaking of Jay, he’ll love Sloane in these clothes.

Like my parents, Jay has always been clear about what he thinks a woman should wear, what she should weigh, the clothes he prefers. Of course, his preferences were different from theirs, though, again, like my parents, the more zeros on the price tag, the better. I loved it, at first, when he came shopping with me, grinning wolfishly as I twirled around in an outfit he’d picked out. “Now try that one,” he’d say, and I would, gladly. Once, he went down on me in a dressing room, following me in and locking the door behind him. I came hard and fast, my left hand gripping his hair, my right clasped over my mouth as I moaned. He always knew how to touch me, what I liked. I was happy to fill my closet with things that made him happy, to keep my stomach flat, my body tight, happy knowing he couldn’t wait to take off what I put on. This was before I knew he’d be happy to take off anything, off anyone.

“Violet, this is—” Sloane starts.

“For the trip!” I say, shrugging. “As a thank-you for coming with us.”

“I should be the one thanking you!” she says. No, she shouldn’t. Really.

I tell her to take the rest of the day off to pack, then walk her to the door, giving her a quick hug before she steps onto the porch. “Be here at nine on Sunday,” I say. “Our car leaves at nine thirty!”

When Sloane’s gone, I check my watch. It’s only ten, which means I have almost three hours until I have to go get Harper. Plenty of time to take Sloane’s driver’s license to the DMV.

Before I leave, I change out of my clothes into the ones Sloane leftfor me to donate, then scrub the makeup from my face. I rake my hair into a messy bun and take a pair of plastic-framed glasses out of a shopping bag I’ve hidden in the back of my closet, put them on.

In the dingy, poorly lit DMV waiting room, I sit for almost an hour and a half before my number is called. “I was hoping to take a new picture,” I say, sliding Sloane’s license across the counter, underneath the plastic partition. The woman on the other side of the desk barely glances at me or the license before directing me to another line, where another monotone employee instructs me to look straight into the camera. We look alike, yes, but I want the picture on her license to be of me. It’ll make things easier, more believable.

I update Sloane’s mailing address to a PO Box I set up on Block Island, so when it’s mailed out, I’ll be the one to receive it, and pay an extra thirty-five dollars for expedited processing. I should receive it by the end of next week. Then I leave, smiling, with just enough time to change back into my own jeans and reapply the makeup I removed before leaving to pick up Harper.

Now, the only thing left for me to do is pack.

22

Normally, I’m up before Harper, but this morning, the day of our trip, I purposefully didn’t set an alarm. Today is my first official day as Sloane, not Violet. I’m giving Violet to Sloane, stepping out of my life, letting her step in. If I know her, and I think by now I do, she’ll accept happily, slipping into it—into me—with pleasure. We’ll both get off the ferry as someone else, as each other. Only Sloane doesn’t know it yet.

I wake to the sound of Harper’s footsteps thudding down the hall from her room to ours. I pull myself into a sitting position as she leaps onto the bed, the mattress bouncing beneath her. I didn’t fall asleep until early this morning, going over the plan again and again until I drifted off as the sun rose. Now, I’m groggy, eyes burning.

“Daddy says it’s time to get up!” Harper says, pulling the covers off of me. “We’re going to the beach today, remember?”

“I remember, baby.” I smile at her, my eyes still closed, reaching out to ruffle her hair. I’d felt the same excitement when I was a kid, suitcases packed, headed for the airport. It was the best feeling in the world. “Are you all packed up? What about books? Do you want to bring your CD player?”

“Oh yeah!” Harper says. My parents bought her an old-school Discman before we moved, along with a dozen CDs of Disney music and kids’ audiobooks. Harper loves it, lies on her floor listening for hours, changing out the discs, carefully replacing them into their cases. It was one of the most thoughtful things they’d done as grandparents. She leaps off the bed, starts running back down the hallway to her room. “I’ll put it in my backpack!” she yells.

I pull myself out of bed and head into the bathroom. I skip my usual morning shower and instead tie my hair back into a messy bun. I brush my teeth but forgo makeup, then dress quickly in a pair of black yoga pants and a loose-fitting T-shirt, a pair of beat-up Converse that I found in a thrift store last week. Finally, I tie Sloane’s flannel around my waist, the one she traded me for my Carolina Herrera shirt.

When I’m done, I stand in front of the full-length mirror leaning against the wall. I smile. I look younger than I usually do, more nanny than mom, like Sloane did when we first met that day in the park. It’s not a drastic change—I’m still me—but it’s the beginning.

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