Beautiful Lies Read Online Free PDF Page B

her lawn chair beside the pool, keeping an eye on us while she read a book, smoking her cigarettes. She smoked all the time. I didn’t realize until I was much older that it wasn’t socially acceptable to smoke, much less around your children. My mom never finished college; instead, she had us. She married my father when she was only twenty-one. But this was a long time ago—back when it wasn’t so unusual for people to get married so young.
    Back then, to me, my mom always seemed happy. She laughed a lot, and some days when we were finished playingin the baby pool, she’d take us inside and we’d make microwave brownies together. She always let us crack the eggs. I remember her smell—it wasn’t perfume or soap or anything like that. It was just the way she smelled, like cigarettes and teaberry chewing gum.
    My sister was in the house using the bathroom that day, and I was in the pool. I sat with my legs folded underneath me, bent at the knees. It was a hot day, the kind of heat where you can see the sunlight shimmering in the air. The grass kept turning brown and was starting to die underneath the baby pool because it didn’t get any sun, so my parents would move the pool around the yard to help the grass grow back, and finally we had all these big brown circles in the yard, like a map of every place the pool had been that summer.
    My mother wore big, round sunglasses with pink frames. She was reclined in her chair, reading her book. All of a sudden I couldn’t breathe.
    I
tried.
I put my hands to my throat and struggled for air, but it felt like I’d swallowed a rock. I didn’t cough. I gagged. I panicked, splashing around in the water, trying to breathe.
    “Baby?” My mother put her book down. I shook my head at her. I couldn’t speak or cry or do anything but work for air that wasn’t coming.
    “Sweetie, say something!” My mother rushed to me, picked me up from the pool, and lay me down on the lawn. She shook me hard. She screamed my name over and over. She slapped me across the face.
    But no matter how I tried, I could not manage to take a breath. My mother picked me up like I weighed next to nothing and threw me over her shoulder, hitting me on the back as she carried me inside.
    There, in the kitchen, lay my sister. She was on the ceramic tile floor. She wasn’t breathing. She was bluish, her wispy red hair across her face, her little mouth wide open. I remember it all so vividly. I remember looking down at her and thinking, “That’s me down there.” Because I felt exactly what she was feeling.
    My mother knelt beside my sister. She shook her hard. She screamed her name over and over. She slapped her across the face. Still, my sister did not breathe. Her eyes were open, but she wasn’t looking at us. It was like she wasn’t there.
    My mother lay me down on the floor, her gaze filled with horror as she tried to help both of us at the same time. She struggled to lift up my sister and pound on her back. “Steven!” she screamed, calling for my father. Then she put her arms around my sister’s stomach, hands clasped together against her small tummy like a knot, and pushed.
    My sister spit something out. She coughed and coughed. Then she threw up all over the floor.
    My mother gazed at the mess. With her thumb and index finger, she reached into it and picked something up. She stared at it, then she looked at me.
    I was breathing again. It all happened in an instant. I felt fine.
    My mother, though, did not seem fine. Her face was white. I looked at what she was holding. It was a big wad of pink teaberry gum.
    That was the first time.
    I dream of my sister all night long. At least that’s how it feels; I read somewhere that dreams only last a few seconds, even though it might seem like they go on for hours.
    We are standing on the running path, walking side by side with our fingers laced together gently, our arms swinging as we stroll along.
    In the dream, I feel worried. There is a strong, cool