Liar (6 page)

“No,” Heather croaked. She shook her head again, violently. She'd only been here twenty minutes. She had no intention of leaving. Not until Phoebe gave her some kind of sign—
anything—
to prove that she was still with them. And a pulsating beep or a blip on a screen didn't count. No way. Phoebe had to say something.
To open her eyes, if only for a second. Even the mere lifting of a finger would be enough.

The door opened behind them.

Heather glanced over her shoulder. A short, balding doctor in a white lab coat stood there, holding a clipboard.

“I'm very sorry,” he murmured with a sympathetic smile. “You're going to have to wait outside now. We need to run a few more tests.” He gestured down the hall

Heather exchanged a quick glance with her mother. Her throat caught. In the sickly blue glow of the fluorescent lights, she couldn't help but be struck by the resemblance between Phoebe and Mom. Both had those same deep-set eyes, the same mouth … only Mom's lips were full and red, whereas Phoebe's were cracked and nearly white. Mom's arms didn't look like you could snap them with two fingers. A network of purplish veins weren't bulging beneath translucent skin. Heather shot a quick glance back toward her sister.

“Of course,” Mom said.

She took Heather gently by the arm, steering her toward an orange vinyl couch out in the long hallway. Heather nearly collapsed into the cushions. She hadn't realized how exhausted she was. The simple act of sitting was like settling into a warm tub. She stretched her legs and yawned. She'd been on her feet ever since she'd
gotten the phone call. Of course, maybe only an hour had passed, but it already seemed like an entire lifetime.

It might just well be an entire lifetime.

She squeezed her eyes tightly shut. She wouldn't think about death. Not tonight. She would banish death from existence.

After a minute or so, when she was certain her mind was clear, she allowed her eyelids to flutter open.

Her mom sat beside her, rigid—her bleary eyes pinned on the door that was now closed.

I
NTENSIVE
C
ARE
U
NIT:
A
UTHORIZED
P
ERSONNEL
O
NLY
B
EYOND
T
HIS
P
OINT

“Are you sure you don't want to go—”

“I'm
sure,
Mom,” Heather interrupted, sounding harsher than she intended. “I want to stay here. I'll be fine.”

Fortunately her mother just nodded, too tired to argue.

Heather glanced at a snack machine down the hall. Nah. She was in no mood for a sticky candy bar. She didn't have an appetite. The thought of food was … well, she didn't know
what
it was.

Her mother started rummaging through her purse. “The doctor gave me something,” she said absently. “I thought you might want to take a look at it….” She pulled out a crumpled pamphlet and handed it to Heather.

A Parents' Guide to Anorexia Nervosa

Perfect,
Heather thought dismally. Just the thing to
take her mind off Phoebe. A little light reading before bed. She scowled at her mother—but her mom had already curled up into a fetal position at the edge of the couch and closed her eyes.

So. This was great. Here she was in a hospital, with her mom passed out and her sister near death. A hell of a Friday night, wasn't it? Maybe she
should
take a look at this thing. It was just too bad it wasn't called
A Sister's Guide.
But the advice could probably extend to all family members. She opened to the front page and began to read.

Anorexia is characterized by a significant weight loss resulting from excessive dieting.

Duh … news flash. Heather rolled her eyes.

Women are often motivated by both an intense desire to be thin and an intense fear of becoming obese. If they are successful at losing weight, people take note, complimenting them on their appearance and reinforcing the weight loss pattern.

Another Statement of the Obvious. Everyone: Mom, Dad, Heather herself, even Ed … all of them wouldn't shut up about how great Phoebe looked when she came home from college. But in a matter of a month Phoebe had gone from diminutive to diminished to destroyed. The most amazing part of it was how clueless they all were. Then again, who would
want
to believe that Phoebe was committing slow suicide before their very eyes?

The denial made sense, though, in a way. Phoebe
had
looked great … up to a point. And in the Gannis household appearance was everything. It was the highest priority, in fact: whether it was the appearance of a perfect family or the appearance of living the way they lived before the money was gone—

Heather winced. This pamphlet was leading to places she didn't really want to go. She flipped ahead a few pages.

Anorexics are usually dutiful daughters who set very high standards for themselves, striving for perfection.

Jesus. The more she read, the more it seemed Phoebe was a poster girl for anorexia. She was a good student. She was organized. She went to a fine college. And compared to Heather, she hardly ever talked back to their mother. In fact, their mom had told Heather more than once to look to Phoebe as an example.

Right.

So with all that going for her, why the hell was Phoebe starving herself?

Heather's jaw tightened. She could feel the rage returning. Phoebe had brought this on
herself.
Her eyes flashed back down to the page.

Eating disorders are diseases that provide the illusion of control. Anorexics believe that while they can't control life, they can control their weight.

But as quickly as the rage swelled, it subsided. The need to feel in control, to
be
in control, was something Heather could definitely relate to. She certainly had her own control issues. With Sam, for example.
Specifically, with sleeping with him. Looking back on it now, she realized sex had been a ploy on her part—an empty, manipulative act to gain the upper hand in their relationship. The thought of it made her sick. God, she had even lied, telling him that her first time with him was her first time
ever.
Her stomach turned. She'd been dishonest with him, with herself, with the world. She'd been playing a role, trying to figure out what Sam was looking for, who he wanted her to be—or who she
thought
he wanted her to be—and she did everything she could to become that girl….

And what had it accomplished? Did Sam love her any better for all her lies? No, of course not. Their relationship had deteriorated to the point of being hard to recognize as a relationship at all. On some level, Sam probably sensed her dishonesty and hated her for it. Almost as much as she hated herself.

A tear fell from her cheek, splattering on the wrinkled page.

The only possible comfort in Sam's rejection was the fact that he wasn't rejecting her raw, true self. Sam had never even met that girl.

Ed Fargo was the only guy who'd had that pleasure.

It was a strange, strange thing about life. She worked so hard trying to keep it in control, and yet her few genuinely happy times came when she let go of it completely.

Sam
Moon.

It's a name I say to myself almost every hour of every day. Sam Moon. I can see his face before me: that chiseled jaw, that smooth skin, those pensive eyes. Sam Moon. Even the sound of it is magical. The delicate slither of the S. flowing over the
a
and
m
into the smooth
oo….
It's like an incantation. A spell. The two words that keep me sane.

If Loki only knew how I harnessed Sam Moon's passions, how I
controlled
him on that night, then Loki would treat me with the respect I deserve. But he will someday. I'm sure of it. Sam Moon is my greatest triumph. A veritable work of art. Compared to those teenage sleazebags in the park … but there isn't really a comparison, is there?

And at some point in the not-so-distant future, Loki will find out what I accomplished. He'll tremble at my power to manipulate. Until he does. I'll keep Sam Moon under my thumb.

But I'll never truly let him go, either. Loki may have most of my heart, but not all of it. Sam Moon owns a little piece of it now, too. Forever. I'll always keep him close to me-and not only for the unspoken bond between us.

No. I'll keep him close to me because he'll always remind me how I defeated Gaia Moore.

The
Raging Predinner Internal Debate:

It's a Date

1. He asked me out.
   
2. I took a shower.
   
3. I tried on three outfits.
   
4. It's just the two of us.
   
5. It's dinner.
   
6. He wants to talk about something really important.
   

No, It Isn't

1. It was an e-mail.
   
2. I took the shower before I got the e-mail.
   
3. They were all the same. All I own are T-shirts and cargo pants.
   
4. He isn't picking me up.
   
5. He has a girlfriend (who I hate).
   
6. Maybe he's going to propose to Heather and needs advice about what kind of ring to buy, which I—as a girl—can provide.
   

Even now her body ached to be next to his. To feel his breath on her neck. To lose herself in that powerful embrace.

THE WHOLE SCENARIO WAS SHAMEFUL. Completely and utterly shameful. But Sam was beyond caring. All that mattered now was that Gaia heard the truth. Besides, Sam had learned to live with self-loathing. He'd learned to live with an indescribable emptiness because he knew that he had nobody to blame but himself.

The real kicker was that this meeting should have been perfect. He shook his head, sniffing the frigid night air, and glanced into the abyss of Washington Square Park. It was nearly deserted. The paths were shadowed by leafless trees. But the miniature Arc de Triomphe down the block was all lit up, jutting from the wintry landscape like a giant, glowing tombstone. Soon Gaia would be appearing out from under it.

Yup. This should have been perfect.

Everything was in place. He'd invited Gaia out to a late dinner on a Friday night, and she'd accepted. So if he'd done what he'd been supposed to do—meaning if he'd behaved like a decent, moral human being instead of a despicable, cowardly rat—then this could have been the beginning of a new chapter in his life. He could have taken Gaia out for a
romantic dinner, then invited her back to his dorm room….

But no.

That wouldn't happen. Instead of dumping Heather, he'd avoided her. Instead of running away from Ella, he'd slept with her—simultaneously cheating on his
real
girlfriend and having sex with the foster mother of his
real
love. Sam wasn't a religious guy by any means, but still, he couldn't help wonder: Exactly how many sins had he committed in that one heinous act? Enough to land him front row seats in the fiery pit of hell for all eternity—that was for damn sure. Then again, maybe he was in hell already.

Strange. For somebody who was so good at chess, at
decisive
maneuvering, he'd made a mess of his life. On the other hand, it was unfair to compare a chessboard to the streets of New York City. You knew where you stood on a chessboard. You knew what the rules were. Here, out in the coldness and darkness and confusion, you pretty much had to make up the rules as you went along. Too bad Sam was no good at improvising.

“Sam?”

He jumped at the sound of Gaia's voice. She'd come from behind him—from the direction of Broadway, catching him totally off guard.

“Uh, hey,” he mumbled, struggling to collect himself. Even in the freezing cold, with her nose red
and her cheek freshly scarred from today's car accident, Gaia was still beautiful. The bruises and scratches on her face only added to her mystique … her paradoxical aura of both strength and vulnerability. She stood before him, shivering in her ratty overcoat, her blond hair flapping in the wind from under her wool cap.

Staring at her made him feel sick.

How could I have betrayed you like that?
he wondered for the hundredth time. Of course, he'd justified the betrayal to himself by rationalizing: It
wasn't
a real betrayal. Technically he didn't have a relationship with Gaia—except for a few moments here and there, a fleeting kiss at a time when she was basically concussive, and a lot of other strange encounters….

“Are you okay?” Gaia asked in the silence.

“Huh?” He shook his head, then forced an awkward smile. “Uh, yeah.”

Gaia gazed into his eyes. “Did the accident shake you up?”

He shrugged. “A little,” he said. Actually, the truth was that he was a lot more shaken up just standing right here, talking to her. “So … uh, where do you feel like eating?” he asked lamely.

“Anywhere,” she mumbled. She glanced over her shoulder. “So long as it's not on Broadway.”

Sam frowned. “Why's that?”

Gaia turned back toward him, then laughed grimly. “I just don't want to run into my foster mother. I caught a glimpse of her on West Fourth Street.” She shook her head, wrinkling her nose as if she'd smelled something foul. “It was weird. It was almost like she was following me or something.”

“Are you serious?” Sam cried.
Shit.
His pulse picked up a notch. He stood on his tiptoes, peering over Gaia's shoulders toward the lights of Broadway. But the street was nearly deserted—except for a few heavily bundled up college kids.

“Yeah.” Gaia's face was twisted in confusion. “What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” Sam lied. He took her arm and started hustling her across the street toward the park. No way could he let Ella interfere in this … confession. There was no telling what she'd say or do. Sam had to tell Gaia the truth
his
way so that at least he'd have a chance of making her understand the situation from his point of view. “So, um … uh, I was thinking—I was thinking about going to the … the Olive Tree Café,” he sputtered. “Have you ever been there?”