“What were the pictures of?”
“Your sister.”
“Those photos don’t exist.”
“Did she tell you that she destroyed them along with the memories? And you believed her?”
I hadn’t answered. I knew everything of Melody’s had been discarded. Her clothes given to Goodwill or thrown in the trash, her old stuffed animals thrown into the Dumpster, her diaries burned with the photos . . . I saw them do it. I watched them as they found a thousand little ways to spit on her memory.
“She kept some,” Dave says gently. “If you were able to see outside yourself, you’d have known that your mother isn’t so callous as to destroy all of it.”
There are some insults that can’t be brushed off. That was one of them.
“Your mother told me she’s haunted,” he continued. “She wanted to know how she failed and I told her that all we had to do was look to you to know that whatever demons consumed Melody were of her own making. If it was your parents’ fault, you would be out of control, too.”
I didn’t want to hear anymore.
“Your mother told me your sister was a whore. I told her you were nothing like that.”
That’s when those mutinous tears escaped, rolled down my cheeks, and left streaks in my foundation.
“How will she live with this, Kasie?” He asked. His voice had grown soft even as the words had grown harsh. It was like being caressed with barbed wire.
“She doesn’t have to know,” I had pleaded.
“If we split up, she does. I’m not like you. I don’t believe pretty lies are better than hard truths. Maybe your parents won’t fail you now the way they must have when you and your sister were children. Maybe they’ll help you, because God knows you need help . . . if you don’t get it . . . think of what happened to your sister, Kasie—”
“That’s not fair.”
“At the very least they need to know that they can’t trust you. They need to know you’re a liar.”
“I lied to you,” I screamed, my calm disappeared—memories of Melody, of the pain in my parents’ eyes, of the confusion around her death. . . .
As I lie by Dave’s side now, it’s hard to remember he’s supposed to be the victim and I the outlaw.
“I cheated on you, Dave,” I had said, not quite as loudly this time. “It doesn’t mean I’m going to lie about other stuff. It doesn’t mean I can’t be trusted.”
“And I’m sure that when Melody was first caught doing vodka shots at fourteen, she insisted that it didn’t mean she couldn’t be trusted to resist drugs. You know the saying, once a cheater, always a cheater? Well that’s not basic enough. Cheaters are liars. It’s a perversion. A pervasive problem that colors everything you touch. You’re a liar, Kasie, and you can’t be trusted. Not by me, not by anyone because now we know that when it serves your purposes, when your . . . pleasure’s at stake, you will lie.”
“Dave—”
“Your parents should know that,” he continued. “Your employer, too. The team that works for you should definitely know that. They should know that you’ve been fucking your client. They should know that you got down on your knees and sucked his dick to get the account. After all, your actions affect them. It’s their account, too. They should know that when he tires of your attentions—and he will tire of you—they should know why he’s taken his business elsewhere.”
“Oh God, please, Dave—”
“And if your parents, your employer, your coworkers, if they all decide to reject you, cast you out the way your parents cast out your sister, you shouldn’t be angry, Kasie. They have the right to protect themselves. They have the right to choose to spend their time with people who have better values and judgment than you.”
“Dave, I’m begging you—“
“Are you?” he asked. His eyes seared into mine but I couldn’t read them. I don’t know that man who stood before me, who sleeps by my side now.
Maybe I don’t know myself, either.
“Are you begging me, Kasie?” he asked again. “Do you want my help?’
I didn’t know what to say. It was easier when he was being violent. I’d prefer the blows of his fist to the stabs of his words.
“I want to help you,” he says. “You don’t need to be Melody. I can help you find your way back. If you let me help you, no one will need to know what you did. Do you want that?”
I nod, unable to talk.
“Good. That’s what I want, too.” He walked over to me, stroked my face with the back of his hand. I stood motionless. I felt sick.