A Field Guide to Deception (11 page)

Bailey would still be out there, prattling on. So Claire stayed in her room, re-packed everything but the sketches, and ignored the box—particularly the letter. She wished for Liv. Much later, she wondered if her aunt had answered, and if so, what she'd written.

Claire crept into the camper. Stood, trying to quiet her breathing, her heart. Spooled in her bag, Liv slept on. Looking about her, Claire
considered dropping a water bottle, or slamming a cupboard door, anything to rouse the girl. Instead, she climbed into bed and put her hands on Liv's bare torso. Even then, the girl only groaned and curled into Claire.

“Wake up,” she whispered. “Please. Wake up.”

It hurt to speak. It hurt to have her hands on Liv. It felt like pressing bruises. It hurt as she bent lower and kissed Liv's mouth. It hurt to pull the girl into her and kiss her and cling to her and weep. God, finally to weep, and that hurt worst of all. The tears covering both of them and still coming, and Liv had woken; her arms flexed around Claire and brought more tears yet. And then the noise began, guttural and ragged as though it came from Claire's very cells, some ancient voice from her conception; it shook through her viciously, and left her shivering harder.

Liv had reared up on her knees and braced herself against the wall of the camper to hold onto Claire. They were wedged too tightly in the narrow bed to rock, but Liv sang, the way she would have to Simon, and Claire felt herself cradled as the noise, almost a possession, drained away from her. Everything drained away from her. Liv held fast, sang until the shivering stopped, kissed Claire's damp face.

Twelve

A kind of awareness

Paint spattered Liv's hands. Chronically incapable of painting without mess, she'd worn her grubs, and reveled now in the tangy smell, the texture of color on the wall, the feel of the brushstroke along her entire arm. She'd promised Claire, no power tools until she was off the meds, and so they'd spent the morning choosing colors for the basement. Mauve and a kind of husky blue—not as accents—but as unique colors for the downstairs rooms; accents would remain white, but be repainted in the spirit of newness. It had taken the better part of the week to dismantle the wood paneling, and clean and patch the walls.

All the downstairs windows thrown open, overhead fans whirring, and the rooms lightened by the removal of the paneling, Liv could almost convince herself she were in an outbuilding, in the garage perhaps, or her father's workshop. She applied a first coat, and thought of her father at his table, gluing together crafted pieces of wood to create trains and planes and racecars for the grandkids.

She should ask for a train for Simon. Why hadn't she thought of that while she was there? Anyway, now she had a reason to call her father, something to ask about besides cancer. Claire had helped to tape the room, and then taken Simon to get some clothes. He'd had a spurt that made him clumsy and ravenous and impossibly long-limbed.

Liv's body just felt sore now, no longer immobile and alien. She'd kept taking her pills, though, just in case. Paint dropped on her forearm
and she gazed at it, unwilling to wipe it away. A fly lifted against the window screen, settled, twitching. Resonance everywhere. That was the gift falling from the ladder had been.

Sex used to be like this. Give this kind of clarity; make her feel like more than herself. With each brushstroke, she felt her skin move and her muscles stretch and her breath come and go. When Claire lay warm against her, Liv knew she could chart the flow of blood through arteries. That was how aware she was. She could see thoughts. Could feel the air move around matter. Liv: alive and aware and keen.

She finished the first coat, and hurried to the camper to change before they returned. Simon's first expedition to swim at Fish Lake; Liv had pitched the adventure to Claire that morning, and described the old Steam Shovel at the turnoff, and the wooden dock, and the idyllic, calm water. In the camper, Liv took four pills, had her trunks on when she heard their car pull up.

Claire drove them to the lake; the windows opened, the oppressive July day sitting heavily in the car, their bodies sticky. Indeed, Simon found the Steam Shovel as mesmerizing as Liv had predicted. He wanted to drive it. They climbed from the car and let him marvel at its hot, rusted metal. Farther in, they parked the car and walked through the pine trees down the trail toward the lake. Needles crunched beneath their sandals. Simon stopped to collect rocks, and again, when he saw the snake; alerted to its presence by a spider scurrying across the snake's flesh, or because he'd thought it was a stick and then realized suddenly that it wasn't. Liv had taken a step beyond the child, and put her hand on his back to press him forward when she nearly stepped on the snake, and it shot forward into the litter.

She screamed, “Snake!” Grabbed Simon. Screamed, “Snake!” again and ran with him through the trees. Though he'd been calm a moment before, staring at the surprising creature, now he thrashed and shrieked for his mother.

“Liv,” Claire said, trying to reach them. Their towels left on the trail like wrapping paper, she chased behind. “Liv, stop it. Stop. Liv!”
And just as suddenly as the snake had bolted, Liv stopped, set Simon down, and stared about her. The day a smudge in her head, blurred and baffling, she stood on the pine needles by someone's minivan in the tiny parking lot. “I'm so sorry,” she said to the inconsolable child, and his mother. “Wow. I'm a little thrown. Did you see it? The snake? Did you see?”

Thirteen

Doses

Claire was scary when she was mad. Her voice, restrained and icy, seemed to insinuate itself into Liv's brain so that her lecture came from without and within simultaneously. In the camper, standing by the doorway, she held both pill bottles in her hands. “How many of these have you been taking?”

“Two.” Liv was slick with sweat. Low in her belly, a spasm flicked on the right side. She imagined an ovary swelling inside her like a balloon.

“From each bottle?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

Liv wasn't entirely certain. She'd taken them several times a day, but wasn't sure if she'd actually timed the doses. “Every few hours,” she said.

“How many pills a day?”

“I'm not sure.”

Claire stepped closer and Liv felt herself recoil, and lower her eyes further, like a cornered dog. She reached her arms around her belly to keep it from bursting.

“Liv, don't fuck about. How many pills are you taking a day?”

“Sixteen, probably.”

Claire relaxed. Liv felt it—the hardness—drain from the room. She glanced up at Claire and back at her shoes. Her stomach felt twisted and sick. She wanted to vomit and shower and sleep. More than anything, though, she wanted Claire to set the pills down,
turn, and leave without slamming the door. Liv didn't want the pills anymore. She still felt bewildered. In the parking lot, the sobbing child, his angry mother, and nothing. She didn't know why he was crying, or where she was exactly. When she thought about the snake, it seemed like something from a story, something she'd read to him. She wasn't even afraid of snakes. Why would she have run from one?

“You're only supposed to take two of each of these twice a day,” Claire said. “You've been taking four times the prescribed dosage.”

“Oh,” Liv said. She knew she'd vomit any moment, maybe into the sink, or on the bed, but definitely any moment. Shut up, she thought. Shut up and go away. Liv closed her eyes, breathed hard through her nose, but nothing could stop it now: the sickness, the wave of it breaking over both of them.

“Liv?” Claire said, her voice entirely outside Liv's head now, and muffled as though she were calling to Liv from outside the camper. Liv vomited. Choking, horribly painful, and it wouldn't stop. She couldn't catch her breath. Pulled then, from the bed, and the camper, out into the grass, where she could only retch and sob, and then slowly across the field toward the house. Slowly, with great care, the grass prickly on her skin; shivering and clammy in her damp clothes; and more retching, nothing left to expel except her own organs. Finally they were indoors, and Claire laid her down on the mat while she ran the bath.

“You're like a rock star,” Claire said, not unkindly. And Liv almost laughed, vomit in her hair even—rank and filmy. Claire eased her shirt over her head. Liv couldn't help, could barely hold herself upright. Then the shorts and boxers and Liv heard Claire grunt as she lifted—lifted!—Liv into the bathtub. In the bath, her spasms stopped, and hollowed now—her body a sieve—she slept.

She woke alone in Claire's bed. The sheets white, and roped around her naked body, she rolled toward the window where the light strained, and closed her eyes. Voices, from outside, only murmurs, and Liv felt thick-tongued and zombie-headed. She fell into sleep as though it were a well.

Bailey smoked, twirled her cognac in the snifter, and regarded Claire. She'd brought Simon back to the house with her. Claire had dropped him off earlier in the evening, said she had to run some errands and would have dinner ready for both of them at seven.

“Where's Liv tonight?”

Claire took a bite of chocolate, chewed slowly. “She's sleeping. Overdid it with the painting.”

“I see,” Bailey said. “You look like you could sleep as well. I won't stay long. How's the book?”

“I'm finished.”

Bailey sat up, nearly dowsed her brown camisole with cognac. “What? You finished? When?”

“Two days ago.”

“Why aren't we celebrating? We should be out somewhere, having champagne or something, shouldn't we? Why don't we go out tomorrow night? The bunk-bed lady can watch Simon, and you and Liv and I can celebrate. What do you think?”

“I'm so exhausted now I can't even think about celebrating.”

“Don't worry, I'll handle everything. Where's Liv? I'll chat with her about it and we'll arrange the whole thing. We can even schedule the sitter if you want. You won't have to do anything.”

Bailey stood up as though she meant to organize this very moment.

“Liv's sleeping, remember?”

“Oh right. I'll just phone her tomorrow. Just leave this to me. It's so exciting. I had no idea you'd finished. After all this time, aren't you pleased? How do you feel?”

Claire considered. “I feel like spoiling myself.”

“That's the spirit. Spoiling how?”

“A trip. Maybe to the Oregon coast. Dee and I used to go every few years. We'd talked about going this summer.”

She crushed a mosquito. Claire wanted to curl against Liv. She wanted to hibernate. If she took them both—Simon and Liv—they'd walk the beach and Simon could throw stones while Liv recuperated. They'd visit the aquarium and the Sylvia Beech Hotel; Simon could
play in the Dr. Seuss room. And she and Liv . . . Claire looked up at her bedroom window and wished Bailey gone.

“I should go,” Bailey said, not moving.

“Yes,” Claire said, and stood. “I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks for watching Simon.”

“Thanks for dinner. Tell Liv, well anyway, I'll phone her tomorrow.” Bailey handed Claire her drink, hesitated, walked slowly away.

Claire left the drinks on the table, moved barefoot through the house, her clothes peeled away. An ache deep in her, a kind of tether, between herself and Liv, drew her without thought, or consideration, to Liv's body. In a foreign place, Claire knew she could track Liv by smell and impulse alone. They were like bats, some sonar reckoning in the dark.

“Are you sleeping?” she asked Liv.

“No.” Muffled.

“Can you?”

Liv rolled into Claire, her skin clammy, her muscles trembling down her back and legs. Tucked against Claire's chest, Liv seemed to shiver harder, and then Claire understood, she was sobbing. Both of them children, orphaned, seeking succor from each other. That word, “orphaned”, rang through Claire like memory. I will be your mother too, she thought. Your mother and your child. Twining her legs through Liv's, she bound them both to this place.