The Liar

Robbie could always tell when adults were lying. Not that there was any one thing that gave it away every time, but he could tell. Sometimes they had a facial twitch. Lots of times they avoided eye contact. Mostly, it was something in their tone—a phony niceness that smelled like bathroom cleanser, like they were trying to put a shine on the dirty truth that lay beneath.

“Hey there, champ. How's the man of the house holding up, huh?” Doctors were some of the worst, those patronizing geeks. They practiced their small talk to try and put you at ease, but all they ended up doing was advertise that they would only tell you what they thought you wanted to hear. “Listen, I know your sister has been having a hard time, what with all the treatments and everything, but we've scheduled her for surgery tomorrow, and chances are she'll be home by the end of the week. Great news, eh sport?”

Gwen was a lightweight. One of Robbie's earliest memories was of looking at her through the nursery window at the hospital. She was born two months early, so she was very small and really sick, but she wanted to share Robbie's fourth birthday so out she came. The nurses gave him cake and a hat, and he made them all scream when he smeared some icing on Gwen's face. He had learned the importance of sharing, and it was Gwen's birthday too, so he was a little upset about being sent to time-out.

“Robbie, Baby Gwen is very sick, so she can't eat your birthday cake.” Robbie's dad was the one adult who never lied to him, not even when he asked where Baby Gwen came from. “Well, I'll tell you,” Dad said, “but don't blame me if you end up losing your lunch.” He didn't lose his lunch, but neither did he feel like eating for a while. He asked the nurses if what his dad told him was true, and they blushed and admitted it was.

He made sure Gwen knew it too, now that she was old enough to wonder about it. “You came from inside Mom, and there was blood and mucous all over you. It was even in your lungs and they had to suck it out with a hose so you could breathe.”

“Grossness.”

“The doctor said that after the surgery, you'll be home within a week.”

“Was he lying?”

“No,” Robbie said, struggling not to break eye contact. He kissed her cheek and went home with Mom and Dad. The nurses tousled his hair on the way out.

After dinner, he went into Gwen's bedroom and lay down on her bed. The monitors, respirators, and oxygen tanks around the headboard were silent. He opened a new packet of leads, stuck them to his chest, plugged them into the monitor, and fell asleep as it softly beeped to the rhythm of his heartbeat. The leads were still stuck to him, under his shirt, three weeks later at the funeral. He pulled one off, licked it, and stuck it to her hand before they closed the coffin. “I'm sorry I lied to you, Gwen.”