There Will Be Lies (6 page)

And thinking about it is good, because it makes me feel less mad about Mom fussing over me, and Mark, and the horrible fear that I saw in her eyes when we spoke earlier in the hospital room. I picture the park that day, and it makes my anger and my guilt abate, slowly.

And then my breathing slows, and I’m conscious of it, but in a dim and distant way.

And I look out of the window and I see that the sun is coming up, a glow on the horizon. The contrail of a jet plane above catches the low light and is set on fire, a perfectly straight streak of electricity, and I’m aware that I haven’t properly slept all night.

I press the painkiller button:

Click, and a warm rush.

There isn’t much time for worrying about Mark the next day, because I go into the OR early for my operation. I don’t get general anesthesia this time – they just knock my leg out and go to town. There’s a kind of screen to stop me seeing what they’re doing; not that I’d mind, I’m not squeamish.

I don’t exactly know what they’re doing. Something to do with the bones in my foot. One of them needs to be moved, I think, back to its proper position.

Whatever it is, it takes a long time. I figure the architecture of the body must be pretty complicated down there; lots of ligaments and tendons, twisting and stretching without me knowing, to accomplish the simple task of walking.

That’s the main thing I worry about: what if they screw something up? What if I don’t walk again, with or without a CAM Walker?

But I try not to let it get to me. And anyway there’s another thought swirling around in there, in me. Where did Mark go?

When I’m wheeled back to my room, I’ve got stitches down from my ankle to nearly my toes. There’s going to be an impressive scar.

But I don’t mind about that. A scar is nothing to me. I mean, I
already have a whole lot of them. They stretch from my waist right down to my knees – pockmarks, streaks, like a meteor storm, like the surface of the moon. I was two when it happened: I didn’t hear my mom shouting to me to stop, and I pulled a pan of hot oil from the stove, spilled it on myself. I was wearing a shirt that protected my stomach, but my legs were bare.

My dad was already dead – he passed away when I was tiny. So it was all on her, and she’s never let go of the guilt of it. Sometimes, when she looks at my legs, I see the tears in her eyes. Not even just when she sees the scars.

At the same time, she hates it when I feel embarrassed by them. She wishes I would go swimming with her. Mom says the scars are part of the story of me.

I say, in that case, the story of me is a freaking horror story.

I’d recommend at least a week’s bed rest
, says Dr Maklowitz.

But she could leave, right?
says Mom.

Of course. If necessary. We’ll have to train her in using the CAM Walker before we can discharge her, though. And of course we’ll need a follow-up appointment to make sure everything is healing OK. Say two months?

So, a couple of hours later, the hospital pharmacy brings me my CAM Walker. A nurse shows me how to put it on – it’s exactly like an enormous, ugly boot. My one is white, just to add to the storm trooper vibe. There’s a sticker on the back of it that says PROPERTY OF PHOENIX GENERAL.

The nurse makes me practise walking on it, up and down the hospital room, until she’s satisfied that I have mastered the art of WALKING. Then she shows us how to take care of the stitches, tells us about covering them up with a plastic bag if I’m in the shower or something.

Then she sends us to the hospital pharmacy with a prescription for some hardcore painkillers – high-dose codeine, which Mom explains is a derivative of morphine, only not as strong. We walk down a blank corridor, its walls marked here and there with suspicious stains. It reminds me of a recurring dream I have, which freaks me out a bit. The child crying, the need to get to it, to save it.

Finally we arrive at the pharmacy. There are two counters, with what looks like bulletproof glass protecting the people walking behind it. Actually, it probably is bulletproof glass. Phoenix is like the meth capital of America after all.

We go to the first counter and hand over the prescription sheet. The woman behind the counter – she has a faint moustache – hands a ticket with a number on it through the little slot that’s open at the bottom of the glass. It says 496 on it. I look up at a screen where the number 451 is displayed.

It’ll be a half-hour
, says the woman.

A full hour and a half later, our number comes up on the screen and we go to the second counter, where a tall young man in glasses hands us two bottles of pills.

Taken these before?
he says.

I shake my head.

There’s sixty milligrams in each tab
, he says.
No more than
six
in one day. You may find they constipate you a little
.

Ugh, I think. Super gross.

You find the pain is getting too much, try elevating the foot
, he says. Then he nods at us and goes to grab some drugs for another patient.

Mom holds my hand to steady me and we walk back down the corridor, then take an elevator to the main reception hall. There are doctors going back and forth, having fast conversations, nurses
running. A couple of receptionists are working on the phones and also trying to deal with walk-ins.

Mom leads me to the coffee-table area with the magazines, then, weirdly, seems to wait till the place is especially busy before walking us up to the counter. There’s a Mexican girl there, and she holds up a hand to us as she finishes a conversation on the phone. She says something in Spanish, then turns to us.

Yes?

We’d, ah, we’d like to pay
, says Mom. She hands over some paperwork. She’s all nervous again, folded in on herself, as if holding something important under her chin, which she has to protect.

Credit card?

Actually
…
uh … Dr Maklowitz and me, we agreed a cash discount. Ten per cent
.

The girl nods. She shuffles the papers and keys something into the computer beside her. Paramedics rush in, a guy on a gurney hooked up to tubes, and run down the corridor, and she doesn’t even look up. She’s pretty – long black eyelashes that flick up from the screen.

ID
, she says flatly.

Whose?
says Mom, her hands fluttering, fidgeting.
My daughter’s?

Both of you
.

But
… Mom kind of stammers.
But we’re paying cash. She’s uninsured, you guys know that already
.

I can’t take a cash payment without ID. And we need ID for … Shelby, for our records
.

Mom is flustered. I’m not surprised, if she’s got ten thousand dollars in her purse. She roots around in there for a second, then looks back at the girl.
I don’t exactly carry around her birth certificate
, she says.

The girl shrugs.
You can bring Shelby’s when you come for the follow-up. But I need to take yours now
.

Mom does this apologetic hand-opening thing.
I just don’t
–

I lean into her field of vision.
Your driver’s licence
, I say.
You keep it in your purse
.

Mom smiles, though it almost seems like she grimaces first.
Oh yes
.

She takes out her licence and hands it over, and the receptionist enters her details, then holds out her hand and Mom takes a surprisingly small wad of cash from her purse and gives her that too. But I guess if it’s hundred-dollar bills, you don’t need that many.

The receptionist prints Mom a receipt using one of those really old-fashioned printers that spit out thin pink paper, with holes down each side. It’s long – I guess it lists all the stuff that was done to me.

Uh, thanks
, says Mom, but she’s already turning around, holding my hand, manoeuvring me out of there in my slow hobbling way.

The girl gives a brisk nod and answers the phone.

In the parking lot, Mom takes a small black unit from her purse that I slowly recognise as a car key. She presses a button and the lights of a grey sedan flash.

Since when do we have a car?
I ask.

Since I rented one
, says Mom. The weird thing is – that whole looking-down shtick of hers, the nervousness, she’s doing it with ME now, as if I’m making her anxious by asking questions.

It’s enough to freak me out pretty seriously.
Um, where are we going?
I ask.
What’s the deal? Why are you acting so weird?

We’re going on a trip
, says Mom.
A vacation
.

A vacation? We never go on vacation
.

Well, we are now
.

Fine
, I say.

She won’t meet my eye.
It’s going to be a long vacation
.

I put my hands on my hips – or try to, because I’m a little unbalanced by the CAM Walker, so as a manoeuvre it is pretty doomed to failure, and instead I do an ungraceful little jerky dance.
Mom
, I say.
I’m not going anywhere with you until you tell me what’s going on
.

She says nothing but helps me into the front seat, adjusts it so that I have enough room to stretch out my leg, then takes my hospital bag and puts it in the back seat of the car. I turn and see that there’s a load of other stuff in there too – bulging suitcases, piles of Scottish landscapes.

Mom
? I ask again.
Why have you got, like, all our stuff in the car?

Mom takes a deep breath.
OK
, she finally says, looking up at me.
There’s something I haven’t told you
. S
ee … ah
…

Yes?
I say, impatient.

It’s your father. He’s not really dead
.

Mom is driving pretty fast, north out of Phoenix, on three-lane blacktop.

Sitting beside her, looking at her flapping mouth as she tries to explain, I am silent. Inside, though, I am thinking, WHAT THE HELL? We pass a Motel 8 and I barely see it, it’s as if all objects and things have gone transparent, and there is only this insane new fact in the world, disguised by glassy fake motels and gas stations and streetlights, a thin watery covering over insanity.

I can imagine what you must be thinking
, she says.

Oh yeah? I think.

I know this must come as a shock
, she continues.
I know it’s a lot to take in
.

Uh, yes, I think. You told me my dad was DEAD.

I glance out of the window – scrub and sand as we join I-17, leaving the city behind. Mountains in the distance. Blue sky forever; no clouds. It’s weird: we’re actually, finally leaving the city, which is what I’ve dreamed about forever. But now I don’t even care.

Shelby, say something
, she says. She has to kind of turn in the seat to talk to me, which is super dangerous at this speed, but she doesn’t seem to care.

My dad has been dead my whole life – it’s pretty much the only thing I actually know about him. It’s a defining feature of my life. It’s like being told that the moon actually IS made of cheese after all. I just can’t even. I can’t. Even.

I look out the window instead, so she can’t talk to me. I curl up into my seat, like a wounded animal.

It’s scary how quick, when you drive out of Phoenix, you’re in just pure desert. I mean, this landscape hasn’t changed since the Native Americans rode their horses across it. It’s not like dunes – it’s more like Wile E. Coyote, you know? Rocks and bits of grass in the sand, and these reddish outcrops sticking up, though not massive ones like in Utah.

It’s partly why I didn’t like you leaving the house
, continues Mom.
Why I’ve always been so protective. He’s … a dangerous man. I don’t know what he’s capable of. Remember when we left Albuquerque? That was because he found us. He spoke to a woman I worked with in the court. A judge’s secretary
.

Now, I literally don’t know what to say to this. So my dad isn’t dead, he’s just some kind of homicidal lunatic chasing us down. Way to spring some serious shit on your daughter, Mom.

At least I can be grateful you’re not wearing your pyjama jeans
, I say eventually.

Shelby! This isn’t the time for your jokes
.

Then what is it the time for? What the hell do you want me to say, Mom? That it’s no big deal?

Don’t curse, Shelby
.

Oh, no, you’re right, THAT’S the take-home message here. Cursing is bad
.

Mom sighs and turns back to the road, which I’m kind of happy about because she was swerving a little bit.

For the longest time, neither of us says anything. We just eat up road, Mom sticking to the express lane, putting Phoenix behind us at eighty miles an hour, going as fast as the baseballs I like to hit.

Where are we going?
I ask.

Flagstaff
, says Mom.

Flagstaff? Why?

I don’t know. It’s not Phoenix. And it’s big, and surrounded by forest. It’s a good place to hide
. She pauses.
Hey! We could even go to the Grand Canyon. Like you always wanted, right?

It’s dumb, because I’m still freaking out about my dad and everything Mom has just dumped on me, but I still get this spike of excitement.
Yeah?
I say. I don’t know why I want to go so much – I guess it’s the idea of this big crack in the world, like it’s a place where you can see under the world’s skin, to what’s beneath. To the truth below the earth. I don’t know. That sounds crazy, when I say it like that.

Yeah
, says Mom.
We’ll be close enough to drive. No plane
.

Cool
, I say.

We’re climbing out of flat desert, following I-17 into the mountains. I’ve never been this far from the city before. It’s almost like I can feel the air getting colder.

For miles and miles, it’s desert plateau – not just sand like around Phoenix, but a kind of scrubby desert, saguaro cacti like buried hands. And in the distance, high blue mountains, far away across the brush. It’s a vast landscape, incredibly beautiful, and I find myself, despite everything, kind of just gazing at it raptly as we drive. We pass a sign that says AGUA FRIA NATIONAL MONUMENT. There is hardly anyone else on the I-17 – it feels like a road movie, the ribbon of highway stretching out in front of us, across the desert. The mountains dreaming in the distance.