Everything Is Lies
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“It’s just,” said I, “the whole thing is so ridiculous.” I didn’t know if it was a joke. But even after all these years, I could see the look of disappointment on her face.
I had no idea what to say. “It’s funny how you can be so sure about that,” she said with a smile. “But then I guess when people are in love they believe things are true.” The words were out before I realized what I’d done. And she laughed at me.
It wasn’t fair—that laugh seemed to make it okay for her to ask the next question: “Did he ever tell you?” I shook my head and sighed as if she had never asked for anything more difficult than the weather forecast. She looked at me, shaking her head. “Well, don’t be embarrassed. Just go along like you’ve been doing.”
It took some time to get used to this new world, but we went on together. We were good friends, and we would always be. We made plans to meet later, and I left the table feeling very strange inside. I had been a fool! How did she know? I didn’t want to leave without saying something to her, but I couldn’t figure out what.
After a while, she asked, “How old is your son?”
My heart was thumping hard enough that I thought my ribs might crack. “No,” I said. “I don’t think you’ll like it,” and I smiled awkwardly at her. I tried to put as much sincerity into my tone as possible, hoping it would reassure her. Then she turned away from me. But she had already seen, somehow, that I knew the truth.
We talked about other things. About how I had gotten into such an embarrassing situation. “You must have told him,” she said softly, and I thought I heard the first hint of real sadness in her voice. “Oh well,” she replied, “you’re not married any longer,” and with that, she walked off into the crowd.
And that was it. I felt my cheeks warm up, and it seemed almost impossible that I would ever see her again.
It was a long afternoon for both of us, and I spent a great deal of time wondering about my son. I hadn’t expected her to take everything quite so badly, but then I remembered she didn’t know the real reason why I had come back home to London—to find out if he were still alive.
She saw the same man again, who looked very familiar. “What are his parents like?” she asked, and I could hear her voice trembling.
“They weren’t much older than he is now,” I told her, though I wished she wouldn’t ask me this question.
“Is he happy here?”
I shrugged and said, “He doesn’t seem miserable, does he?” I could feel my heart sinking through the soles of my shoes. And I was afraid she knew something that I didn’t. She nodded, and then we started talking about other things.
She had been gone three months, and she had changed since the last time we spoke. There was a sadness that hung around her like smoke, and yet there was something else too—some kind of hope and the look on her face reminded me of someone else’s.
The next morning I came to the shop. My hands were shaking so hard that I had difficulty holding onto the handle of the door. When I opened the door, there was my father, sitting by himself in one of the booths at our usual table.
“What are you looking for?” he asked, and for once I found myself speechless. The answer was obvious. I wanted to say, “You.” I wanted to tell her to come home right away because I needed her here with me.
I didn’t dare ask anything more of the old man.
***
This was the most important day of all. This was the last thing we could do together as friends. And she looked at me, smiling as if I were an angel—but she didn’t know what to make of me.
“Do you mind if I talk with you for a moment?” she asked.
I stood there silently watching her. And for the first time in my life, I understood the way it is with men and women. They want to know everything—about us, and also about ourselves. It’s an endless struggle, and only the strongest survive. That was what she did—she was looking at me.
When I went into the bathroom, my hands were still shaking. As I washed my face, I wondered if she was really going to go through with it or whether she had decided to give up after all. Her eyes shone at me, and even though she was looking at me, I couldn’t read her face.
Was she trying to persuade herself she would like me better as a stranger? Or was she just playing with my head? Maybe she had already changed her mind, and that was why she had come to see me instead of waiting in the shop. What was it that she was seeing that made her so sad?
It would be easier for me if I didn’t understand why she had come here. If only she had simply left when I said no. But she was staring at me so intensely that I knew the truth.
We talked as if we didn’t know each other at all, and yet there was so much I wanted to tell her: I wanted to tell her I loved her, and that if I could have had only one wish in my life, it would have been to love her.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” she whispered in the dim light. We stood there without moving as if we didn’t know where we were standing. She was looking down at her lap.
“Yes,” I answered finally. “Yes.”
She reached out her hand toward me. I moved closer and kissed her fingertips and her wrist, and her hands caressed my hair and stroked down my cheek. Her hands felt like ice; they touched me everywhere, and my body trembled as if from a chill.
My lips found hers, and then she pulled away, saying, “Goodbye.”
“No,” I said, “please!” It seemed like a prayer.
She took my hand in hers and held it tight as she looked up into my face. Then she smiled and said softly, “Please don’t say goodbye. Please don’t say goodbye.”
I didn’t need any further encouragement. All I could think about was her. I closed my eyes and leaned forward as she drew me to her, and then I could not stop kissing her.
I had never been happier than I was with her. And it was over in minutes—and in another minute she was gone.
That night I stayed awake until the small hours of the morning. I could hear the sound of her voice outside the front door, but it was faint. It was as if the whole world knew how special this place was. And yet I wanted to scream.
I thought I would die before I ever saw her again. I was afraid, and yet I had no idea how to explain it all to her. So I kept on asking her, “Why can’t I touch you?” And then I tried to say something else: “Tell me you’ll wait for me.” But the words got lost somewhere between my brain and my mouth.
***
I spent half my life in school—a long time. And I’m still not done. There are always things that I’d rather forget: how the teacher’s voice echoes in the classroom, how the girls whisper behind their hands during lessons, or how the boys talk about the teachers in the corridors.
But even in my dreams, I find myself back in that classroom. The room is empty, except for a desk and chair—that was my only friend—the clock on the wall, and a girl in my arms.
“I’ve been here many times—this is the only room I can remember. It’s very peaceful. You must have known about it too—you were here too, weren’t you? And now I’m going to say goodbye because tomorrow you’re leaving.”
And then she was crying and begging me not to leave her.
She was lying there in my arms—my only comfort.
As she spoke I began to cry, and the tears spilled from my eyes and slid down her cheeks. I had never felt so close to her before, and when I opened my eyes she was gone. It was the day of the dance, and I had missed the train home.
I went into her house, even though I didn’t want to see her father’s angry face. I wanted to tell him it was just a dream. She came out of the kitchen and told me her mother had called and wanted to know if I was coming, but she knew it wasn’t true—because I was here—she was right here.
“But I’ve missed my train—”
“You can stay as long as you like. Don’t worry; I’ll be back soon.” She smiled and wiped her nose on her sleeve, and we both knew the truth. It was a terrible night: the sky was gray, and the rain fell in torrents as we made our way from her house to mine.
In the morning I slept till noon and woke up in my own bed, thinking it couldn’t possibly have been a dream. But when I opened my eyes the same vision was there in front of me: the same empty room with the empty chair and the empty table.
“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” I asked when I saw her standing there, looking as beautiful as ever. She looked as if she might be crying, but I didn’t care. My heart filled with joy—I’d come all this way, and now she was mine.
“Don’t get upset. It isn’t what you think.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “It’s much worse than that.”
I took her hand in mine. It was cold and clammy, and her fingers were icy cold against mine. “I don’t understand.”
“We haven’t been alone together since last year, and then we spent two weeks with your family and hardly any time together. We barely talked at all. It wasn’t like how it used to be.”
“That’s not true—”
“Then why did we break up? We should have fought for each other—but we never did.”
There was nothing to say to that. When she kissed me goodbye, I could taste the sadness on her breath—just like I had always tasted her perfume. I didn’t try to hold on to her; instead I turned around and walked away. “Wait! Come back!”
I didn’t turn back. Instead, I headed out of the city. For years after that day, I went back to visit the school and see my old teachers. I didn’t go inside—the rooms were empty. Sometimes I went out onto the grounds and sat beside the lake—alone, with only a single candle burning in the dark.
But I didn’t stay there for long. The wind blew cold over the water, and when I stood up there were tears in my eyes—I couldn’t help it.
Afterward, I tried to sleep every day. If I didn’t sleep, I wouldn’t know it was real—not that anything mattered anymore anyway.
***
My parents’ faces appeared in front of me. The light flashed in my eyes and I couldn’t breathe.
I woke up gasping and coughing, my lungs feeling as if they had been crushed in the night. But I hadn’t seen anyone in my dreams—just an empty room with nothing in it, except for a girl sitting in a chair—and I remembered it as if it were yesterday.
And when I heard my mother telling me to eat something warm, and felt the warmth of the sun on my face, I felt ashamed for having cried like a child. And the next time she asked me if I wanted breakfast, I smiled brightly—I wanted to believe I was happy.
The next time she asked me, I was still awake.
“You mustn’t cry.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“Because that’s what people do when they’re unhappy. We can’t help it—we’ve lost what we loved most, and we need someone else to make us feel better. Don’t forget, you’re the one who wanted this. You chose to leave home.”
I knew this, but hearing her say it brought back memories. Of how I had run away from home, and my father’s voice calling me to come home, and my mother’s voice telling me not to cry, and how my mother and my sister both hated me. And I wanted to scream.
I couldn’t stand the silence. I needed to hear her voice again—so that I’d know it was real, even if everything was different.
I got dressed and went to her house.
“Why are you here?” my mother asked. “And where were you going?”
“Don’t worry, it wasn’t like before. I just came to thank you.”
“Thank me? How does that make sense?”
“If it makes things easier for you, I’ll go back to your house.”
She shook her head as if she would never forgive me. “No. There’s nothing more that needs to be said.”
“I want you to tell me. I won’t ask you again—you can be honest with me.”
My mother looked down at her hands. Her gaze fell upon me and she let out a sigh of relief.
When I returned home, she gave me a smile so full of happiness that I could hardly bear to look at her.
I left her house and came to her place of business. She seemed happier than ever. My sister greeted me with a big smile that made me feel uneasy—she looked so much older now than when I first met her. I could tell by the way she spoke that she was trying to hide her feelings, and I found that strange.
I couldn’t stop thinking about her words: “You were right.”
“What is wrong with you?” my mother asked. “Didn’t I tell you not to cry?”
“You don’t remember what happened?”
Her expression became suddenly stern—and then my mother burst into tears.
I was afraid and I fled the shop without saying a word.
The End