Continued...

 

When she could walk, she had been much better at papering over the obvious. Which is why she had been so great at having a hand-crafted reality that seemed to work to suit her till that weekend in Mexico. What Leti said was so close to what she had been thinking that Carla’s face burned; really, she felt like the embarrassment touched her unfeeling toes.  Carla opened her mouth to spin a little social fiction, but after the first weak-sounding syllables of her “No, not at all,” that sounded like her voice was about to change, no sound came out. “What can I say? I’m busted.” Of course, that sentence came out clear and strong.  What would it mean if she couldn’t lie to anyone anymore? She imagined, again, this time a flurry of reality-show style social engagements and, then, the quiet of a lifetime spent eating macaroni from the pot in front of some television show from her childhood.

There was still plenty she hadn’t shared with Leti; imagining her destitute self on one of those news-magazine shows, wrecking her make-up that her mother might apply, making her look too severe, herself telling some fatherly voice off-screen that “She was supposed to help me…I trusted her,” and soaking up America’s mixture of love and pity that, at times seemed to Carla to be a sort of national dessert, considered especially filling when served around or

about disabled people. One “treat” she didn’t like the taste of, but still pictured herself lapping up when things got bad. She didn’t have to get the spoon and start serving it herself, though, did she?

She took a deep breath, relieved that the heat from the blush had almost left her face, and tried to be diplomatic.

“Yeah, that was a little like what I was thinking.  I don’t think you’re a criminal