The liars child, p.3
The Liar's Child, page 3
Now, she looked Sara up and down. “You’re what, a small? I’ll get you a uniform. You can change in the back.”
The closest Sara had ever come to wearing a uniform had been those nine months in juvenile detention. When she came out of the small room in a green polyester polo shirt and tan shorts, Terri stood by the door, holding her car keys. “Normally, I stay here to handle the calls and issues that come up, but I always train the new girls. It’s not brain surgery, but there’s a way I like things done.”
Sara understood. She was the same way. She liked Terri—a woman who sized up a situation and acted. In another life, Sara could have used her. Well, there would be other Terris along the way. There always were.
Terri accelerated her white minivan through intersections and roared around corners, pinning Sara against the seat and setting the strand of purple beads clacking from the rearview mirror. The usual routine, she explained, reaching for a cigarette, was one or two houses in the morning. Ditto for the afternoon. Depending on how bad they were, Sara might or might not get a lunch break. The only thing Sara had to keep in mind was to make sure she was out before the renters showed up. If she did a good job, she could move up from rentals to the occupied houses, which paid more. Sara kept her gaze trained on the undulating sand dunes. She didn’t want to appear eager. Better to have people want to talk you into something than to be in the weak position of asking.
They pulled up to a three-story house standing on stilts. Pampas grass, a thick wall of bamboo. A fence curved around a shimmering pool. Terri unlocked the trunk and lifted out a vacuum cleaner. “Grab those buckets, will you?” Mops, she said, would be inside the house somewhere.
They hauled everything up the wooden stairs to the front door. A floral wreath hung there. Plaster cherubs held up a wooden sign: WELCOME HOME. Terri pulled a key from her pocket. “Sometimes the renters are still clearing out. You’ll see them running around, throwing things into their cars. Try not to get in their way. Park on the street, wait for them to pull out. If it looks like they’re going to be a while, let me know. I might need you to move on to the next house.”
The house was a sprawling expanse of aqua walls and gleaming marble floors. Everything was glass and white wicker and stainless steel. Outside the picture windows, the ocean glared. Sara had never been in such a beautiful home. She ran her hand along the smooth leather couch facing the view. There were lavish bouquets of silk flowers everywhere. One of Sara’s foster moms had shaken paper flowers in plastic bags filled with rice to clean them, spending hours jabbing them into vases.
“We start at the top, work our way down. You do bathrooms. I’ll do bedrooms. Shower, tub, sinks, mirrors, toilets, in that order. Wash the floors last. People are supposed to take everything with them when they leave, but they don’t always. Make sure to check for used soap, shampoo, stuff like that. It all has to go.”
They headed up the carpeted stairs, and Terri disappeared into a bedroom. Sara sprinkled cleanser into the shower, worked the sponge around the steel drain. The rough tiles cut into her fingertips. She turned on the water and watched the powdered grit swirl away. She held up the bottle of glass cleaner, tried to remember which two cleaning ingredients emitted fatal fumes when used together. Ammonia and something. Bleach? God. She didn’t want to die scraping off someone else’s toothpaste dribbles.
“You know you’re supposed to wear gloves, right?” Terri stood behind her. She handed Sara a pair of purple latex gloves, shook out a plastic trash bag. Sara wiped her palms on her jeans and tugged on the gloves. Terri opened the medicine cabinet, the cabinets, held up a black hair elastic webbed with hair. “See? This is the kind of stuff you need to make sure you catch. Renters don’t want to know other people have been here before them.” She dropped the elastic into the plastic bag.
Sure. Marks were like that, too. They all wanted to think they were special. It was what made them vulnerable.
In the kitchen, Terri checked inside the refrigerator. “It’s empty, but it’s not always. I don’t know what people are thinking. Do they really believe the next family wants their opened cartons of cream and frost-bitten chicken patties?” She rattled out a plastic drawer and carried it over to the sink. “I have a strict policy about throwing out whatever leftover food you find, even if it’s unopened. I can’t run the risk it’ll make you sick, or that the renters will come back and claim it. You’d be surprised. Other companies might let you keep it, but that’s not how I operate.”
There was no shame in taking food other people didn’t want. No shame in eating it, either.
They stopped for lunch at a food truck parked in an empty lot. The cook greeted Terri, asked her how it was going. Sara studied the list of items scrawled on the black chalkboard in different colored paints. Terri poked a straw through the lid of her plastic cup. “Try the fish tacos.”
They sat at a picnic table beneath the spreading arms of a pink crepe myrtle, its creamy trunk stripped clean of bark. Sara tried not to study the tattoos writhing around Terri’s arm. She never could figure out if people liked strangers staring or if they took affront. She herself would never adorn her body with something memorable or permanent. She lifted her taco and took a bite, drank some sweetened tea. Terri lit a cigarette. “So, what brought you to the Outer Banks?”
Sara was prepared. Keep it simple. Keep it vague. “I just needed a change.”
“Yeah? Where you from?”
“Small town out west. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“I know all about small towns.” Terri flicked ash. “Where you staying?”
“The Paradise.”
“Huh. Sounds familiar. Didn’t something just happen there?”
Sara shrugged.
“Yeah. Something. It’s been all over the news. Oh, well. I’ll think of it.”
They drove to a complex of stucco townhouses surrounded by grass so emerald green it looked fake. Terri carried the vacuum cleaner and Sara grabbed the buckets of cleaning products. “You have to be careful letting yourself into the condo units,” Terri warned. “You can’t always tell if the renters have left by checking to see if there are cars outside. I once walked in on a couple still in bed.” She ripped open a box of dustcloths.
Sara forced a smile. She snapped on a pair of latex gloves and lifted the lid to the commode. There in the water floated a wrinkled condom.
What kind of animal tossed condoms into the toilet? Sara pictured the guy, naked and smug, peeling off the latex and dropping it into the water, not giving a damn whether or not it plugged the pipes. Lucky Sara, getting to clean up after him. Well, it was either this, or prison.
She picked up the toilet brush.
* * *
—
She stopped at the liquor store on the way back to the Paradise. Second time she’d been to the place, and the same taciturn man rang her up. He didn’t seem to recognize her, but she’d have to think about rotating her purchases. She was keeping an eye on herself, too. Just half a bottle a night, two thirds, tops. The minute she reached a full bottle, she’d cut back.
She collected her groceries from the trunk and locked the car behind her. A seagull spun in greedy loops in the clear blue sky. She crossed the courtyard and started climbing stairs. Music with an urgent, angry beat was playing nearby. Someone was grilling. A man slowed as he came down the stairs, muscular arms and chest. Sara ignored the smile he gave her. She was thinking about dinner. Mint chip or Cherry Garcia? Fresh and crunchy, or sweet and rich? Both, maybe. Definitely.
On the landing, however, she stopped. A woman stood outside Sara’s door, fist raised to knock. Twenty-something, jeans, yellow blouse, wavy brown hair. She clutched a clipboard. A lumpy canvas bag sagged by her feet. Her posture—relaxed but with a hint of authority—set off warning bells.
Not a Fed. Way too casually dressed. Maybe she was selling something, taking a poll. “Can I help you?” Sara asked.
The woman gasped, then turned. Her eyes were bright behind colorful striped glasses. “Oh, you surprised me! I hope so. Is this your apartment?”
A lanyard swung from around her neck. The moment Sara saw that, she got it. She knew this woman. Not by name, of course. The woman was a stranger, but Sara knew her just the same. “That’s right.”
“Oh, good. I’m glad I caught you. I’m Robin McIntyre. I’m a social worker with Child Protective Services.” Robin smiled, held out the business card she’d been gripping. “I’m working with the family next door. Would you have a few minutes to chat?”
Working with. What a joke. Sara took the card, didn’t look at it. “I wish I could help you.” A flat-out lie. “But I don’t know them. I just moved in a few days ago.”
“I see.” Robin’s smile didn’t falter. “Well, maybe you’ve noticed them, coming and going?”
“No, not really.”
Robin hesitated. She was waiting for Sara to express a natural curiosity about what was going on. Sara would ask if everything was okay, and Robin would explain how it wasn’t. Sara would show concern. Rapport would be established. When Robin returned—and she would, because once social workers had hold of you, they never let go—Sara would be glad to see her. She would have started paying attention to the family next door. She might have something new to tell Robin.
Sara shifted the bag to her other arm. She was tempted to mess with Robin, ask a bunch of long, twisty questions that led nowhere and took up Robin’s entire evening. Robin wouldn’t be so quick to knock on Sara’s door again, would she? She’d learn she wasn’t calling the shots. But Sara’s feet ached and her ice cream was melting. “I have to put away my groceries…”
“Yes, of course. But you’ll call if you think of anything?”
“Sure.”
Sara went into her apartment, kicking the door shut behind her, and set her groceries on the counter. She’d been truthful when she told Robin she didn’t know her neighbors. But people couldn’t help but be aware of their neighbors when they lived side by side with tissue paper for walls. She had heard the shouts and slammed doors, the raised voices. Goddammit, why do you always…She’d glimpsed the wife on the balcony painting her long nails while the husband stood over her. I thought you were coming straight home, she said, holding up a hand and critically examining it.
Something came up.
You always say that. Everything’s always more important than me. Or should I say, everyone? She scraped back her chair and stood abruptly. A pretty blonde with smooth, tanned skin. She grabbed the bottle of nail polish and pushed past her husband. He watched her go, face rigid with anger.
A marriage made in heaven, Sara had thought.
She walked over to the trash can, pressed the lever with her foot, and dropped Robin’s business card on top of that morning’s damp coffee grounds, the empty bag of chips, the pale slices of cantaloupe rind. And then she remembered: Robin with her head cocked as she studied Sara—she’d recognized Sara for what she was, too.
CHAPTER 5
Whit
HIS MOTHER CALLED twice before he and Diane left the apartment. Should she clean inside the oven or just wipe it out; should she ask his father to shave even though it was his day off; should she make a casserole or were sandwiches okay? She worried that they, too, were being judged. It didn’t matter how much he reassured her. When she swung open the front door, he saw she’d taken effort with her own appearance. Her pale eyelashes were spiky with mascara. “Well, hey, you two! Come on in.”
Diane gripped coloring books against her chest, a rainbow assortment of markers. My mom has all that stuff, Whit had reminded her, but Diane had ignored him, agonizing over what to bring. “Boon? Cassie?”
The social worker sat alone on the couch, sweaty glasses of iced tea on the coffee table in front of her.
Diane whirled to face his mother. “Where are they?” Her voice was shrill with panic.
“Bert took them down to the creek.”
“What? But you knew we were on our way!”
“I know, but it’s such a nice day…”
“Three hours. That’s all I get. Three lousy hours, and they’re at the creek? I can’t believe you!”
The social worker was sitting right there, watching everything. “Honey.” Whit put a hand on Diane’s arm. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is a big deal! You know it is. You can see them whenever you want, but I have to wait until it’s convenient.”
This last word was aimed at the social worker. Robin. Diane had to wait for Robin’s schedule to accommodate a visit. Whit was allowed to visit anytime. He’d go every day after work, which made for long days. Diane would pepper him with questions: Had the kids asked after her? Had they talked about what happened? Had Whit explained it had been a mistake? Nothing he said calmed her, no amount of detail was enough. It had almost gotten to the point where he didn’t even want to tell Diane he’d been to see the kids.
Robin rose from the couch, serene and smiling. In her job, she probably was used to hostility. He hoped she would see it for what it was and not hold it against them. She was younger than he’d expected someone in her position to be, late twenties, and she always seemed weighed down with folders and satchels that she shifted from shoulder to shoulder, from arm to arm. A barrier, he thought, defining her space and keeping them on the other side of it. “Hi, Diane. Whit.”
“Hey. Thanks for meeting us here.” He came forward, hand extended.
“Of course.”
Robin had told him she spent a lot of time on the road, that she had thirty or so families under her care. He had listened politely, but the whole time he’d been thinking about how he needed her to take his family off her list.
“They don’t even know, do they?” Diane fired this at his mother, still fixated on Boon and Cassie. “You didn’t even tell them. They’d never have gone to the creek if they had any idea I was on my way.”
Whit hated the helpless expression on his mother’s face. She was bone-tired. They all were, but Diane couldn’t see that. “You and I can go find them if you want. Right, Robin?”
“Sure,” she agreed, but she followed closely behind as Diane went through the kitchen and smacked open the screen door. He caught the door just as it came flying back, held it open for the social worker.
The wooded lot was studded with new things: a turtle-shaped sandbox, a tire swing dangling from a tree branch, what looked like the framing of a playhouse. His father was in construction. Maybe he was letting the kids help out, the way he’d taught Whit when he was a kid. His parents had been thrilled to find such a large piece of land when they moved here soon after Cassie was born. No doubt, they’d pictured Hallmark summers with their grandchildren, hiking through the forest, crabbing. Sitting around the campfire and telling ghost stories. They were getting their dream, just not in the way any of them had figured.
Someone was crashing through the brush, twigs snapping, his father’s sarcastic voice saying, “Next time, huh?” They pushed through the trees, Boon and Cassie, his father right behind them.
Diane went running.
By the time Whit and Robin got to her, she’d scooped Boon into her arms and was reaching frantically for Cassie. “My babies! Did you miss me?”
Cassie went limp.
“I don’t even get a little hug, not even a teeny smile for your mother? After I came all this way to see you?”
Whit tried to see his wife through their eyes, to see what they saw. Look at the way Boon was pressing against her. Surely that made up for the fact that he refused to get into the car now unless the windows were open. Did Robin know Boon insisted on sleeping on his closet floor? Or that Cassie had broken into her grandparents’ liquor cabinet and lied about it? Nothing had been taken, Whit’s mother assured him, but she was upset—and for good reason. Cassie had always seen a lock as a challenge. We’re raising a burglar, he’d joked with Dee after Cassie got into the medicine cabinet and spilled Dee’s pills everywhere. But that had been when she was younger. It wasn’t so funny now.
I want to go home, Cassie had screeched when he tried to explain that it was this or staying in a stranger’s house. What kind of thing was that to have to tell your kid? Had he made the wrong choice, farming out his children to his folks? What child didn’t want to spend a few days with Grandma and Grandpa being spoiled out of her mind? Cassie was lucky to have two willing and able grandparents. It wasn’t like Diane’s mother was any sort of an option. Helen could barely remember what day it was, let alone that she had two grandkids.
But Cassie was miserable about missing the last days of seventh grade. She hated how Grandma made okra. She claimed Grandpa was a pervert because he smacked her on the behind. Whit studied Cassie, standing stiff and unhappy, her arms folded, scowling at her mother. His daughter was so angry these days. She and Dee fought constantly. Dee didn’t like how Cassie chewed her fingernails. She didn’t like Cassie’s tone. Dee snooped, Cassie insisted, tried to control her every move. Small skirmishes quickly escalated into full-out shrieking matches. You’re the adult, Whit would tell his wife after Cassie had run to her room and slammed the door. Exactly, his wife would snap.
He tried to see Diane through the social worker’s eyes. She’d gotten too thin. Too agitated. That first night, she’d gone on a wild cleaning frenzy, washing the windows and scrubbing the floor with a toothbrush; just as abruptly, she’d stormed out of the room to lie curled in their darkened bedroom. She hadn’t eaten for days, then last night he’d heard her well past midnight, rustling packages and clattering dishes. That morning, wrappers and empty containers were jammed into the trash bin, crumbs scattered across the counter. All week, he’d come home from work to find her sitting in the same place she’d been when he’d left ten hours before, still in her bathrobe, her hair a rat’s nest. You can’t let the social worker see you like this, he’d warned her, and she’d raised red-rimmed eyes to his, but wouldn’t answer.
