Believe-me-not

What defines a lie? It is a statement that is counter to the truth, yes? But then, what defines the truth? The truth is, in general terms, what is known. It is the general consensus of a population regarding an experience. This population can be anything, from the population of cells that make up a human brain to the population of humans that make up a country. Likewise, this experience can be anything, from a simple statement to the state of the universe itself. We believe truth to be absolute only because we believe our perception to be equally absolute. For the sake of argument, we can even consider this to be true. At least, under “normal” conditions.

The problem, as Miriam Clark comes to understand it, is that she is anything but normal.

o.o.o

Miriam Clark is eight years old when she tells her first big true-lie. (That is, a lie that is true, not a lie that was truly a lie.) It happens quite by accident. She is sitting in French class, wilting in the heat of an early September afternoon. The students are supposed to be completing a worksheet, while Madame Fromme updates her grade-book, wearing a severe expression and muttering intermittently to herself in French.

When Madame Fromme reaches the C’s, she looks up to ask Miriam what, exactly, happened to her devoirs from the week before. In reality (a whole separate conversation from truth), Miriam had forgotten the homework all together. It is still practically summer, after all. Despite this slip, Miriam is usually a pretty good student. Surely, if she tells Madame Fromme that she turned in the homework, that it must have been misplaced, she will at least get the chance to “do it over again.” So, that’s what she says.

Miriam expects the dubious arching of an elegantly-plucked eyebrow, the long-suffering sigh of a woman who knows she is being duped but figures it isn’t worth the trouble to resist. What she does not expect is for Madame Fromme to say, “Ah, oui, I must have left it at home when I graded papers last night.” She does not expect Madame Fromme to complacently pencil in a 10/10 and move on to Tommy Dean’s make-up quiz. She does not expect…nothing. That is not normal.

o.o.o

Miriam Clark is about five years—and three thousand true-lies—older when she confides in a friend about her…ability for the first and only time. The friend is a classmate and neighbor, Jeanie Brandt. Jeanie is a girl made almost entirely of legs, which will serve her well soon enough, but now gives her the appearance of a particularly clumsy heron. She is also Miriam’s best friend.

It happens on a late spring day, the two girls lying side by side in Jeanie’s parents’ hammock, watching lazy green sunlight filter down through the trees. They are playing truth-or-dare.

“Truth or dare, Miriam?” Jeanie asks, sliding one long leg over the side of the hammock to kick off from the ground. The hammock swings back and forth, like a ship at sea, while Miriam ponders. By habit, Miriam most always picks dare. The truth is much too complicated a territory. But something about the moment, whether it be the sisterhood or the pressure of years of half-conscious caution, possesses her.

“Truth.”

“Tell me a secret. Something you’ve never told anyone before.” Miriam expected this. Dozens of secrets bubble up to the surface of her thoughts. The time she snuck all of her boiled broccoli to the dog under the table. The story of how she really sprained her ankle. Her newly forming crush on Damon Thomas. But, in the end, there could only be one secret for her to tell. She will never have a better opportunity, she thinks, or a more trustworthy friend.

“Okay,” Miriam says. “You’re my best friend, so I know you won’t laugh at me.” She takes a big breath, steeling herself for the moment when Jeanie will inevitably laugh at her. It’s hard to control things like that, after all.

“I won’t,” Jeanie swears, turning to face her friend with solemn eyes.

“I have a special ability. Kind of like a superpower.” Miriam cringes at that word, which she has tried never to even think in regard to her true-lies.

“Okay.” Jeanie isn’t laughing.

“Whatever I say, people believe it’s true, even when it isn’t.” It comes out in a rush, her deepest, darkest secret. Seems like there should be cannons firing, or a marching band, she thinks. At the very least, Jeanie should be saying something.

“Do you believe me?” Miriam asks, her voice lilting up a bit.

“Of course, I believe you.”

Right. Of course, she does.

o.o.o

Miriam Clark is seven years—and five thousand true-lies—older when she falls in love for the second and last time. His name is Oliver Joyce. He is from New Jersey and he’s the most decent person she has ever met. He reads books two at a time and swims at the gym in the mornings. He visits residents at the nursing home and lets them win at checkers. He is studying political science, but she forgives him for that.

He also might not really love her.

This is because, on the first night they spend together in their new apartment, Miriam lets herself get lost. She melts into the soothing rhythm of his kisses along her shoulder, up her neck, to her jaw.

She lets herself say, “Oh, Oliver, I love you. And you love me, too. Aren’t we lucky?”

Oliver, who has never said anything of the sort, pauses his kissing and replies, “We are. Of course, we are.”

o.o.o

Miriam Clark is two years—and just over a thousand true-lies—older when she becomes Miriam Joyce. She wears a dress that looks like a white night sky and Oliver cries a bit when she comes down the aisle. Jeanie Brandt is her maid of honor because she never did find a more trustworthy friend.

Oliver wanted them to write their own vows, so they did. His are long and poetic, an epic testament to how strong their love for each other will be. Miriam tries not to envy the freedom of his words. Her vows are short and simple.

“I love you, Oliver. I will always love you,” she promises. There was supposed to be more, but the words don’t come. She presses a kiss to his cheek instead. He doesn’t seem to mind. 

They say, “I do.” They kiss. This time, Miriam cries, too.

Three nights later, in a bed that is not their own, Oliver whispers in her ear, “How about we make a baby?” Miriam cries again and, for a moment, Oliver is afraid that her tears mean no. He cannot understand the heady mix of fear and relief inside Miriam in that moment. Her child may have to live with the burden of everyone else’s belief in him, but at least she didn’t have to be the one to ask for him to exist.

o.o.o

Miriam Joyce is just nine months—and five hundred true-lies—older when she becomes a mother. When a nurse hands her son to her, a tiny bundle of soft fabric and softer skin, she puts her lips to his tiny ear and whispers, “You are so loved.” It is the first truth that she does not doubt.

o.o.o

Ernest Joyce is seven years old when he tells his first big true-lie.