Page 16 of The Lies I Told
Folding my arms over my chest, I walked to the black-and-white images on the wall. I stared, remembering the exact days and times I’d snapped each. With each shot I’d been chasing the light, hoping the next picture would whisper a secret the river held. It knew who had killed Clare. But it wasn’t talking.
6
BRIT
Saturday, March 12, 2022
8:00 a.m.
I punched in the security code to Marisa’s apartment building and walked to the elevator. Initially, while Marisa had been in surgery to relieve the pressure on her brain, I’d thought caring for her could be endless, so I’d had her keys copied and gotten the security code from the building manager. Braced for the worst, I had been ready to step up.
Turned out my sister was far more resilient than the doctors had initially thought, and she’d awoken. The only residual effects of the accident had been a mild form of amnesia, shorter hair, and wrecked taste buds. Marisa couldn’t remember the ten days leading up to the accident, the crash, or why drugs had been found in her system. I decided to back off, considering how bad it could’ve been.
I’d searched every inch of Marisa’s apartment after I talked to the surgeon and learned the paramedics suspected drug use. I’d been so pissed but not really surprised to hear about the drugs. All these days, weeks, and months of Marisa claiming to be sober had been a lie.
I had found not a drop of booze or any kind of drug. That didn’t mean Marisa wasn’t guilty. It just meant I’d not found the evidence. She was very intelligent, and addicts can be sneaky.
I stepped off the elevator, drawing in a breath and shoving aside the anger. It didn’t do anyone, especially me, any good to dwell on the negative.Positive thoughts, Brit. Positive thoughts.
As I fumbled with my keys, I glanced to the other apartment on this floor and saw an assortment of moving boxes stacked outside. Marisa had a new neighbor. Good. At least she wasn’t up here all alone. Why didn’t she tell me ...?
Positive thoughts, Brit.
I shoved the key in the lock and opened the door. After flipping on a light, I moved to the kitchen. I dug two cleanish mugs from the cabinet and rinsed each out. Marisa could sleep through anything but freshly brewed coffee. When I heard feet hit the ground in the back bedroom, I smiled, rewashed a couple of plates, and set them beside a bag of bagels.
Reaching for the birthday bag, I pulled out the presents. I set out the Leica, the camera strap, and the bag filled with disposable cameras. All thoughtful gifts. I walked to a shelf near the window and set the Leica next to a dozen other cameras she’d collected. As I turned, I spotted a small red point-and-shoot camera. Daddy had given the camera to Marisa and a pink one to Clare when they turned sixteen. Marisa had all but worn hers out, but Clare had been more selective with her digital pictures, shooting only when her subject wasn’t looking. Annoying but cute.
I folded up the bag and tossed the wrapping before I poured myself a cup, which I was sipping when Marisa appeared dressed in an oversize T-shirt that skimmed her knees. She was gripping her phone in one hand and a metal flashlight in the other.
“Good morning,” I said.
“I thought I had a break-in.”
“You know I have a key.”
“I’d forgotten.”
I filled another cup. “How’s your memory?”
“Good except for the missing chunk.” She set her phone and flashlight on the counter, took a sip, then grabbed milk from the refrigerator. She splashed enough in her mug to lighten it two shades.
“Have you seen the neurologist lately? I remember a follow-up appointment Wednesday.”
Marisa raised her gaze. Sipped coffee. “I rescheduled it for Thursday morning. Too much work for the first of the week, and I like morning appointments better.”
“You rescheduled? You can’t do that. This is your brain we’re talking about.”
“It’s one extra day, the last scan was clear, and this visit wasn’t critical. The doctor said as much at my last appointment. So you can stop.”
Drawing in a breath. “Stop what?”
Marisa grinned. “Mothering.”
The smile caught me off guard, not because Marisa smiled so little (which was true) but because I remembered Clare, the bright, happy twin. When they were born, our mother placed both babies in my three-year-old lap. Clare had cooed, whereas Marisa had cried. Marisa had never been one to cuddle or play, but she was serious and introspective. When the twins had been small, Clare had done all the talking, and Marisa had been content to let her younger twin communicate for them both.
And when that detective had told us they’d found Clare’s body after four days of searching, my father and I had turned to Marisa. Without makeup or her typical goth attire, she looked so much like Clare, and for an instant I thought the cops had made a mistake. Then Marisa spoke, her raspy voice shattering the illusion. She saw the disappointment mirrored on Daddy’s and my faces. We’d both tried to cover, but Marisa had read our expressions.
It wasn’t Marisa’s fault that Clare was more vibrant, playful, and compliant. She always brightened up a room with her smile, and she always let the doctor examine her when she was sick, and she’d always taken her medicine. Marisa had fought Mommy and later me every step of the way on everything. M was who she was, and that had never been quite enough for me.
