Once Upon a Lie (14 page)

“Dinner starts in ten minutes,” Joy said, resuming the important task of counting the number of visitors who had come by the facility that day.

“I’ll be back in eight,” Maeve said. She cut Joy some slack; she was old, she needed a good hairstylist, and she was having a bad day. Or life. It was hard to tell. Maeve put her hands together, pleading her case to Joy with only her eyes.

“And who should I say is calling?” Joy asked.

“Maeve Conlon,” she said, her license out of her bag and into Joy’s hand so as not to waste any more time. Buena del Sol—an “assisted-living facility for seniors who loved life”—was basically a jail. Joy took her time inputting all of the pertinent information into the computer, scanning Maeve’s license, and looking at the old picture against Maeve’s current face, something Doreen hadn’t taken the time to do. Satisfied that Maeve was who she said she was, Joy made a phone call and was able to ascertain that Mr. Moriarty was in the garden out back, his court time just about to start. “Just dropping off a pumpkin bread.” Maeve went through all of the possible problems that could bring. “It’s lactose-free, sugar-free, and gluten-free.” She thought that covered all of the bases even if it was a lie.

“That’s good,” Joy said. “Many of our residents have issues with their diets.”

Maeve nodded enthusiastically. “I know.”

Joy looked at her coolly. “Don’t you think you should be going?” she said, looking pointedly at the clock.

Maeve took the hint and sprinted outside, making her way around the side of the building. When she rounded the corner, she saw Jack, dressed up and looking handsome in spite of the mismatched shower sandals on his feet, squiring one of the younger and spryer residents toward the community room. It was nearly five, so Maeve guessed that he was taking a date to dinner, a thought that made her happy. She watched him usher the lady through the back doors of the facility and disappear into the large room on the other side of the doors, waiting a few moments before continuing her jog toward the tennis courts.

Mr. Moriarty was being soundly thumped by a spindly old fellow in crisp tennis whites, his shots going long and his serve looking as if it needed a serious refresher course from the tennis pro at the athletic club about a mile away. Moriarty wasn’t a good loser and threw his racket on the ground like an AARP card–carrying John McEnroe, who Maeve supposed was probably carrying his own AARP card by now. His opponent took great delight in calling out the score every time a shot was mishit, and by the time Maeve arrived at the court, Mr. Moriarty was in a full-blown snit. She hoped he agreed that he needed a break, one filled with day-old pumpkin bread and a brief interrogation from her.

“Mr. Moriarty?” she called out from the other side of the fence.

“What?!” he called back. “Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a match?” His speech had definitely improved since the last time she had seen him.

His opponent wasn’t so sure. “You call this a match? It’s like watching paint dry!”

Moriarty threw his racket to the ground, this time breaking the frame on one side, the strings twisting and becoming useless. “Why do I even bother?” he asked the sky, shaking a fist. “I’m done!”

“Why indeed?” his opponent called back. “That’ll be twenty bucks, Moriarty. You forfeited the match. You can pay me after dinner.” The man walked off the court and put his racket and balls into a large leather bag that looked as though it had seen its fair share of tennis matches. He exited the court at the far end, leaving Moriarty staring disconsolately at his broken racket.

Maeve opened the gate on her side of the court and entered cautiously. “Mr. Moriarty? I’m Maeve Conlon. Jack’s daughter?” she said, holding the pumpkin bread in front of her like a peace offering to an ancient god. Come to think of it, the guy kind of looked like a statue from Easter Island, all flat-nosed from an earlier kerfuffle somewhere in the bowels of the Bronx, if she had to guess.

“Jack went to dinner. With that woman who’s been sniffing around him. What’s her name?” he asked, looking up. Maeve certainly didn’t know but was intrigued. “Judy? Janie?” He walked over and stuffed his broken racket into his bag. “That for me?” he asked, looking at the pumpkin bread.

“It is,” she said, handing it to him.

“What do you want?” he asked, getting suspicious. “My own daughter only comes here once a month and she certainly doesn’t bring anything as good as a pumpkin bread. She does bring that chocolate pudding that doesn’t have any milk in it,” he said. “And that stuff stinks.”

Maeve guessed right: lactose-intolerant. She was glad she’d gone with the pumpkin bread and not the cannoli. “I just wanted to know if you had been out with my father at all in the last several weeks. Maybe for a drive? To run some errands?”

He looked up at the sky again, searching his brain for the details. “I don’t know, Ms. Conlon. I’m old. I don’t remember what’s going on from day to day,” he admitted. “Although I don’t have dementia. No sirree!” he said, making it clear to Maeve that being part of the forgetful crowd put one at Buena del Sol in a whole different category. “Except for my tennis. I remember that. Apparently, I stink. Every blessed day. Couldn’t hit the side of a barn.” He sat dejectedly in a chair at the edge of the court and put his head in his hands. He rubbed what used to be the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know why I bother.”

“I thought you looked pretty good,” Maeve said. “That other guy was wiry. Big guys like you never have a chance against those little guys.” She smiled. “Next time, challenge him to a game of basketball. He won’t stand a chance.”

Moriarty looked up and smiled. “You’ve got your old man’s sense of humor.”

She went over and crouched down in front of him. “Think, Mr. Moriarty. Did Jack ask you for a ride anywhere in the past few weeks? The last month? Anywhere?” she asked, trying to jog his memory.

He opened up the pumpkin bread and took a big sniff. “This smells great. I’m not sharing it with anyone.”

Maeve waited. Moriarty ripped off a big piece and shoved it in his mouth, enjoying every bite of what to her was damaged goods, having been left over from the day before. She made a mental note to bring him a fresh one next time.

“Anywhere?” she asked again.

He pointed at her. “There was once. A few weeks ago. He asked me to drop him at the train station.”

Her heart quickened and then skipped a beat.

“It was bingo night. Can’t remember which one or how long ago,” he said, tearing into the pumpkin bread again. “All’s I know is that it maybe was a few weeks ago. And I won at bingo. So it must have been a Saturday.”

CHAPTER 18

Maeve knew that Cal was a good lawyer and a good dad, but as a disciplinarian, she’d have better luck leaving her children in the care of Lindsay Lohan. He stunk at being the bearer of bad news in terms of what the girls could and could not do. It wasn’t that he thought he should be the girls’ friend, it was just that he now had so much on his plate with an overbearing and high-maintenance wife as well as a new baby that he found it hard to stick to the rules that he and Maeve had set up. It was armed with this knowledge, as well as experience with Heather, who could wear down the strictest parent with her debates and arguments, that Maeve found herself parked outside a house known for its raucous parties and visits from the local police, if the local blotter was accurate.

Across the street from the large contemporary, clear on the other side of town and a good distance from her own modestly sized home, she watched as the parents, notoriously lax, drove away, chatting amiably as they passed Maeve, slunk down in the seat of her car. Within minutes, several dozen cars appeared and kids piled out of each one like clowns from a circus car, the subcompacts seemingly holding more kids than the SUVs that pulled up. Maeve slid farther down in her seat and waited in the dark, trying to get a bead on whether or not her younger daughter had arrived with the rest of the partygoers.

What Heather didn’t know, and never would if Maeve could help it, was that her mother had a fake Facebook page and Heather had accepted her “friend” request. As a result, Maeve knew more about Heather’s life than her younger daughter could have imagined. She knew that Heather had missed the last few parties but was planning on getting to this one, come hell or high water. Kid had even invited her to the party, unwittingly, thinking that “McKenna O’Keefe” was a real person and would be interested in a party that boasted live music and a seemingly endless supply of booze. There would be some point where Heather might respect the lengths her mother had gone to protect her, after she realized she wasn’t completely insane. Maybe when she had her own children and was trying to protect them. Maybe then she would see that Maeve, her worrying worn like a badge of honor, had done everything she possibly could to keep her girls safe.

She peeled open the brownie that she had packed herself as a snack, then took a loud slurp from the bottle of water that she kept in the holder between the seats. She was settling in. Heather would arrive, she was sure of that; it was just a matter of when.

The house, once dark inside, was now ablaze with lights, music pouring out the open windows on the first floor. Although the house boasted a large lot, it did have neighbors on both sides, neighbors who—if the
Day Timer
’s blotter was to be believed—called the police with alarming regularity, usually on Saturday nights. Maeve wondered how long it would take for them to call this time, the sounds of a song with an incredibly heavy bass line already thumping away. If she lived next door to this family and had to endure this every weekend, she just might set a match to the house when its occupants were elsewhere.

After about forty minutes, Heather arrived in a car driven by the boy Maeve had seen her with at the soccer game, looking elated at the prospect of entering the house. Maeve’s consternation with Cal grew as she watched Heather direct the driver of the car onto the long expanse of front lawn, helping him angle in between a Mercedes and a BMW as if she were directing a large jet into a bay at JFK. Once he was parked, the kid jumped out of the car and grabbed her around the waist, and the two of them ran into the house with nary a glance at the lone car parked across the street from the action.

Maeve ate her brownie, waiting thirty seconds before sending a text to her daughter. “Am across the street. You can either come out or I’ll come in. Your choice.” She closed her phone and waited. Just as she was about to get out of the car and march down the driveway to the house, Heather emerged, scanning the front of the house for a sign of her mother, eventually spotting the Prius under the streetlamp across the street. Maeve rolled the window down and, when Heather was close enough, said, “Get in.”

Maeve had once read that the secret to good parenting was letting your kids believe that you were just a little crazy. So idle threats like “Do that again and you’ll spend the next three days in your room” held water; they needed to know that if you asked them not to do something and they did it, they would be looking at the walls of their Laura Ashley bedroom for three solid days. With good enough acting skills, you could make the kids believe that you were capable of just about anything, the hammer of justice falling swiftly and cleanly, no debate warranted, no discussion necessary. She watched as Heather pondered just how crazy her mother was, wondering just how far she would go. She decided, in the end, to get in the car without saying a word and without a backward glance toward a party that was just about to break up anyway, if the sound of the siren in the distance was any indication.

“Where did you tell him you were going?” Maeve asked.

“Home,” she said, plastering herself against the passenger-side door, a POW trapped with a crazy captor.

“Not your date. Your father,” Maeve said. Kid had a one-track mind, and the track was herself.

Maeve snuck a glance and could see that Heather was ashamed by what she was about to admit. “Packing clothes for the Midnight Run in the city.”

Maeve let out a sound that was a cross between a groan and a protest. “You can lie like that and not feel any kind of remorse?” she asked, even though she could tell that Heather had gone even further than she was comfortable with.

The police car passed them on the winding road, and Maeve waited at the one-car bridge to let another one pass. “I just wanted to go to the party,” Heather said, wanting her mother to believe that that was a legitimate excuse for lying. Out of her mouth, it almost sounded reasonable. She was that good.

“Well, you know what?” Maeve asked, pulling onto the bridge, the car noiseless but making a racket as it went over the steel treads. “Now you’re not going anywhere. For a long time.”

She couldn’t see the eye roll but knew that it had happened. Next to her was a fifteen-year-old the size of a twelve-year-old filled with enough piss and vinegar to make someone three times her age perpetually angry. “I hate you,” Heather said, not under her breath enough for Maeve not to hear her.

Maeve had heard that sentiment expressed before, but unlike before, this time she couldn’t resist responding. “I don’t like you very much right now either.”

The sound that came out of Heather was a mixture of shock, hurt, and surprise. “You’re not supposed to say that to your daughter. That’s just mean.”

A raised eyebrow in her direction was all Maeve could muster in response.

“I mean, really, like you can’t say stuff like that. Do you want me to spend the rest of my life in therapy?”

Yes, I do, Maeve thought. Like the rest of us, I want you to spend your entire life thinking about how your actions affect others and talking, in therapy, about all of the times you almost gave your mother a heart attack and how if it weren’t for her unconditional love and hypervigilance, you might not be here to complain about your father issues and low self-esteem. May that be the most her daughter ever had to complain about to someone she paid to listen to her. Maeve didn’t utter another word until they were at Cal’s. Heather jumped from the car before it was even in park, storming up the front steps to the Tudor and slamming the door behind her. Maeve stood on the steps, ringing the doorbell impatiently, waiting for someone to acknowledge that she was out front, in the dark, the temperature dropping to a point where soon she wouldn’t be able to feel her toes.