We Were Liars Deluxe Edition Page 11

  He is shivering slightly and he kisses my neck with cold lips. We stay like that, enfolded in each other’s arms, for a minute or two,

  and it feels like the universe is reorganizing itself,

  and I know any anger we felt has disappeared.

  Gat kisses me on the lips, and touches my cheek.

  I love him.

  I have always loved him.

  We stay up there on the roof for a very, very long time. Forever.

  50

  MIRREN HAS BEEN getting ill more and more often. She gets up late, paints her nails, lies in the sun, and stares at pictures of African landscapes in a big coffee-table book. But she won’t snorkel. Won’t sail. Won’t play tennis or go to Edgartown.

  I bring her jelly beans from New Clairmont. Mirren loves jelly beans.

  Today, she and I lie out on the tiny beach. We read magazines I stole from the twins and eat baby carrots. Mirren has headphones on. She keeps listening to the same song over and over on my iPhone.

  Our youth is wasted

  We will not waste it

  Remember my name

  ’Cause we made history

  Na na na na, na na na

  —

  I POKE MIRREN with a carrot.

  “What?”

  “You have to stop singing or I can’t be responsible for my actions.”

  Mirren turns to me, serious. Pulls out the ear buds. “Can I tell you something, Cady?”

  “Sure.”

  “About you and Gat. I heard you two come downstairs last night.”

  “So?”

  “I think you should leave him alone.”

  “What?”

  “It’s going to end badly and mess everything up.”

  “I love him,” I say. “You know I’ve always loved him.”

  “You’re making things hard for him. Harder than they already are. You’re going to hurt him.”

  “That’s not true. He’ll probably hurt me.”

  “Well, that could happen, too. It’s not a good idea for you guys to be together.”

  “Don’t you see I would rather be hurt by Gat than be closed off from him?” I say, sitting up. “I’d a million times rather live and risk and have it all end badly than stay in the box I’ve been in for the past two years. It’s a tiny box, Mirren. Me and Mummy. Me and my pills. Me and my pain. I don’t want to live there anymore.”

  A silence hangs in the air.

  “I’ve never had a boyfriend,” Mirren blurts.

  I look into her eyes. There are tears. “What about Drake Loggerhead? What about the yellow roses and the sexual intercourse?” I ask.

  She looks down. “I lied.”

  “Why?”

  “You know how, when you come to Beechwood, it’s a different world? You don’t have to be who you are back home. You can be somebody better, maybe.”

  I nod.

  “That first day you came back I noticed Gat. He looked at you like you were the brightest planet in the galaxy.”

  “He did?”

  “I want someone to look at me that way so much, Cady. So much. And I didn’t mean to, but I found myself lying. I’m sorry.”

  I don’t know what to say. I take a deep breath.

  Mirren snaps. “Don’t gasp. Okay? It’s fine. It’s fine if I never have a boyfriend at all. It’s fine if not one person ever loves me, all right? It’s perfectly tolerable.”

  Mummy’s voice calls from somewhere by New Clairmont. “Cadence! Can you hear me?”

  I yell back. “What do you want?”

  “The cook is off today. I’m starting lunch. Come slice tomatoes.”

  “In a minute.” I sigh and look at Mirren. “I have to go.”

  She doesn’t answer. I pull my hoodie on and trudge up the path to New Clairmont.

  In the kitchen, Mummy hands me a special tomato knife and starts to talk.

  Natter natter, you’re always on the tiny beach.

  Natter natter, you should play with the littles.

  Granddad won’t be here forever.

  Do you know you have a sunburn?

  I slice and slice, a basketful of strangely shaped heirloom tomatoes. They are yellow, green, and smoky red.

  51

  MY THIRD WEEK on-island is ticking by and a migraine takes me out for two days. Or maybe three. I can’t even tell. The pills in my bottle are getting low, though I filled my prescription before we left home.

  I wonder if Mummy is taking them. Maybe she has always been taking them.

  Or maybe the twins have been coming in my room again, lifting things they don’t need. Maybe they’re users.

  Or maybe I am taking more than I know. Popping extra in a haze of pain. Forgetting my last dose.

  I am scared to tell Mummy I need more.

  When I feel stable I come to Cuddledown again. The sun hovers low in the sky. The porch is covered with broken bottles. Inside, the ribbons have fallen from the ceiling and lie twisted on the floor. The dishes in the sink are dry and encrusted. The quilts that cover the dining table are dirty. The coffee table is stained with circular marks from mugs of tea.

  I find the Liars clustered in Mirren’s bedroom, all looking at the Bible.

  “Scrabble word argument,” says Mirren as soon as I enter. She closes the book. “Gat was right, as usual. You’re always effing right, Gat. Girls don’t like that in a guy, you know.”

  The Scrabble tiles are scattered across the great room floor. I saw them when I walked in.

  They haven’t been playing.

  “What did you guys do the past few days?” I ask.

  “Oh, God,” says Johnny, stretching out on Mirren’s bed. “I forget already.”

  “It was Fourth of July,” says Mirren. “We went to supper at New Clairmont and then everyone went out in the big motorboat to see the Vineyard fireworks.”

  “Today we went to the Nantucket doughnut shop,” says Gat.

  They never go anywhere. Ever. Never see anyone. Now while I’ve been sick, they went everywhere, saw everyone?

  “Downyflake,” I say. “That’s the name of the doughnut shop.”

  “Yeah. They were the most amazing doughnuts,” says Johnny.

  “You hate cake doughnuts.”

  “Of course,” says Mirren. “But we didn’t get the cake, we got glazed twists.”

  “And Boston cream,” says Gat.

  “And jelly,” says Johnny.

  But I know Downyflake only makes cake doughnuts. No glazed. No Boston cream. No jelly.

  Why are they lying?

  52

  I EAT SUPPER with Mummy and the littles at New Clairmont, but that night I am hit with a migraine again. It’s worse than the one before. I lie in my darkened room. Scavenger birds peck at the oozing matter that leaks from my crushed skull.

  I open my eyes and Gat stands over me. I see him through a haze. Light shines through the curtains, so it must be day.

  Gat never comes to Windemere. But here he is. Looking at the graph paper on my wall. At the sticky notes. At the new memories and information I’ve added since I’ve been here, notes about Gran’s dogs dying, Granddad and the ivory goose, Gat giving me the Moriarty book, the aunts fighting about the Boston house.

  “Don’t read my papers,” I moan. “Don’t.”

  He steps back. “It’s up there for anyone to see. Sorry.”

  I turn on my side to press my cheek against the hot pillow.

  “I didn’t know you were collecting stories.” Gat sits on the bed. Reaches out and takes my hand.

  “I’m trying to remember what happened that nobody wants to talk about,” I say. “Including you.”

  “I want to talk about it.”

  “You do?”

  He is staring at the floor. “I had a girlfriend, two summers ago.”

  “I know. I knew all along.”

  “But I never told you.”

  “No, you didn’t.”

  “I fell for you so hard, Cady. There was no stoppin
g it. I know I should have told you everything and I should have broken it off with Raquel right away. It was just—she was back home, and I never see you all year, and my phone didn’t work here, and I kept getting packages from her. And letters. All summer.”

  I look at him.

  “I was a coward,” Gat says.

  “Yeah.”

  “It was cruel. To you and to her, too.”

  My face burns with remembered jealousy.

  “I am sorry, Cady,” Gat goes on. “That’s what I should have said to you the first day we got here this year. I was wrong and I’m sorry.”

  I nod. It is nice to hear him say that. I wish I weren’t so high.

  “Half the time I hate myself for all the things I’ve done,” says Gat. “But the thing that makes me really messed up is the contradiction: when I’m not hating myself, I feel righteous and victimized. Like the world is so unfair.”

  “Why do you hate yourself?”

  And before I know it, Gat is lying on the bed next to me. His cold fingers wrap around my hot ones, and his face is close to mine. He kisses me. “Because I want things I can’t have,” he whispers.

  But he has me. Doesn’t he know he already has me?

  Or is Gat talking about something else, something else he can’t have? Some material thing, some dream of something?

  I am sweaty and my head hurts and I can’t think clearly. “Mirren says it’ll end badly and I should leave you alone,” I tell him.

  He kisses me again.

  “Someone did something to me that is too awful to remember,” I whisper.

  “I love you,” he says.

  We hold each other and kiss for a long time.

  The pain in my head fades, a little. But not all the way.

  —

  I OPEN MY eyes and the clock reads midnight.

  Gat is gone.

  I pull the shades and look out the window, lifting the sash to get some air.

  Aunt Carrie is walking in her nightgown again. Passing by Windemere, scratching her too-thin arms in the moonlight. She doesn’t even have her shearling boots on this time.

  Over at Red Gate I can hear Will crying from a nightmare. “Mommy! Mommy, I need you!”

  But Carrie either doesn’t hear him, or else she will not go. She veers away and heads up the path toward New Clairmont.

  53

  GIVEAWAY: A PLASTIC box of Legos.

  I’ve given away all my books now. I gave a few to the littles, one to Gat, and went with Aunt Bess to donate the rest to a charity shop on the Vineyard.

  This morning I rummage through the attic. There’s a box of Legos there, so I bring them to Johnny. I find him alone in the Cuddledown great room, hurling bits of Play-Doh at the wall and watching the colors stain the white paint.

  He sees the Legos and shakes his head.

  “For your tuna fish,” I explain. “Now you’ll have enough.”

  “I’m not gonna build it,” he says.

  “Why not?”

  “Too much work,” he says. “Give them to Will.”

  “Don’t you have Will’s Legos down here?”

  “I brought them back. Little guy was starved for them,” Johnny says. “He’ll be happy to have more.”

  I bring them to Will at lunch. There are little Lego people and lots of parts for building cars.

  He is ridiculously happy. He and Taft build cars all through the meal. They don’t even eat.

  54

  THAT SAME AFTERNOON, the Liars get the kayaks out. “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Going round the point to this place we know,” says Johnny. “We’ve done it before.”

  “Cady shouldn’t come,” says Mirren.

  “Why not?” asks Johnny.

  “Because of her head!” shouts Mirren. “What if she hurts her head again, and her migraines get even worse? God, do you even have a brain, Johnny?”

  “Why are you yelling?” yells Johnny. “Don’t be so bossy.”

  Why don’t they want me to come?

  “You can come, Cadence,” says Gat. “It’s fine if she comes.”

  I don’t want to tag along when I’m not wanted—but Gat pats the kayak seat in front of him and I climb in.

  I do not really want to be separate from them.

  Ever.

  We paddle the two-person kayaks around the bay side under Windemere to an inlet. Mummy’s house sits on an overhang. Beneath it is a cluster of craggy rocks that almost feels like a cave. We pull the kayaks onto the rocks and climb to where it’s dry and cool.

  Mirren is seasick, though we were only in the kayaks for a few minutes. She is sick so often now, it’s no surprise. She lies down with her arms over her face. I half expect the boys to unpack a picnic—they have a canvas bag with them—but instead Gat and Johnny begin climbing the rocks. They’ve done it before, I can tell. They’re barefoot, and they climb to a high point twenty-five feet above the water, stopping on a ledge that hangs over the sea.

  I watch them until they are settled. “What are you doing?”

  “We are being very, very manly,” Johnny calls back. His voice echoes.

  Gat laughs.

  “No, really,” I say.

  “You might think we are city boys, but truth is, we are full of masculinity and testosterone.”

  “Are not.”

  “Are too.”

  “Oh, please. I’m coming up with you.”

  “No, don’t!” says Mirren.

  “Johnny baited me,” I say. “Now I have to.” I begin climbing in the same direction the boys went. The rocks are cold under my hands, slicker than I expected.

  “Don’t,” Mirren repeats. “This is why I didn’t want you to come.”

  “Why did you come, then?” I ask. “Are you going up there?”

  “I jumped last time,” Mirren admits. “Once was enough.”

  “They’re jumping?” It doesn’t even look possible.

  “Stop, Cady. It’s dangerous,” says Gat.

  And before I can climb farther, Johnny holds his nose and jumps. He plummets feetfirst from the high rock.

  I scream.

  He hits the water with force and the sea is filled with rocks here. There’s no telling how deep or shallow it is. He could seriously die doing this. He could—but he pops up, shaking the water off his short yellow hair and whooping.

  “You’re crazy!” I scold.

  Then Gat jumps. Whereas Johnny kicked and hollered as he went down, Gat is silent, legs together. He slices into the icy water with hardly a splash. He comes up happy, squeezing water out of his T-shirt as he climbs back onto the dry rocks.

  “They’re idiots,” says Mirren.

  I look up at the rocks from which they jumped. It seems impossible anyone could survive.

  And suddenly, I want to do it. I start climbing again.

  “Don’t, Cady,” says Gat. “Please don’t.”

  “You just did,” I say. “And you said it was fine if I came.”

  Mirren sits up, her face pale. “I want to go home now,” she says urgently. “I don’t feel well.”

  “Please don’t, Cady, it’s rocky,” calls Johnny. “We shouldn’t have brought you.”

  “I’m not an invalid,” I say. “I know how to swim.”

  “That’s not it, it’s—it’s not a good idea.”

  “Why is it a good idea for you and not a good idea for me?” I snap. I am nearly at the top. My fingertips are already beginning to blister with clutching the rock. Adrenaline shoots through my bloodstream.

  “We were being stupid,” says Gat.

  “Showing off,” says Johnny.

  “Come down, please.” Mirren is crying now.

  I do not come down. I am sitting, knees to my chest, on the ledge from which the boys jumped. I look at the sea churning beneath me. Dark shapes lurk beneath the surface of the water, but I can also see an open space. If I position my jump right, I will hit deep water.

  “Always do what you are a
fraid to do!” I call out.

  “That’s a stupid-ass motto,” says Mirren. “I told you that before.”

  I will prove myself strong, when they think I am sick.

  I will prove myself brave, when they think I am weak.

  It’s windy on this high rock. Mirren is sobbing. Gat and Johnny are shouting at me.

  I close my eyes and jump.

  The shock of the water is electric. Thrilling. My leg scrapes a rock, my left leg. I plunge down,

  down to rocky rocky bottom, and

  I can see the base of Beechwood Island and

  my arms and legs feel numb but my fingers are cold. Slices of seaweed go past as I fall.

  And then I am up again, and breathing.

  I’m okay,

  my head is okay,

  no one needs to cry for me or worry about me.

  I am fine,

  I am alive.

  I swim to shore.

  —

  SOMETIMES I WONDER if reality splits. In Charmed Life, that book I gave Gat, there are parallel universes in which different events have happened to the same people. An alternate choice has been made, or an accident has turned out differently. Everyone has duplicates of themselves in these other worlds. Different selves with different lives, different luck.

  Variations.

  I wonder, for example, if there’s a variation of today where I die going off that cliff. I have a funeral where my ashes are scattered at the tiny beach. A million flowering peonies surround my drowned body as people sob in penance and misery. I am a beautiful corpse.

  I wonder if there’s another variation in which Johnny is hurt, his legs and back crushed against the rocks. We can’t call emergency services and we have to paddle back in the kayak with his nerves severed. By the time we helicopter him to the hospital on the mainland, he’s never going to walk again.

  Or another variation, in which I don’t go with the Liars in the kayaks at all. I let them push me away. They keep going places without me and telling me small lies. We grow apart, bit by bit, and eventually our summer idyll is ruined forever.

  It seems to me more than likely that these variations exist.

  55

  THAT NIGHT I wake, cold. I’ve kicked my blankets off and the window is open. I sit up too fast and my head spins.