Authors: Joy Fielding
“Don’t,” Alison said again, this time with less conviction, as Lance, standing behind her, reached around to caress her breasts.
I felt a gasp building in my throat, held my breath to keep it from escaping my lips.
“I saw you, you know,” Alison continued as Lance began nuzzling her neck. “Flirting with Denise. Don’t think I didn’t see you.”
“What’s the matter, Sis? You jealous?”
“This isn’t right,” Alison said as he twisted her around, kissed her right on the lips.
“We’re gonna burn in hell,” he agreed, kissing her again.
I buried my face in the pillow, smothered the fresh scream building in the pit of my stomach.
“Not here,” Alison said huskily, taking her brother’s hand, leading him from the room.
I waited until I knew they were gone before opening my eyes. Were they still in the house, making love on the downstairs sofa? In the next room? I listened for sounds of their voices, fearful of what other noises I might hear. I lay there in the semidarkness for what felt like an eternity, afraid to move, the first moon of the new year filtering through the ivory curtains. I was trapped inside my own house, tied to my bed by invisible wires. There was no escape.
I closed my eyes, opened them again, found myself
staring into the blank eyes of the ladies’ head vase that sat on my night table, the vase Alison had bought me for Christmas. Keeping an eye on me, I thought, and might have laughed had I not been so sickened by everything I’d seen. I pushed myself into a sitting position, determined to make a run for it.
But even as I watched myself in my mind’s eye, climbing out of bed and getting dressed, phoning for a taxi, getting the hell out of my own house, I knew I didn’t have the strength to go anywhere. My arms and legs were useless. They hung from my sides like anchors. My head felt as if some insane dentist had pumped it full of Novocain. Already I was losing consciousness, drifting in and out of reality. I knew I had only seconds left before I fell into whatever void was waiting.
I threw myself off the bed, my arms flailing about madly, as if I were still in the ocean and unseen hands were pressing into the top of my head, holding me down. My hand smacked against the lamp on the night table, and I heard something shatter. The sound bounced off the walls, whizzed by my ear like a bullet. I looked toward the door, expecting Alison and her brother to come bursting through, restrain me. But no one came, and I collapsed back into bed, my strength gone. I closed my eyes, abandoned myself to whatever fate had in store.
I
AWOKE TO BRIGHT SUNSHINE
and the sound of Alison’s voice. “Good morning, sleepyhead. Happy New Year!”
She advanced toward me, wearing a pink sweater over matching pink jeans, looking like a long stick of cotton candy. I pushed myself up in bed, trying to clear my
head, the events of the night before coming to me in fits and starts, like a videotape skipping in midreel.
What had happened last night?
“What time is it?”
“It’s after twelve. I guess I should have said, ‘Good afternoon.’ ” Alison deposited a tray of freshly squeezed orange juice, hot coffee, and croissants across my lap. “Breakfast in bed,” she said, then laughed. “Or lunch. Whatever. The croissants are nice and fresh. Lance went to Publix.”
Lance poked his head around Alison’s shoulder. “How you feeling?”
I stared at him, unable to speak. Had he tried to drown me in the ocean last night or had he saved my life? Had I really seen him and Alison embracing at the foot of my bed? Had I dreamed the whole damn thing? Was that possible?
“Oh, no!” Alison cried suddenly. “What happened here?” Alison knelt beside the bed and began picking up the broken pieces of the china head vase she’d bought me for Christmas. “What happened?” she repeated, trying to fit the pieces back together.
I fought to remember, the back of my hand tingling with the memory of having smacked against something the previous night.
“Maybe we can fix it.”
“Don’t bother,” Lance said, removing the shards from Alison’s hands. “Couldn’t have happened to a nicer girl, if you ask me.” He shuddered visibly. “These ladies give me the creeps.” Then he carried the pieces out of the room.
“Terry, are you all right?” Alison asked. “Terry? Is something wrong?”
“I know,” I said to her under my breath.
“Know what?”
“I saw you,” I continued boldly. “Last night. With your brother.”
“Oh, God,” Alison said as Lance returned to the room, smiling broadly, one broken lady easily disposed of.
Was I next?
“So, has Terry recovered from her excellent adventure?”
“She saw us,” Alison said, her voice a monotone.
“Saw us?” The smile slowly faded from his face as his eyes moved rapidly between us.
“I saw you kissing,” I said flatly.
“You saw us kissing?” The smile returned to Lance’s eyes, played with the corners of his lips. “What else did you see?”
“Enough.” I pushed the breakfast tray aside, climbed out of bed, not sure whether my legs would hold me. Immediately, something stabbed at the bottom of my foot. I cried out, fell back against the bed, hugged my knee to my chest, saw a small sliver of china sticking out from between my toes.
“Looks like the lady bites,” Lance said, taking my injured foot in his hands.
“Don’t,” I said, as Alison had said last night, weakly, without much conviction. Alison ran from the room, returned seconds later with a wet towel.
“Be still,” Lance said. “Relax.”
I watched as he gently plucked the piece of china from my foot, drawing only a drop of blood, then patting it away with the towel.
“Seems like I’m always coming to your rescue,” he said without a trace of irony.
I tried to remove my foot from his grasp, but he held on tight. “I’d like you to leave.”
“Please, Terry,” Alison said from somewhere beside me. “I can explain.”
“I don’t need any explanations.”
“Please. It’s not what you think.”
“And what do I think?” Again I tried to remove my leg from Lance’s sturdy hands, but his fingers had begun expertly massaging the sole of my foot, and I realized with no small degree of shock that I didn’t want him to stop.
“You think he’s my brother,” Alison said.
Lance’s knuckles moved to the base of my toes, kneeding my calloused flesh, manipulating my muscles as easily as Alison manipulated my emotions.
“He’s not my brother.”
My husband used to give the best foot massages. It’s probably why I married him. Certainly it would explain why I kept going back to him. He had the best hands. Once he started massaging my feet, I was a goner.
“He’s your husband,” I said, my voice free of inflection. Why hadn’t I realized it earlier? Why had it taken me so long to figure out what should have been obvious all along?
“Ex-husband,” Alison qualified.
“Lance Palmay,” he said, extending his right hand. “Pleasure to meet you.”
I ignored him, concentrated on Alison. “You lied to me,” I said, stating the obvious. “Why?”
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“Have you ever heard of the truth?” I reclaimed my foot from Lance’s grasp, pushed past him toward my closet, where I threw a robe over my nightgown, drew it tight around me. Never had I felt more vulnerable, more exposed.
“I wanted to tell you the truth,” Alison protested, “but I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what exactly?”
“Afraid you’d think I was some stupid, weak-willed bimbo who falls to pieces every time her no-good ex-husband shows up.”
“Hey—” Lance interrupted.
“I wanted you to think well of me. I wanted you to like me.”
“By lying to me?”
“It was stupid. I can see that now. But—”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time?” Lance interjected.
“Shut up, Lance.”
“You’re sure that’s his real name?” I said.
Alison looked stricken, as if I’d slapped her across the face. “I phoned him after Thanksgiving. You were after me to call my family.…”
“You’re saying this is my fault?”
“No, of course not. I’m just saying that in a moment of weakness, I called Lance and told him where I was. I didn’t know he’d come to Florida. Or maybe I did. I don’t know. I only know that when he showed up at my door, I couldn’t help myself. He promised he’d only stay a few days. And I didn’t want to upset you. I knew your rules
about no roommates. I knew how skittish you were. Skittish,” she repeated softly, smiling hopefully at me. “Good word.”
I felt a familiar tug, the unwanted urge to take her in my arms and reassure her everything was going to be all right. God, I was as bad where she was concerned as she was with regard to her former husband. If he
was
her former husband, I thought, wondering why I should believe anything she said. Alison changed stories as easily as she changed clothes. What made me think she wasn’t lying to me now?
“So I lied to you,” Alison continued, as if reading my thoughts, “told you Lance was my brother. It just seemed easier that way.”
“You don’t have a brother,” I stated more than asked.
“No, I do,” Alison said quickly. “I do,” she repeated unnecessarily, looking toward the floor, as if afraid to let me see her face.
“There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“No. Nothing. I’ve told you everything.”
She was lying. I knew it, and she knew I did. It was the reason she couldn’t look me in the eye.
“I thought we were friends,” I said weakly, not sure what else to say.
“We
are
friends,” she pleaded.
“Friends don’t lie to each other. They don’t keep secrets. They don’t have hidden agendas.”
Alison’s eyes shot to mine. For a second it looked as if she were about to break down and tell me everything, reveal the whole ugly truth of what she was really up to, confess her part in last night’s mayhem, unravel the entire
charade. But she said nothing, and the moment passed.
“I think you should leave now,” I told her.
She nodded, turned to go. “I’ll call you later.”
“No, you don’t understand. I want you to leave—for good.”
“What?”
“I want you out of here.”
“You can’t mean that.”
“Hey, Terry,” Lance interjected. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“Was I overreacting last night when you tried to kill me?” I shot back.
“What!” Lance said.
“What!” Alison echoed.
“What the hell are you talking about?” The look Lance gave me was equal parts amusement and fury. “You’re out of your fucking mind. You know that, lady?”
“I want you out of my cottage,” I insisted. “Out of my life.”
“No, please,” Alison cried.
“I’ll give you till the end of the day,” I said.
“But that’s so unfair.”
“I think the law says you’ve got to give us at least a month’s notice,” Lance said lazily. “And I don’t know about you, Terry, but I don’t react too well to ultimatums.”
“If you don’t leave, I’ll call the police. How’s that for an ultimatum?”
“Pretty lame,” Lance said. “Think you better call your lawyer too.”
“Lance will be gone within the hour,” Alison said forcefully.
“What!” Lance exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”
“Just go,” Alison told him, her eyes never leaving mine. “Now.”
Lance shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, his hands slapping his sides in frustration. Then he stormed from the room,
“If you could just give me a few days to find another place,” Alison said softly, “I promise I’ll be out of your hair, if that’s what you still want.”
In truth, I didn’t know what I wanted. Part of me wanted Alison gone immediately; part of me wanted her to stay. I said nothing for several seconds, waiting for her to fill in the empty spaces, the way she usually did, to offer even a semiplausible explanation I could latch onto. Even after everything that had happened, I was still looking for a reason to believe her.
“Fine.” I spit out the word as if it were a piece of rotten meat. “You have till the weekend. If you’re not gone by then, I’ll call the authorities.”
“Thank you.” Alison breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then she spun around, her face disappearing inside a blur of strawberry curls. I heard her footsteps retreating down the stairs, the kitchen door opening and slamming shut. I watched her from the bedroom window as she ran toward the cottage, then stopped, turned back toward the house. I thought I saw her smile.
I
didn’t see Alison at all during the next several days. Nor did I see Lance, although I doubted he was really gone. I knew the matter was far from resolved, that they weren’t likely to leave empty-handed, not with all the time and effort invested in me so far. I lay in bed that first night trying to figure out how much of what Alison had told me was true, wondering where the lies ended and the truth began, if indeed there’d been any truth to anything she’d said. Ever.
What difference did the truth make anyway?
Looking back, I see that Alison’s great gift was her uncanny ability to make me doubt myself, to make me question what was beyond question, to make me see things that weren’t really there.
To not see things that were.
In spite of everything, I had to keep reminding my—self that Alison was not the sweet young woman I’d
welcomed into my life, but a liar, a con artist, and quite possibly, a cold-blooded killer. I wasn’t her friend—I was her target, a carefully selected one at that. And judging by what I’d read in her journal, I wasn’t the first unsuspecting woman she’d duped. What had happened to the others?
And why?
That was the part I couldn’t get past, the part that kept me awake at night, tossing restlessly back and forth in my bed. Not
when
Alison and her cohorts might strike again, but why?
Why?
What was she after?
What do you want from me?
I should have demanded of her.
Why did you seek me out, work so hard to make me your friend? What is it you think I have that’s of any value?
What was the point?
What do you mean?
would have come her inevitable response, green eyes wide with confusion, expressive hands aflutter.
I don’t know what you’re talking about
.