Crystal Lies Read online

  I picked up Sarah’s senior prom photo and, despite myself, smiled. She had looked so beautiful that night. Her auburn hair, the same shade that mine had once been, had been piled high on her head, and her green eyes had sparkled with youth and excitement. It was as if she’d finally come into her own around then. Like me, she’d been a late bloomer. Always the academic and model child, she’d been on the sidelines socially.

  But something had happened in her senior year, and she’d just blossomed. The next thing we knew we were packing her off to college, where she’d continued to blossom. Even now she was off touring Europe for the entire summer with several college friends. I had balked at the idea at first, worried that it was too expensive or that something could go wrong or that Sarah might get hurt. But Geoffrey took Sarah’s side, saying that she of all people deserved this kind of treat. Meaning that compared to her younger brother, Sarah was a dream child. Of course, she was also Daddy’s little princess. Always had been, and unless she did something terribly regrettable—something that would shame her father—she probably always would remain on his pedestal.

  But as Sarah’s life got better and better, her younger brother’s life went steadily downhill. It felt as if the scales had suddenly been tipped—Sarah was up and Jacob was down. But was that how it really worked? Was that how life balanced out the blessings and the curses?“Why, God?” I asked for the umpteenth time. Why was this happening to us? But God loomed as silent as my big empty house. And stifled by the heavy stillness that made it difficult to breathe or even think, I finally went outside in search of relief.

  I’d always loved to garden, but that last summer was different. Oh, I’d planted as usual in the spring. Slightly bolstered by the possibility that Jacob might even make it through to graduation, I’d planted starts of tomatoes, peas, zucchini—all kinds of things. Then distracted and possibly depressed during the following summer months, mostly by Jacob’s unexplained absences from home and my growing suspicions that drugs were still involved, I had neglected, among other things, my garden. Oh, I’d left the automatic sprinkler system on, and I’d figured our landscaping people would maintain it, but I hadn’t actually gone out there myself during the past several weeks.

  But on this day I decided to go see it, hoping that my faithful flowers would boost my spirits when I needed it most. As usual, I first walked out into the manicured backyard, which the lawn guys kept to Geoffrey’s high standards of perfection, and then past the pool, which, thanks to the pool man, shone like a polished piece of turquoise. Another one of Geoffrey’s indulgences, since it seemed he was the only one to use the pool much anymore. I continued on around, back to the concealed area I’d been allowed to keep. This “out of sight” area was one of the few spots in our home that Geoffrey didn’t really care about. It was my personal little paradise.

  My sagging spirits began to lift as I heard the birds chirping in the tall trees, and I think I actually began to relax a bit as I followed the curving flagstone path that Jacob had helped me to put down when he was about thirteen and eager to show off his muscles. I breathed in the fresh air, looking forward to the peaceful comfort I would find in the happy faces of my colorful flowers and hearty vegetables and lush green foliage. But when I came around the tall boxwood hedge that sheltered my garden, I was greeted with only weeds and grief.

  Something had obviously gone wrong in my automatic watering system this year, most likely the battery in the timer, I figured, as I surveyed the devastation. As a result, everything—I mean everything—in my sweet little garden was dead. I walked around and around in a daze, just staring at my perennials and annuals, all the vegetables. Even my everbearing strawberries were brown and dry and shriveled almost beyond recognition. It seemed that every single plant had been a victim of the summer heat. All had withered and wilted in the high August temperatures.

  It reminded me of when I was a little girl. We’d had an elderly neighbor named Mrs. Peabody. The tiny, wrinkled woman had always kept a beautiful garden tucked neatly behind her white picket fence. But then she had died suddenly in early June, and with no one to tend or water her yard, it wasn’t long before her garden succumbed as well. I can still remember the feeling of sadness that washed over me as I stood and peered over her fence. The garden of a dead woman.

  And that was what I was looking at once again. Falling to my knees as if shot through the heart, I coiled into an almost fetal position, scooped up the hot dry soil, and clutched it in tight but shaking fists. “This is my life,” I thought. “This is what I deserve.” Dust and death and utter hopelessness.

  I don’t know how long I remained there, sobbing and crying over deceased columbine, daylilies, sweet william… Why, even the hardy lavender and sunflowers had perished. It was all gone. I stayed out there and wept for all that was lost and dead in my life, for all that was still dying. Then I stood and went back into my house, packed a couple of bags, and without even pausing to pet the dog or check on the cat, I left.

  I don’t even remember driving through Stafford that day, but I finally stopped when I saw a tattered sign that said Apartment for Rent. It was located in a run-down area on the other side of town. A weedy grass strip ran alongside the stark stucco apartment complex, but, like my garden, it was brown and dry. By four o’clock I had signed a six-month lease on a two-bedroom apartment and “moved” inside. I didn’t have a bed or a chair or even a glass to get a drink of water. But I didn’t care. Why should a dead woman care? I lay down on the matted, rust-colored carpet and, resting my throbbing head on my overnight bag, slept.

  When I awoke, it was dark, and I felt disoriented but not frightened exactly. Perhaps I was too numb. But I did wonder where I was and why I was there. I fumbled around until I found a light switch, then felt stunned to remember what I had done. My surprise was quickly followed by dismay as I scrutinized my new habitat in the unforgiving light of a flickering fluorescent strip above the stained kitchen sink. There on the chipped Formica-topped counter was the lease I had signed. I looked at my watch to discover that it was nearly nine thirty. I knew Geoffrey would be worried, would probably suspect me of going out after Jacob again.

  I paced back and forth in the limited space of the apartment. I guessed it was about an eighth the size of my previous home. And yet this did not disturb me. In fact, I think I found some comfort in the confinement. Maybe I imagined I had thrown myself into some sort of self-imposed prison. A place where bad mothers went to pay for their crimes. But what was my crime? Caring too much?

  Even so, I did not look forward to the prospect of sleeping on that floor all night. Even prison inmates were offered the amenity of a bed. Besides, my back was already stiff and sore from my exhaustion-induced nap. So, knowing that the local Wal-Mart stayed open until all hours, I decided to set off in search of something to sleep on.

  I felt a bit self-conscious and out of place as I parked my slightly conspicuous Range Rover in the nearly empty parking lot. I knew I must look frightening with my uncombed hair and rumpled clothes, but I felt the chances of running into anyone I knew at this place and at this time of night were quite unlikely. Even so, I remember how I held my head down and quickly passed through the entrance. I had no idea what I was looking for, but I remembered that the camping area was in the back of the store. I recalled taking Jacob there once, a long time ago, to get some items for his first year at summer camp.

  To my surprise, I found everything I needed in that section. A dark blue sleeping bag, a foam mattress pad that rolled up neatly, a folding camp chair, and even a mess kit complete with a collapsible cup for water. I heaped these items into a nearby cart, then made my way back to the checkout.

  “Going camping?” asked a freckle-faced young man behind the counter. He looked to be about the age of my son, and I wondered if perhaps I should know him.

  “No,” I lied. “It’s for my son. He’s going on a campout tomorrow.”

  “Lucky kid,” said the guy as he totaled my purchase. I hande
d him my Visa card, then wondered how long I would have this little luxury of giving someone plastic and getting merchandise in return. And even as he ran the card through his machine, a chill ran down my spine. What if it didn’t work? What if Geoffrey had already figured it out—that I had left him. What if he had canceled all my credit cards? Closed my checking and savings accounts?

  “You okay, ma’am?” asked the kid.

  I nodded. “Just tired,” I told him. “So much to do.”

  “Yeah,” he agreed, handing me my receipt to sign. “There’s a lot of work involved in a campout.”

  I signed the paper and sighed. “That’s the truth.”

  “Tell your son to have fun.”

  I made a pathetic attempt at a smile and assured him I would. Then, with my purchases heaped in the cart, I hurried out into the summer evening. I wondered where my son would be camping tonight. I knew he was probably better prepared than I, but still I worried. What if this final straw with his father was enough to push him right over the edge? What if Jacob used being kicked out of his home as an excuse to do something, well, something foolish? Or at least more foolish than what he’d already been doing? In the past I had prayed for Jacob during times like this, but more and more I felt that my prayers were like stones hurled toward heaven, but then gravity pulled those stones back down and heaped them upon me until I was buried alive in their rubble.

  “Stock up while you can,” I told myself as I drove through the quiet streets. “Once Geoffrey finds out you’ve left him, you will have nothing.” And so I parked in front of the slightly sleazy all-night grocery store called More-4-Less. My cart limped with a jittery front wheel that made so much noise I was certain the whole store could hear me as I piled it high with staples. I couldn’t imagine that I would ever actually cook or eat these things, but I proceeded to load my cart with cans of soup, boxes of pasta, and even several packages of rice pilaf. I suppose I felt the need to be prepared just in case Jacob should show up hungry and desperate. In a survivalist mode, I rattled down aisle after aisle until I was so exhausted it seemed I was walking through a dream, grasping at canned beans as if they were portals back to my old life.

  To my relief, the bored-looking thirty-something woman at the checkout stand hardly glanced at me as she mechanically pushed item after item through the electronic eye, which worked only about half of the time, and the rest of the time she scanned it with a little hand-held thing. But like a zombie, I just stood there and stared at her, wondering how she managed to live like this, working in a smelly grocery store in the middle of the night. Her nametag said Sylvia, but nothing else. Did she, like me, have a crummy little apartment to go home to? Children? A husband? A dog?

  “Did you know that this is self-service?” she asked me with frown creases carved into her pale forehead.

  I blinked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean you have to bag your own stuff.” Sylvia nodded toward the end of the counter.

  With wide eyes I looked at the enormous pile of items and wondered where it had all come from and how it had accumulated into this giant mountain of stuff “Oh,” I muttered, as if this wasn’t such a huge challenge. But the truth was, I wanted to bolt just then. I wanted to turn away from this rude woman, whose drab brown roots needed a serious touch-up to match her brassy blond bleach job, and I wanted to dash out of that run-down grocery store and leap into my car and drive far, far away. This was nothing like the organic gourmet grocery where Geoffrey preferred that we shop.

  “The sacks are down there.” She gave her thumb a downward jerk to point to some holders where piles of brown paper bags were nested.

  I pulled out a bag and struggled to open it, shaking it and snapping it until it finally seemed ready to receive the contents. Then I looked for a place to set the sack, but the counter was full of groceries. Finally I went and got another cart, set the bag in it, and managed to begin filling it with groceries.

  Sylvia called out the total to me, watching, I felt sure, to see if I flinched at the amount. But keeping my cool, I handed her my debit card and returned to the impossible task of bagging my stuff. I had managed to fill, and badly, only two bags before she handed me back my card and a receipt. Then she walked over and stood with her hands on her hips just watching me.

  “Good grief,” she said. “It looks like you’ve never even bagged groceries before.”

  I looked up at her, noticing that her blue eyes looked red and strained, then I shook my head. “You’re right, I haven’t.”

  “Well, look,” she said, reaching for a bag and opening it in one graceful snap. “You gotta put the heavy stuff on the bottom.” She grabbed several cans of soup in one hand, then planted them into the corners of the bag. “See?” Then she reached for some boxes and wedged those in between. And on she went until the bag was not only completely full, but it looked solid enough not to slump over like a tired rag doll, the way mine were doing.

  “Thanks,” I muttered, trying to follow her example.

  “You new in town?” she asked as she helped me bag the rest of my groceries.

  “Not exactly, but I’m moving into a new apartment today,” I confessed. She seemed to study me for a moment. “Divorce?” I shrugged. “I’m not sure yet.” She nodded. “He cheat on you?”

  I must’ve looked startled then. “Well, no. That’s not really—”

  She smiled then. “It’s okay, honey. But just take it from me, it’ll get better.” Then she laughed. “Eventually, anyway. It’ll probably get a whole lot worse first.”

  I thanked her as I filled the last grocery bag, then heaped it on the pile already threatening to spill from the cart. I hoped I wouldn’t find too many broken items once I got home. Home? I thought as I wheeled the cart through the deserted parking lot toward my Range Rover. What a concept. Then moving more slowly and intentionally, as if I were beginning a marathon, I started to pace myself as I loaded, one by one, the bags into the back.

  Driving toward the apartment complex, I peered up and down the mostly vacant streets, hoping I might spy Jacob’s Subaru parked along a side street somewhere. I wondered if he’d be sleeping in the back tonight. Hopefully, he’d remembered to pack his sleeping bag, although it was still pretty warm outside. Or, more likely, he’d crashed at a “friend’s” place. Most likely a friend with the kind of answers that helped Jacob to temporarily forget all his troubles. For the first time in my life, I think I actually longed for some sort of chemical escape myself. Something to take me away and end this pain. Then I remembered a story I’d read in the local newspaper. It was about a mother of teenagers who’d been arrested on drug charges. But it seemed to me she had introduced her children to the crud—not the other way around. I considered stopping for a bottle of wine as I passed by the liquor store but couldn’t bring myself to face another clerk like Sylvia.

  I must’ve been up half the night unloading bag after bag of groceries from the car and carrying them up the flight of stairs. Then I opened all the cupboards, which weren’t many, and searched for places to put all these various and sundry items I had felt so compelled to purchase. Of course, my new kitchen was about half the size of what had been my master bathroom. And naturally, there wasn’t enough space.

  So, like a crazy woman, I paced back and forth, trying to figure out where to put everything. It was like trying to work a giant jigsaw puzzle with too many pieces. Finally I gave up and decided to give the kitchen a thorough scrubdown with the new Super Orange cleaner and package of sponges that I found in the bottom of one of the paper sacks. I felt certain this apartment hadn’t been cleaned in decades, and at least this was something I could do.

  I think it was three in the morning when I finally stopped scrubbing. And then, without giving too much thought to order or organization, I simply stowed everything I could in whatever space I could find and left the remaining items sitting on the counter like orphans.

  Then I sat down in my green canvas camp chair and began creating a lis
t of other things I would need. I wrote this on the back of my grocery receipt, only listing the basic things, like clothes hangers and a laundry basket and maybe a few dishes and a pan or two. After all, I told myself as I got ready for bed and realized I had no towels or washcloths or even a shower curtain, I didn’t really deserve anything more than the basics. Of course, I might do this thing differently if Jacob ever came to live here with me. I would at least want to have another chair or two. And maybe a coffee maker.

  I finally unfurled my foam pad and navy blue sleeping bag and, wearing my T-shirt and old jogging shorts for pajamas, crawled into this makeshift bed and realized that I’d forgotten to get a pillow. I wondered if inmates were afforded the luxury of a pillow, and if so, it would probably not be one of goose down or even feathers. But perhaps tomorrow I could sneak back into my house—rather, Geoffrey’s house—and retrieve my favorite pillow. There were just some things a person shouldn’t have to do without.

  I awoke to the sounds of loud voices and footsteps stomping overhead. It took me a moment to remember where I was as I crawled out of the twisted sleeping bag and rubbed my very stiff neck. My watch said it was six thirty, but I wasn’t sure whether it was morning or night until I looked out the window and decided it must be morning. I shuffled into the kitchen and looked around. The plywood cabinets and plastic counter-top looked bleaker than ever in the morning light. Among the leftover grocery items still sitting on the counter was a bag of coffee beans, Morning Blend. But, of course, I realized now that I had no grinder. Not only that, I had no coffee maker. I sat down in my camp chair with the bag of beans in my hands and began to cry. What had I done to deserve this?

  Finally the tears subsided, and it suddenly occurred to me that I might be losing my mind. What if right now Geoffrey and Jacob were sitting at the breakfast table, enjoying a fresh brewed cup of coffee and discussing college plans for Jacob? What if Jacob had returned home last night, sorry for all he’d put us through, and what if he’d apologized to his father, and they had hugged each other and cried and said,“Let’s start over again.” What if? What if I was sitting here like a crazy woman, torturing myself for no good reason, and meanwhile all was well at home? Or even worse, what if all was well at home except for the fact that no one knew where I’d disappeared to, and what if I was now the source of stress in our lives. I dashed to my little bedroom and began haphazardly pulling on my clothes. Then I ran down to my car and quickly drove across town to apologize to my husband and son, to plead a sort of temporary insanity.