He nodded. “Do you ever feel that way, Mom?” he said. “Like you’re pretending to be normal? Like you have to watch everyone all the time and copy them to fit in?”
“I feel that way all the time.” As Annette said it, she realized it was true.
“I thought I could make her stop taking pills,” said Robert. “But she took them anyway. It’s my fault.”
“It’s not your fault,” said Annette. She thought of her kind father, his hard work, his respect for others. And she wanted to be near him. In Laredo, Annette could relax. She could drop the false version of herself she’d been so carefully upholding. She could surround herself with people who built her up.
“Mom,” said Robert, as she breezed past the 7-Eleven, heading for the highway.
“Yes, amor?”
“Do you feel different now that you’re a citizen?”
Annette smiled. “No,” she said. “Actually, I’m just the same.”
“Where are we going?”
Annette didn’t answer, wasn’t sure how to answer. Where were they going? She said, “Laredo.”
“OK…” said Robert. “What, for the weekend?”
“Your grandmother will be so happy to see you,” said Annette, deflecting.
“What about Dad?” said Robert.
“And your uncles, too,” said Annette. “They love you so much, Roberto.”
“Roberto,” scoffed Robert, mocking her.
Annette felt tears in her eyes. His caustic, mean tone was the same as his father’s. Cutting, hurtful, ready to pretend it was “a joke” if you got upset. It was not abuse like a fist, but it hurt anyway, kept Annette in line.
“Yes, Roberto,” said Annette. Her voice was little more than a whisper. She was scared that her son, like her husband, would shame her. Instead, though, Robert grinned.
“OK,” he said. And then, as he’d always asked when they went to Laredo, he said, “Can we get paletas?”
“Of course,” said Annette. “Of course, little one.”
She hit the gas, passed car after car, and drove south, toward home.
-7-
Liza
“CHARLIE!” I CALLED. THERE was no answer. The door deep in the cave had no handle. Was it a door? Could it be?
I began to pound on the rock. Claustrophobia and panic made my blood hot. “Charlie!” I screamed. I heard a clicking and a bright light made me wince. A hand grabbed me. I reared back and pain shot through my wrist, my bones in a vise. I was yanked through what seemed to be a man-made entranceway.
I held my free hand to my eyes, momentarily blinded, adrenaline flooding my veins. As my vision cleared, I saw Whitney. Her fingernails dug painfully into my skin. The room was cool, clammy after the stultifying outdoor temperatures. I saw Charlie sitting at a desk. He was pale and looked terrified.
“Charlie?”
Whitney slammed the door. Her expression was furious. I looked around, taking in deep leather couches, sconces, and mahogany-inlaid walls. “Where are we?” I said. “What’s happening?” The room was lit by skylights and a window showing…the Eiffel Tower in Paris?
THE EIFFEL TOWER FROM DIFFERENT ANGLES—FOREVER!
I remembered Whitney describing the Parisian vista, laughing as I sipped a “mom marg” at the Packers’ pool in what felt like another world.
An aboveground world.
A real world, with real light.
I peered at what I’d thought were skylights and saw that their color was flat, the view blue with no variation or clouds. The hue was a bit off, too bright, without the yolky yellow tinge of Texas sky.
“Is this the Packers’ doomsday bunker?” I said.
Whitney continued to grip my wrist. “Yes,” she said. It must have been the fluorescent lighting: I could see the bones of her skull under her skin. Her face was sharp and nightmarish. Was she sick? I blinked to try to dispel the vision.
“What are you doing here?” I said.
When I think back, I can see that these were the last moments I could still cling to the belief that Whitney was the person I’d wanted her to be: generous, larger than life, queen of a mythical place I’d always dreamed of belonging. A “summer girl” grown up. She was the foundation of my “Liza” persona. I thought that without her, I was nothing, a fraud.
“Mom,” said Charlie, his tone low and grave. “You need to listen to me, Mom.”
“I had to talk to Charlie somewhere private,” said Whitney, cutting him off. “I’m in trouble, Liza. I’m in real trouble.”
“What’s going on?” I said, bewildered. Why would Whitney contact my son if she were in trouble?
“I saw her,” said Charlie quietly, speaking only to me.
“What?” I said.
“Liza, listen—” said Whitney.
“Mom,” said Charlie, his eyes aflame. “I saw her at the 7-Eleven. She was in the parking lot. It wasn’t Roma selling drugs that night. It was Whitney.”
My gaze skittered between them, taking in this extraordinary statement. Whitney met my astonished glance and shook her head almost imperceptibly, her eyebrows raising and her lips in a bit of a benevolent smirk: Kids say the darndest things.
I half-returned her smirk.
We remained in this strange space for a moment, as if things were the way they had always been between us. Whitney had not let go. I tried to pull free, but her nails cut deeper. I must have conveyed pain, because Whitney became authoritative.
“Charlie’s wrong,” she said, releasing me, placing her hands out, as if smoothing an invisible blanket.
“I’m not wrong,” said Charlie.
“Whitney selling drugs?” I said. “Honey, that doesn’t make sense.” Whitney nodded, her shoulders relaxing.
“I know what I saw,” said Charlie ferociously. “And I know you won’t believe me.”
My son’s words hung in the air. He watched my face, his jaw tensing. He made a disdainful noise—a sharp, disappointed exhale. Hopelessness washed over his features.
“Why would Whitney be selling drugs?” I pleaded, my own voice childlike in my ears.
“I wouldn’t lie to you, Liza,” said Whitney, grabbing my wrist again. I felt a flicker of fear, a cold knowledge seeping into me, the understanding that Whitney was unhinged, that she might do me real harm.
And worse: she might hurt Charlie.
A dull pain throbbed in my stomach. It was a familiar feeling, one I’d learned to accept as the price of being Whitney’s friend. The ache was the cost of ignoring my heart to remain inside a fantasy. Have you ever stood still while someone lied to you? If so, you know the sickening feeling. Your brain wants to make the situation less disturbing, and oh, how you want to convince yourself the liar is telling the truth.
I wanted to continue believing in Whitney so much.
But the ache grew in my gut as I looked at her, the room almost dissolving around us, only Whitney’s eyes still penetrating and clear.
My real family had been screwed up and poor, riddled with addiction and bad decisions. I had thought escaping them, making a different life for my son, was an obvious win. But suddenly, in this dungeon meant to keep a family safe indefinitely—trapped together underground—I was stabbed with regret.