Garden of Lies (13 page)

the plastic oxygen tent like some mummified creature on display, tubes and wires running out of

him, she had felt a mixture of despair and rage. Why couldn’t they
do
something, cure him, she—

sixteen years old and just over five feet tall in her stockings—had wanted to scream at the

orderlies, nurses, doctors, all of whom were doing nothing but talking to each other and

scribbling notes on charts. Why weren’t they
with
him, working frantically to make him better?

Rachel had longed so fiercely to heal him; she’d always remember that day, the precise minute

even, gripping the cold metal bedframe, forehead lowered against the scratchy sheet, promising

herself, and God, that if Daddy got well, she would become a doctor. So that she would never feel

so stupid and helpless and dependent on people who wouldn’t do anything.

Rachel pushed that memory away. Mason. They’d been talking [68] about Mason Gold, hadn’t

they? “I remember he almost drowned me,” she said with a laugh. “He called me a dumb old

sissy-girl, and I was so mad I jumped into the deep end and sank like a rock.”

Sylvie looked up, her deep-green eyes widening, disturbed. “You never told me
that
.”

That’s the least of it, Mama,
Rachel thought.

She shrugged. “Would you ever have let me near that pool again if I had?”

There was a moment of silent acknowledgment, a look passing between Gerald and Sylvie.

Rachel became aware of house sounds, comforting in their familiarity, the clackety noises of

Bridget washing up in the kitchen, the low grunt of Portia under the table as she scratched herself,

the chiming of the clock on the mantel. She thought:
God, they’re thinking what it would have

been like if I’d drowned, if they’d lost me.

She felt weighted down, like a huge heavy backpack strapped to her shoulder; too much love,

being their only child.

How she had longed for a baby sister, or a baby brother. But though Mama had kept the crib in

the nursery for the longest time, no babies ever came. And so Rachel had played instead with an

endless parade of dolls—presented with great fanfare each birthday and Chanukah, in shiny

boxes wrapped with big satin bows—Muffie dolls, bride dolls, a Betsy Wetsy, and Barbie—but

had always lost interest when she realized that no amount of imagining could make them into a

real
baby sister she could hold and love, who would love her back.

Rachel watched her mother continue to stir her coffee while it grew cold, her long slender

fingers nearly as translucent as the porcelain cup. Rachel’s gaze went past Sylvie, taking in the

dark glow of the Sheraton sideboard adorned with candelabra and silver serving dishes. And on

the other wall, Mama’s china closet with the Baccarat crystal twinkling behind the diamond

panes. Lovely ... so much a part of her, as if the seams between Mama and this house had been

rubbed away with time, the two flowing together, harmonious, inseparable.

Yet what was it about Mama, the odd way she seemed to turn inward at times? Rachel couldn’t

remember not feeling it, that faint sadness, like a shadow falling between them. When Mama

hugged [69] her, it was too tightly, almost choking her. As if she were afraid Rachel might slip

away.

Birthdays, especially, when Mama didn’t know Rachel was watching, the smiles that never

quite reached her eyes. Rachel would blow out the candles, wishing year after year for the same

thing:
Please, let my mother be happy.

Why on earth couldn’t she be? What more could she possibly want?

Rachel remembered agonizing as a child, wondering if another baby would make Mama happy.

Or was it
her
fault? If she were different, more obedient and proper, like the demure little girl

with the watering can. Would Mama be happy then?

“Eat your breakfast, dear,” Sylvie admonished gently. “It’s getting cold.”

“I’m not very hungry.”

Sylvie’s face tightened. “Are you feeling all right?”

Here we go again.
“I’m fine, Mama. It’s just that I didn’t get in until almost two; then when I

finally got to bed, Portia wanted to crawl in with me. I think she missed me.” She peeked under

the table at the fat black semi-Labrador retriever at her feet, now snoring contentedly. She tickled

Portia lightly with her big toe, feeling a rush of affection for this mongrel she’d rescued as a pup.

Then, glancing back up at Sylvie, Rachel saw her mother still watching her anxiously. “
Honestly,

Mama. I’m healthy as a horse.”

God, will she ever stop? My whole life, every skinned knee and scraped elbow; anyone

would’ve thought it was epilepsy or cancer. Poor Mama. I’d come home bruised and scratched

from climbing a tree or falling off my bike, and it would be
she
who would cry.

Rachel found herself remembering the time she’d gotten lost outside of Saks around Christmas

time. She must’ve been five, scarcely big enough to push the revolving door. Mama had been

looking at some stuff at a front counter, and Rachel had heard bells, jingling Santa bells from

outside on the street.
Just a peek,
she had thought. She’d run outside for a minute, and then back

in before Mama even noticed. Except there were just too many people. She got swept up and

carried along with them like a leaf on a rushing brook. She couldn’t work herself free until almost

a block away. And then it was snowing, fat flakes like cotton balls swirling down, [70] making it

hard to see. By the time she got back inside, her shoes were soaked right through to her socks,

and Mama was nowhere in sight.

Rachel never forgot that moment, that awful sinking panic. Even at that age she wasn’t scared

for herself, but for Mama. She knew how frightened Mama would be that she’d disappeared.

Rachel darted in and out among shoppers, holding back tears and searching up every aisle for her

mother.

After she’d tried all the counters, she’d gone back outside. Maybe Mama was looking for her

out there. She’d stood next to Santa for a while, watching him ring his bell, and people put money

in his pot, and then a nice policeman asked if she was lost. When she told him she was, he waited

there with her, and then a green and white car came, and another policeman drove her home.

Sylvie’s face as they came in the front door was burned into Rachel’s memory. The tissue-

paper color of her skin, the puffy redness of her eyes. And how she’d trembled, dragging Rachel

into her embrace, squeezing her so tightly Rachel could hardly breathe. And all the while, Mama

sobbing, touching her all over, her hair, her arms, as if to make sure she really was there.

“It’s okay, Mama,” Rachel had tried comforting her, crying a little herself, burying her face in

the sweet silkiness of her mother’s hair. “Don’t cry. Please. See, I didn’t get lost. Not
really.
I

found my way home too, all by myself. Well, the policeman helped, but I knew the way. Mama?

Mama?”

When did she first learn that other girls’ mothers weren’t like hers? Odd, how they dressed like

Mama, had the same hairdos, and shopped in the same stores, though most of them weren’t nearly

as stylish.

Mama was more fun, for one thing. She made everything they did together seem special,

important. Other mothers took their little girls to the park, to puppet shows. Mama took her to

museums, to mysterious tombs with gilded sarcophagi from ancient Egypt; and rooms full of

wonderful paintings and artifacts, a whole Japanese village carved from a single ivory tusk,

paintings of plump naked women and winged cherubs, intricate beaded purses sewn by Eskimos.

And Mama, holding her hand, explaining each thing, making it all feel like a miracle.

Yet her friends’ mothers were much more relaxed in a way. [71] They applied Mercurochrome

and Band-Aids to their kids’ skinned knees in the same way they might butter a piece of toast.

They yelled sometimes, and fretted. But if you were fifteen minutes late from school, or came

home with a bloody nose, they didn’t fall apart.

Yet, oddly, in a real crisis, Mama held fast. Rachel remembered, after Daddy’s heart attack,

when Mama found her sobbing by his hospital bed, how Mama had taken her firmly by the arm

and steered her outside into the corridor. She’d been stunned to see Mama’s green eyes flashing,

not with tears, but anger.

“I won’t have it!” Sylvie had spoken sharply to her, the first time ever. “You carrying on like

that, as if he were dying. He’ll get better. He’ll be
fine.
And for heaven’s sake, before you go

back in there go to the washroom, splash cold water on your face. I won’t have Daddy wake up

and think we’re sitting
shivah
for him.”

Yes, Mama was a mystery in some ways. Somewhere Rachel had read that silk threads woven

into the same thickness as a steel cable would be stronger. Mama was like that, stronger than

anyone suspected ... maybe even herself.

“Does it mean that much to you, me going to this party?” Rachel asked, watching Mama lift

her cup to her lips, wanting so badly, even now, to please her, make that faint sadness behind her

eyes disappear.

Sylvie gently put down her cup. “Oh, Rachel, it’s not for
me.
I want it for you, don’t you see?

When I was growing up ...” A faraway look crept into her eyes, but she pulled herself short.

“Anyway, it wasn’t so bad. Just ... lonely. Yes, a girl your age should be involved, have young

men calling on her.”

Rachel laughed. “Young men don’t
call
on girls anymore, Mama.”
They ball them.

She thought of Gil, and felt cold. She saw it was raining outside, heavy drops tapping against

the windowpanes. Thanksgiving was a few days away, then Chanukah. She’d bought a great scarf

for Gil, cashmere, a soft heathery blue.

Am I in love with him?
But she couldn’t remember ever melting inside, the way you were

supposed to, no, not even in the beginning. Charmed by him, yes, the way he laughed at her silly

puns, and then came back with better ones of his own. His absentminded way of dressing, a

leather bomber jacket and argyle socks, or a Brooks [72] Brothers jacket with paint-spattered

jeans and scuffy Weejuns. The clever cartoons he drew in her notebook when they studied

together.

But he was so superorganized, so ... goddamned pompous, a Haverford pre-med and he was

already boning up on his specialty, thoracic surgery.

Rachel felt herself growing angry, at him, but then at herself.

Hey, it’s not his fault you’re frigid.

She thought back to when she first began dating, the summer she turned sixteen, out at the

beach house in Deal. She had liked it when Buck Walker kissed her; it gave her a nice warm

feeling. And sometimes when he, and then Arnie Shapiro, went further. Then, at some unknown

point, it just ... stopped. The good feelings, the warm flutters. She would be aware of the hand on

her breast, or between her legs, but the feeling was ordinary, no more exciting than being rubbed

by a washcloth or bar of soap. She would find herself bit by bit drawing away. Not physically at

first. Mentally. As if she had stepped outside her body and were hovering overhead, a ghostly

sports commentator. Howard Cosell of the seduction scene.

And now things are really warming up, folks. He’s off, he’s running ... he’s
—
oh boy, look at

him go
—
closing in on the goal line. He’s got that bra unhooked, and he’s working on her Dipper

now. He’s really breathing hard, folks, he looks all done in. But, wait, something’s wrong. She’s

backing off, she’s pushing his hand away ... she’s
—
let’s get a close-up of this if we can
—

intercepted him at the goal line. Tough break ...

She’d heard from boys, and from her friends, that a lot of girls cried at the last minute. Begged

off on account of religion, morality, their period, wanting to save it for their husband, or just plain

scared. So why, with her, was it the giggles?

She would swear to herself again and again that this time she would not, but then the giggles

would start and she could not stop herself.

No boy, she’d discovered, could keep it up in the face of laughter.

She thought about last night, Gil driving her home from Bryn Mawr. He’d slipped off the

turnpike, and before she quite knew where they were, he’d parked alongside the boathouse on

Lake Carnegie in Princeton. It was dusk, the sky mauve, the water dark and still. It was too chilly

to sit outside for long, but Gil insisted. [73] Organized as ever, he’d come prepared with a six-

pack of Lowenbrau, a big bag of potato chips, and an old quilted mattress pad.

Then Rachel vaguely remembered clothes getting unbuttoned, feeling looped, wanting to pee

more than anything. Then Gil’s zipper was stuck, and he got very red in the face and started

swearing. Suddenly the whole thing seemed unbearably ludicrous, fumbling around in the

freezing cold, Gil cursing with the pain of a doubled-over hard-on.

The giggles had just erupted, like beer fizzing over the top of a can.

Wiping her eyes, weak and ashamed when she’d finally managed to subdue them, she told Gil,