Diane Chamberlain - The Lies We Told

Every family has a story, told and retold so many times it seems firm and irrefutable. Etched in granite. Here are the bare bones of my familys story:

My parents were murdered by a masked stranger, who shot them in our driveway.

My sister, Rebecca, is beautiful, wild, coolheaded and fiercely independent. She needs no one to make her happy. She does, however, need danger.

I am sensitive, quiet, brilliant and fearful, in many ways my sisters opposite. I need safety, protection and a man who loves me.

More often than not, family stories turn out to be etched in sand rather than granite. Even the parts we think are trueeven the parts about ourselvescrumble under scrutiny. These are the lies we tell everyone who knows us. These are the lies we tell ourselves.

Maya

I KNEW THE EXACT MOMENT D ADDY TURNED FROM THE street into the driveway of our house in Annandale, Virginia, even though I was curled up on the backseat of the car with my eyes closed. I was very nearly asleep, a half-fugue state that I wanted to stay in forever to help me forget what Id done. The rain spiking against the roof of the car was loud, but I still heard the crunch of gravel and felt the familiar rise and fall as the car traveled over the portion of the driveway that covered the drainpipe. We were home. I would have to open my eyes, unfurl my aching fourteen-year-old body and go into the house, pretending nothing was wrong while the truth was, my world had caved in on me. Or so I thought. I had no idea that I was mere seconds away from the true collapse of my world. The moment that would change everything.

Daddy suddenly slammed on the brakes. What the

I sat up, wincing from a sudden bolt of pain in my gut. In the glow of the headlights, I saw my mother running toward the car, her arms flailing in the air. I couldnt remember ever seeing my mother run before. Id never seen her look wild like this, her wet, dark hair flattened to her head, her dress clinging to her thighs.

My breath caught in my throat and I let out a soft moan. She knows, I thought. She knows where weve been.

My mother yanked the passenger door open and I braced myself for what she would say. She jumped into the car. Drive! she screamed, pulling the door shut. In reverse! Hurry! I could smell the rain on her. I could smell fear .

Why? Daddy stared at her, his profile a perfect silhouettethe wire-rimmed glasses, the slightly Romanesque nosethat would remain in my memory forever.

Hurry! my mother said.

Why are you

Just go! Oh my God! There he is! My mother pointed ahead of us, and the headlights picked up the figure of a man walking toward our car.

Whos that? Daddy leaned forward to peer into the half-light. Does he have on ais that a ski mask?

Dan! My mother reached for the gearshift. Go!

I was wide awake now, fear flooding my body even before the headlights illuminated the mans ice-blue eyes. Even before I saw him raise his arm. Even before I saw the gun. Instinctively, I ducked behind the drivers seat, arms wrapped over my head, but no matter how loudly I screamed, I couldnt block out the crack of gunfire. Over and over it came. Later, they said he only had five bullets in the gun, but I could have sworn he had five hundred.

My sharpest memories of that day will always be the blast of that gun, the ice-blue eyes, the silhouette of my fathers face, the skirt of my mothers dress sticking to her thighs.

And my sister.

Above all, my sister.

I HAD PASSED THE ENORMOUS LOW-SLUNG BUILDING ON C APITAL Boulevard innumerable times but had never gone inside. Today, though, I felt free and whimsical and impulsive. All the moms in my neighborhood had told me there were great bargains inside the old warehouse. I needed no bargains. Adam and I could afford whatever we wanted. With the income of two physiciansa pediatric orthopedist and an anesthesiologistmoney had never been our problem. It wasnt until I stepped inside the building, the scent of lemon oil enveloping me, that I realized why I was there. I remembered Katie Winston, one of the women in my North Raleigh neighborhood book club, talking about the beautiful nursery furniture shed found inside. Katie had been pregnant with her first child at the time. Now she was expecting her third. Ill finally fit in, I thought, as I walked into the buildings foyer, where the concrete floor was layered with old Oriental rugs and the walls were faux painted in poppy and gold.

Every single one of the fifteen women in my book club had children except for me. They were always warm and welcoming, but I felt left out as their conversations turned to colic and day care and the pros and cons of Raleighs year-round school program. They thought I didnt care. Being a doctor set me apart from most of them to begin with, and I was sure they believed Id chosen career over motherhood. Every one of them was a stay-at-home mom. Most had had short careers before getting pregnant, and a couple still did some work from home, but I knew they saw me outside their circle. They had no idea how much I longed to be one of them. I kept those feelings to myself. Now, though, I was ready to let them out. Id tell my neighbors at our next meeting. I hoped I could get the words out without crying.

Today marked sixteen weeks. I rested my hand on the slope of my belly as I walked down the aisle on the far left of the building, past cubicles filled with beautiful old furniture or handcrafted items. I was safe. We were safe. Most people waited until the first trimester had passed to tell people the news, but Adam and I had learned that even reaching the twelve-week mark wasnt enough. Id made it to twelve weeks and two days the last time. Wed wait four months this time, wed decided. Sixteen weeks. We wouldnt tell anyone before thenexcept Rebecca, of courseand we wouldnt start fixing up the nursery until wed passed that sixteen-week milestone.

Smiling to myself, I strolled calmly through the building as though I was looking for nothing in particular. Some of the cubicles were filled with a hodgepodge of goods, crammed so tightly together I couldnt have walked inside if Id wanted to. Others were a study in minimalism: shelves set up just so, each displaying a single item. Some of the cubicles had shingles in the entryway to give the appearance of a shop on a quaint street corner instead of a small square cubby in a warehouse. Rustlers Cove. Angies Odds n Ends. North Carolina Needlepoint. There were few other shoppers, though, and absolutely no one who appeared to be guarding the merchandise. If you wanted to slip a knickknack into your pocket, there was no one to see. No one to stop you. That sort of trust in human nature filled me with sudden joy, and I knew my hormones were acting up in a way that made me giddy.

I ran my fingertips over a smooth polished tabletop in one cubicle, then fingered the edge of a quilt in the next. I passed one tiny cubby that contained only a table with a coffeepot, a plate of wrapped blueberry muffins, a small sign that read Coffee: Free, Muffins: $1.50 each and a basket containing six dollar bills. I couldnt resist. I took two of the muffins for tomorrows breakfast and slipped a five-dollar bill into the basket. I walked on, the irrational joy mounting inside me. People could be trusted to pay for their muffins. What a wonderful world!