If I Lie (17 page)

Then I leave, taking my ice bucket with me, while he reaches for the place where I used to be.

Chapter Nineteen

George looks frail today. More so than usual.

Today’s lesson—how to shoot a textured photo in dim light—creates deep valleys of frown lines on his forehead and neck. His room sits in shadows with the blinds cracked on one window so we can control the sunlight dancing on his food tray. He shifts from his wheelchair to the hard-backed chair at the table. I have to force myself not to help him when he groans in pain. My hands want to ready themselves to support him. My body tenses to catch him if he falls. The fact that he gets there on his own doesn’t make it any less painful to watch.

George settles himself.

“You can relax now,” he says with sarcasm. “I’m not going to keel over on you.”

I load my sigh with drama and roll my eyes. “Don’t give me a hard time, old man. I’m younger and meaner than you are.”
I give up pretending not to care and grab a blanket off his bed. Crouching on my heels so I’m not standing over him, I toss the throw over his leg and glare up at him, daring him to say something.

So, of course, because he’s George, he says something. “Your mama.”

It takes a second to process. I pause, smoothing the blanket over his foot. Then I start laughing, really more of a snicker that turns into a chuckle, when he glowers at me from under furry eyebrows. I laugh harder, clutching my stomach, and he gives me a light shove that lands me on my backside on the tiled floor.

“Did you just bust out with ‘Your mama’ to insult me?” I mimic the proper way he said it, and he throws a napkin from his food tray at me. He tries to hide his smirk, and I squeeze his foot, giving him a pleading look. “Please, George. Please promise me you won’t ever say that again. You’re just not cool enough to carry it off.”

My book bag sits on the floor nearby, and I remember the surprise I brought with me. “I have something for you.”

“If it’s a cheeseburger, medium-rare with grilled onions, I’ll love you forever.”

I shake my head. “You’re not tricking me again. Nurse Espinoza yelled at me the last time.”

He grins shamelessly. “Yeah, that was the best part.”

I stick my tongue out at him and give him the package. George loves presents, no matter how small or lame they are.
I could bring him a bottle cap and he’d love it. He’s like an overgrown kid ripping the small box open with more enthusiasm than care. He pulls the tissue paper aside and pauses, his hand hovering over the gift. It only measures about seven inches by two inches. The frame is a silly one I made from heavy cardboard I’d found at the craft store and painted with red, white, and blue stripes. An old cut-up army-green canvas bag of my dad’s serves as the matte for the rubbing I did of Charlie Deacon’s name.

I thought George would smile and chuck me under the chin with thanks, but he doesn’t. Instead, he traces the diamond after Charlie’s name. He knows what that symbol means. His entire body wilts with an old, remembered sadness. Then tears begin a silent slide down his cheeks.

I’ve never seen George cry.

George camouflages his vulnerability in irritability. If I try to help him too much, he snarls at me. Leave him alone, and I’ll feel like a crappy friend for deserting him. What to do? Stay or go? I think about the times I’ve cried, and the way he’d awkwardly patted my hand.

I pull a chair beside him and wait.

He studies the rubbing for a long time.

“Charlie,” he says finally, his voice ragged. “Man, I hated Charlie Deacon.”

He sees how shocked I am and laughs. “You should’ve seen this guy. Six-foot-four, red-headed, and the biggest redneck I’ve
ever met. He picked fights with the wind if it turned the wrong direction.”

George sinks back against his chair to gaze at the ceiling’s acoustic tiles.

When George doesn’t continue, I say, “I thought he was your friend.”

He’s quick to answer. “Hell no. I hated that big bastard. His temper got me and the guys into more brawls . . . One time,” he says, his tone a weird cross between anger and amusement, “one time he bet this jarhead he could stitch up a knife wound faster than a medic. Damned if he didn’t slice his own leg open and sew it closed without anesthesia to win that bet.”

George snorts and adds, “I thought I’d be lucky to make it out of ’Nam alive with Charlie at my back.” He absently rubs his leg.

A crash cart rolls by, and we watch in silence as a white coat rushes behind it. Urgent voices blaze down the hall. Funny enough, I don’t know many of the patients on George’s floor. We spend most of our time outside or in common areas. I think George considers the floor a cancer, an outgrowth of the one inside him. He hates to be reminded of death.

“So what happened?” I ask.

He sets the gift box on the table. “Well, now, we were stationed at this airfield at Cu Chi. Not bad as far as base camps go. But this one night, the enemy sneaks on base. Before we can even think about getting to our weapons, they’re firing RPGs
and bullets are spitting at everything that moves. One guy’s on his way to take a shower when he’s killed.”

George continues, “Me and Charlie, we huddled down behind sandbags in front of our hootch with our forty-fives. Later on we found out they were out to destroy our Chinooks—helicopters—and they got nine of them. Along with fourteen men.”

I’ve heard others at the VA talk about their war experiences, but George hasn’t said much. He mostly listens and asks questions. Sometimes he offers comfort. I try to picture him as a young man, scared of dying. He couldn’t have been much older than Carey when he fought.

“Anyway,” he says. “I get this bright idea to run toward the helos, thinking maybe I can take a couple of these guys out. I was such a dumb-ass wanting to be a hero, and I knew some of my buddies were out there. Damned if I didn’t run into a sapper the first corner I rounded. He had me dead to rights, and I thought, ‘This is it. I can kiss my ass good-bye.’ The gun went off, and guess who showed up in the nick of time?”

He gestures toward the frame. “Charlie Deacon took a round to the head saving my life.”

What makes one person do that for another? How do you decide to sacrifice your life for someone who doesn’t even like you? It makes no sense.

“Maybe he thought you were a friend,” I suggest.

“Hell no,” George says with another laugh. “Charlie hated me as much as I hated him.”

He stares, the unseeing kind of stare that looks inward.

“Why would he do that?”

A half-smile forms on his face and he shrugs. “That’s war, kid. You can hate the guy next to you, but he’s always got your back.”

The look on George’s face is too intense, too private, and I look away. Charlie, a red-headed redneck, died a hero. The reason? Soldiers die for their brothers. Carey would do the same for the men in his battalion. I know he would. The boy who let a drunk pound him into a diner’s floor to save a girl grew into a man who would risk everything to help others.

But where do I rate? Somewhere between Carey’s brothers and the gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe. Isn’t he letting me take the bullet for him? How could he sacrifice me like that? I’m not sure why I’m surprised. I know better. My own father chose country and brotherhood over our family.

“What’s on your mind?” George says.

Anger overrides my instinct to keep my mouth shut. “Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot.”

“What the hell is with this brotherhood bullshit? You and Charlie hated each other, but he died protecting you. And Carey . . .” I stop. I swallow my words before I say too much.

“What did Carey do to you?”

It’s the first time he’s asked me what happened, point-blank. It’s the first time someone suspects Carey is behind what’s wrong with me. I keep quiet, though it kills me.

“So stubborn, Sophie. You keep holding all that anger in and it’ll eat you up.” He sighs. “Help me up, would you? My hip hurts sitting in this damn chair.”

We work together to maneuver him from the chair to the bed. I help him settle in, tucking the blanket around him and fixing his pillows. For once, he doesn’t give me a hard time for helping him. We watch TV, neither of us laughing at the funny parts of the
Family Guy
rerun.

A commercial comes on and I say, “What if you’d been gay?” I study the advertisement for a dishwashing soap like my life depends on it, feeling George’s gaze as a physical weight. “Do you think Charlie would’ve taken that bullet for you then?”

The silence goes on for so long I don’t think he’s going to answer. Finally he says, “I honestly don’t know. Charlie hated anyone who was different. Not a lot of folks let on back then. I do know this: Some guys would’ve taken me out to the paddies and beat me until I wished I was dead rather than sleep two feet from me.”

George never bullshits me. He doesn’t give me the answer I want—that Charlie would have taken that bullet come hell or high water. He doesn’t lie, either. Times haven’t changed all that much. Proof of that was all over Carey’s battered body the night he convinced me to lie for him.

George confirms what I’m thinking. “You know, even today I’d think twice before coming out. Aside from the honorable
discharge, all you’d get for your honesty is some homophobic macho asshole wiping the latrine with you.”

The show comes back on, and we watch Stewie and Brian argue.

When you think about it, the military isn’t so different from screwed-up families everywhere. Sacrifice everything, including your life, and it still isn’t enough. At the end of the day, you have to lie about who you are if you want to survive.
Be all you can be. Aim high. The few, the proud. Don’t ask, don’t tell.
What crap.

“Some brotherhood,” I say.

The bed squeaks, and I hear George sigh. “Nobody’s perfect,” he says, his voice weighted with sadness. “We’re all just doing the best we can.”

I know that. I do. But lately, it doesn’t seem like it’s enough.

Chapter Twenty

Blake and I don’t suddenly become friends again. Whatever happened between us at the pool, we leave it behind in DC. I can’t tell the truth and he has his own promise to keep. The day after we get home I pass Carey’s mother in the hall, and I can’t even blame Blake for choosing her over me. She’s hollow, her stare blank, as if her insides have been scraped out, leaving only seeds of sorrow and dread behind. The longer Carey’s MIA, the less likely it is that he will return. Mrs. Breen breathes this reality every single minute, and it looks like it’s killing her.

On the brighter side, when I turn in the senior trip photos, Mr. Horowitz beams and announces to the Yearbook staff, “People, Quinn has saved us! Finally, some photos we can use!”

Jamie’s face turns a shade of soured milk, and I want to pump my fist in victory. Not my finest moment, but she did
humiliate me with that key thing and get me locked out of my hotel room. She’s lucky I didn’t turn in a shot of her with her lipstick smeared from kissing Jimmy Manning in the back of the bus. If I hadn’t decided to use my power of photography for good, blackmail would be on the table. The last bell rings and I barely restrain myself from smirking as I walk past her to head home.

My father’s standing on the porch when I pull into the driveway. He’s leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest as he glares at his barren garden. Guilt makes my cheeks hot, and I take my time gathering my book bag so I can steady my nerves before I reach him. I should tell the truth about what I did, switching his weed killer and plant food. I won’t, though. Since that nightmare I had about Carey, he doesn’t seem to hate me like before. I’m not willing to give that up. His garden can take the blow; I can’t.

Tossing my bag over my shoulder, I take the steps to the porch. “Hey, Dad.”

“Quinn.”

He sounds distracted, and I continue past him to the door. I’m reaching for the doorknob when he stops me. “What do you think about going out to dinner tonight? I thought we could grab a bite at the diner.”

I hesitate. We haven’t been out to dinner since the picture came out, like he’s been ashamed to be seen with me in public.

“Are you sick?” It’s the only explanation I can think of.

He frowns. “Of course not. I just thought it would be nice not to cook. How about it?”

“Sounds good.” I feel like a shaken soda can. We’re turning a corner, and it’s anyone’s guess what’s waiting around the bend. Based on past experience, it’ll be a brick wall. I leave him to ponder the mystery of his dead garden.

Later, we climb into my father’s truck and spend an awkward ten minutes driving to the diner. We’ve forgotten how to speak to each other. He knows next to nothing about me—at least none of the important stuff. I don’t want to talk about his job or the military or Carey.

We settle on the weather. I’m not sure who brings it up first, but we both latch on to it.

“I think we’re going to get some rain this weekend.”

“It’s pretty cold out.”

“Summer’s probably coming late.”

“I’ll be glad when it warms up.”