Where the Truth Lies (17 page)

chapter sixteen

When I walk into the house, the first thing I hear is my mother playing the piano in the living room. That’s how I learned to sing. When I was a little girl, she would play Beatles songs all the time, and one day, without any prompting, I opened my mouth to join her, and out came the voice I’d never realized I had. I remember my father sitting on the sofa, reading a book, and the way he slowly put it down to watch me. I remember how my soft voice grew louder as I heard it and understood that it was something powerful.

She’s playing the Beatles’ “Let It Be.” Sometimes, if I walk in while she’s at the piano, I’ll go over to her and start singing. She’s always liked that.

But I don’t do it today. Today, I stand beside the piano with my arms crossed, waiting for her to finish, trying to suppress the feeling of dread at what I’m about to ask.

I’ve been going over possible scenarios in my mind for how she’ll react. Maybe it’s no big deal. Maybe Sandy Gray is an aunt I don’t know about, and she and my parents are estranged. Maybe she’s an old friend of my mom and dad’s, and they put her in their will to take care of me if anything ever happened to them. But I don’t know
anyone
with the last name Gray, and I’ve never heard my parents mention it.

My mother stops playing. “Emily. What are you doing here, baby?”

My dad isn’t here, which is the way I want things tonight. My mom will be easier to crack if he’s not around. If this is something I’m not supposed to know about, or something that has been hidden from me, my dad would want to keep protecting me. And it’s not that my mom doesn’t
want
to protect me; after all, she’s been hiding this woman from me for my entire life. It’s just that I know that, if they have a united front, I might not get through to either of them.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to start. So I just ask.

“Mom? Who is Sandy Gray?”

The palms of my mother’s hands go limp on the piano. “Who—how did you—”

“Del,” I explain. “He took my file when he took Madeline’s. By the way, Renee got kicked out for no reason. She was just holding the file. She didn’t actually steal it.”

My mom starts to shake her head, brings her fist to her mouth, but before she can say anything I interrupt with, “Don’t lie to me or I’ll know. You have to tell me who this woman is. Why is she listed in case of an emergency? I’ve never heard her name in my life.”

My mom takes a deep breath. Her hands are shaking. “We knew we’d have to tell you this eventually,” she says, her voice small and sad. “We just didn’t know how, baby.”

Oh, shit
. I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know, I don’t want to know. But it’s too late; she’s going to tell me.

“Emily, sweetie,” my mom begins, “I know this is going to be impossible for you to understand, but—oh hell, I guess I should just say it. I mean, it’s complicated. There’s a long story involved—”

I am officially freaking out. “What do you mean, there’s a
story
? Tell me the damn story, then.”

She doesn’t say anything for a long time. She stares at her hands, at the wall behind me, looking anywhere but at my face. She won’t look me in the eye. Finally she says, “Sandy Gray was your father’s first wife.”

I’m beyond confused. “What do you mean, my father’s first wife? Daddy was married before?”

My mom shakes her head. “No. Your daddy wasn’t married before.” She takes another deep breath. I’m almost worried she’s going to hyperventilate. I’ve never seen her so nervous.

“Then what? Mom, you’re not making sense. If Daddy wasn’t married before, then what the hell are you talking about?”

She looks me in the eye. “Your father is not your real father. I was married once before, a long time ago.” She swallows. “I was married to your real father.”

I feel dizzy. I feel hot. But more than anything, I feel confused.

“Let me understand this,” I repeat, tears prickling my eyes. “You were married before.”

My mother nods.

“I’m your child with your first husband.”

For an almost imperceptible moment, she hesitates, as though she’s trying to figure out the story for herself. Then she nods again.

“You were married to another man before Daddy, and that man is my real father,” I repeat.

“Yes.” Her voice sounds far away.

“What was his name? My real father?”

She can’t—or won’t—look at me again. “Tom. His name was Tom.”

“And what happened to Tom?”

“He died.” She takes a deep, shaky breath. “We almost all died. Emily, there was a fire. You were three years old. We lived in a small house in New Hampshire. I remember that night so vividly. I can’t tell you how often I replay it in my head. You had an ear infection, so I slept in your room, in your bed. When I woke up, there was smoke everywhere. There was a fireman standing in your bedroom. The smoke was so thick that I couldn’t even see you. It was horrible.”

“And where was my father?” I ask.
Fire. Smoke everywhere. I remember now; I’ve always remembered.

She’s crying. “He was in our bedroom, asleep. He suffocated from the smoke and died. But, Emily, it was such a strange coincidence that things worked out the way they did. Normally, when you weren’t sick, you’d crawl into bed with us at night. The fire started in the living room and came up through the closet in our bedroom.” She wipes her eyes, obviously overwhelmed by the memory. “If you hadn’t been sick, we might have all been killed. It was a miracle that you and I survived.”

All I can think is,
My father is not my father.
My
daddy
is not who I thought he was. They have been lying to me my whole life.

“How did the fire start?” I ask. “Do you know?”

Her head hangs further. She manages a soft nod. “It was because of me.”

My whole body feels cold. “What do you mean?”

Before she tells me, I know the answer. Everything begins to fall into place.

“I was smoking,” she says. “I used to smoke.”

“You still smoke,” I tell her.

She looks startled. “How did you know that?”

“I’ve seen you outside. I’ve heard you sneak out late at night.” I can’t believe what she’s telling me. “So you were smoking in our house, and
that’s
what caused the fire—and you still smoke?”

“Your father doesn’t know,” she says. “I only started again a few months ago. When you started seeing Del, and your dreams got worse. I knew we would have to tell you eventually what had happened. The stress became overwhelming.” She shakes her head, wiping tears from her cheeks. “Emily, I’m sorry. You will never know how sorry I am.”

But I don’t want to hear that she’s sorry. All I want to hear is the truth. “So then what?” I demand. “What happened after the fire? After my—my father died?”

“I came to Connecticut. I met your dad—I mean, I met John. We fell in love. We got married. We didn’t know how to explain things to you. Your life had been so traumatic already. Once you’d seemed to have forgotten, we thought it would be easier if we didn’t tell you. Not right away.”

“But I started having nightmares! Do you know what they’re like? How could you sit there, through all those sessions with Dr. Miller, and not say anything? How could you do that to me?”

She takes another deep breath. “We planned on telling you after high school. We wanted to wait until you were an adult. Emily,” she rushes on, “everything we’ve done is to protect you. Everything we’ve done is because we love you.”

“You
lied
to me! You let me suffer for all these years.” And then it occurs to me that she hasn’t even explained the question I came here to have her answer.

“But Sandy Gray? Why is her name in my file?”

My mom nods to herself. “Because she’s a connection to your past. She’s your real father’s first wife, and she has a lot of information about him. We thought that if anything ever happened—if you needed a comprehensive medical history, or anything like that—Sandy might know things about your father that I don’t.”

My dad is not my dad. He’s my
step
father. How am I supposed to react when the world has been pulled out from underneath me? I begin to cry again. “My dreams,” I say. “My nightmares. The fire. I remember all of it.”

“You were only three,” my mom says. “You were in the hospital for two days for smoke inhalation. I didn’t let you come to your father’s funeral. You were so little. Oh, baby, it was a nightmare, and you must have tucked it away somewhere, and all these years it’s been trying to get out.” She stands up so we are eye to eye. “I’m sorry we didn’t tell you. I wanted to. But you have to understand, Emily, it was important that we wait until you were ready to hear it.” She pauses. “I guess you’re ready now.”

“I guess so.” My voice is flat.

“I mean, none of this is exactly—”

“Proper,” I finish, bitter.

She nods.

“But I’ve seen my birth certificate. Your and Daddy’s names are on it.”

“Emily. Don’t hate us,” she whispers.

I feel cold. “What? What did you do?”

“Your father has a friend. It’s his roommate from college. He did us some favors. He got us paperwork. So then, when it came time for us to do him a favor, we felt like we had no choice.”

I shake my head, not comprehending.

“Del’s father, honey. He was your dad’s college roommate. He’s the only other person who knows the truth about your past.” She swallows. “Your dad and I are pretty sure that Del had an inkling of it, too. We’ve always thought that it’s a big part of why he was so interested in you.”

I feel so stupid. Of
course
it’s why he was interested in me. My past is just as sad as his, only I didn’t know it.

“You kept this from me my whole life,” I say. I’m so furious that I’m trembling. The room feels fuzzy. “The fire was your fault. You started it with your cigarette.”

My mother nods.

“But what about the water? In my nightmares?”

For another, almost imperceptible moment, she pauses. Is there something she’s still not telling me?

“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe you remember all the water that got in the house when they were putting out the fire.”

I get the feeling that she’s lying. But what she’s telling me makes perfect sense; there would have been water everywhere.

I’m so angry and confused and heartbroken all at once that I don’t know what to do. None of this feels real. None of it seems possible. My father is not my father. All my life, I’ve been dreaming of my real father without knowing it. I don’t even remember what he looks like.

“Do you still have pictures of my real father?” I ask.

She nods.

“And you swear you were going to tell me when I turned eighteen?”

She nods again.

“Then why did you even put Sandy’s name down, if you were going to tell me anyway?”

“I told you. We put her name down because we thought that if anything ever happened to both of us, then you would have to find out the truth, and she would be able to shed some light on it for you. But, Emily,” she says, shaking her head, almost as though if she shakes it hard enough she can make all of this go away, “I’ve never even met Sandy Gray. Your real father told me she had a drug problem; that was why they split up in the first place. To be honest, I don’t even know if she’s still alive. So it’s very odd that you would stumble upon her name, and it would lead you to all of this.”

I close my eyes.
Let it be, Let it be, Let it be, Let it be …
I should have gone to her side and started singing when I came into the house. I should have left everything alone. This is too much for one girl to hold all by herself.

“You said you wanted to tell me,” I say to my mom, “so why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t know where to begin,” she says. “I was afraid you’d be so angry … are you?”

“Yes. You lied to me. How am I supposed to look at Daddy now? How am I ever supposed to think of him in the same way?”

“Emily, you have to understand—he
is
your father. He loves you more than anything in the world. He would do anything for you.”