Little Lies

 
When I pulled up outside your house I was already thinking Shit, why did I offer to give Stella a lift? She’s going to be in my face all the way to the cabin. I sat in the car, hoping you hadn’t been looking out for me. That was the moment when I could’ve changed things. I could’ve made up some excuse, and driven home. I could’ve said I’d eaten a dodgy curry or my cat was sick (I couldn’t have used anything to do with Andrew because everyone knew he’d moved out two weeks ago). A little white lie, that’s all it would have taken and I’d have slipped us both into a parallel universe just like that. But I didn’t, because you had been looking out for me, and you walked up to the car and rapped on the window.
        ‘H-i,’ you said in your sing-song voice. You dumped your bags in and ran back to your house to say goodbye to Marcus. I took some deep breaths. The truth was I didn’t want to spend another weekend in an empty house. I needed the company. It’s going to be fine, I told myself. Jenny and Liz will be up there, too. Just drive carefully, put the music on, be there in no time. But I was nervous. You always made me nervous, and sharing a car with you – it was asking for trouble.
        The roads through the city weren’t too bad. There was a bit of queuing round the roadworks. You didn’t like Regina Spektor or Kate Bush or Kate Rusby so we switched the CD player off and listened to the radio for a bit. That would have been fine, except you just couldn’t help giving me instructions as I drove. ‘Woah that was close to that parked car – did you even see it?’ you said. ‘Oh no, you’re in the wrong lane, we’ll have to turn left now. Chop-chop!’ Things like that.
        As we travelled north from Christchurch the traffic thinned and the road opened before us. Swathes of dry grassland spread out on either side, edged with tall dark conifers and the reds and browns of deciduous trees. In the distance the mountains were a constant presence beneath a vast and almost cloudless sky. It was perfect driving weather.
        ‘Hey, this is fun,’ you said. ‘It’s like we’re in a road-trip movie. Two buddies travelling together – our adventures along the way.’
        ‘Yeah,’ I said, but I wasn’t convinced.
        After a period of smooth, easy driving, a large Fonterra truck drew up close behind us. There were no passing lanes and it looked like the driver had never heard of ‘stopping distance’. He was practically in my boot.
        ‘Don’t give in to him,’ you said. ‘Hold your ground.’
        ‘Look, we are in no hurry – I can pull over.’
        ‘Bully!’ you said, turning round and giving him the finger.
        Great! I thought. Now we’re in for it. But I didn’t say anything. I don’t know why. I think I was afraid of you; maybe I always was.
        A few minutes later I saw a place to pull in. We skidded slightly on the gravel as we came to a halt, barely managing to get out of the truck’s path as it thundered by, rocking the car and honking loudly on its horn.
        ‘Fuck!’ I said, getting my breath back. My hands were trembling. I took a couple of deep breaths. You were silent. You had your arms crossed, and you were staring straight ahead. You wouldn’t look at me as you spoke.
        ‘Do you have to swear?’ you said disdainfully.
        ‘He drove us off the road!’
        ‘No he didn’t. If you had been driving a bit faster, he’d never have caught up with us.’
        This was another moment when I could have derailed our story. I could have said that’s it, I’ve had enough we’re going home and you can forget about your lift. But I didn’t; we were on our way by then. So I put the car into gear and drove on.
        After a while the endless sky and open vistas worked their magic and the atmosphere between us dissipated. You began to talk about your relationship; mostly complaining how Marcus never spoke his mind, never made decisions. You didn’t ask about Andrew and me. So, as usual, I listened a lot. I’d heard it all before but it got me thinking about Andrew. He never took any of my bullshit – and we’d had a few humdinger rows in our time. Two weeks ago he had asked me to marry him. I told him I wasn’t ready – but that’s a lie. I was just scared.
        We stopped at Pukeko Junction for a coffee. We found a table and I watched you take out your medication: a rainbow of pills. You ate them like M&Ms, swigging down a gulp of water with each one. You made no effort to hide it; you never had. It was as though you wore your pain like a badge. It stopped all criticism, all rebuke. And I wondered if that was why we could never get on.
        You finished your coffee quickly and went to have a look round the craft shop. I finished my latte and while you were browsing round the jewellery, hand-made felt and artisan pottery, I used my mobile to phone Andrew. I got his answerphone, but I left a message. I told him I loved him and tried to explain that I was just scared. ‘Let’s talk later,’ I said.
        ‘Hey, who are you talking to?’ you said, breezing back into the coffee shop.
        ‘Oh just checking my messages at home,’ I said.
        ‘Right, well chop-chop let’s get a move on! Things to do, places to be!’
        ‘Ok,’ I said. ‘You wait in the car. I just want to use the toilet and I’ll be right back.’
 
 
You made me wait for ages and when you came back I saw you take out your perfume bottle and I thought Oh no, Jane, not in a confined space.
        ‘Hold it,’ I called out. ‘Can you wait until we’re there before you spray that stuff around?’ You put it back into your handbag and got in the car.
        You put the key in the ignition then paused. ‘Anything else?’ you said testily, which wasn’t like you.
        ‘Sorry – it’s just that it makes me car sick and you wouldn’t want vomit all over your upholstery, would you?’
        We drove on in silence. I made a thorough search of your CD collection, eventually finding some Radiohead that I vaguely liked and we put it on.
        You were driving so slowly. I thought we’d never get there, so I asked if you would mind straightening the bends.
        ‘What?’ you said with that bewildered look of yours, like a startled rabbit.
        ‘Straightening the bends,’ I repeated, ‘it’s common practice in New Zealand. It’s because they have these wide sweeping roads and not a lot of traffic.’
        ‘What do you mean?’
        ‘See that bend coming up, well look ahead – you can see there’s nothing coming the other way so you just drive straight across, you don’t go round.’
        ‘But what if there’s something coming?’
        ‘I just told you – nothing’s coming.’
        ‘Woah, that’s dangerous.’
        ‘No it isn’t. All the Kiwis do it. It saves time and petrol.’
        ‘Well I’d rather be late and a few dollars poorer than in a wheelchair the rest of my life!’ you said.
        ‘Whatever,’ I said, sitting back and resigning myself to the fact that this trip was going to be far longer than I had imagined. A wheelchair! God it was exhausting.
        So we sat in silence some more. You carried on carefully going around the corners, slowing down to a snail’s pace. Finally, the boredom of it all got the better of me, so I asked about Andrew, even though I didn’t want to talk about him. I knew you had been phoning him in the coffee shop – your face said it all, guilty as sin. I wondered why you had to lie about it? It shows a lack of trust.
        ‘I thought you and Andrew had split up,’ I said.
        ‘Huh?’
        ‘You were phoning him in the coffee shop, weren’t you?’
        I’d never liked him. At our parties all he ever talked about was ‘Wilderness Wanderings’ (what a stupid name). I don’t know how you let him go off on those tours for days on end. He owned the business – he could have employed someone else to do the tours. Though it’s obvious why he wanted to do them himself: I used to see the pretty young girls waiting at the pick up point outside my house, saw him helping them with their backpacks, the girls all gushy and making big eyes at him. I don’t know how you put up with it for so long.
        ‘It’s complicated,’ you said. And that’s all you would say on the matter. Never mind that I had divulged all my intimate details about Marcus. But you were always like that. So I didn’t bother to push it, I just turned up the CD player. That was when you announced that you’d left your phone in the coffee shop.
        ‘We’ll have to turn round and go back for it,’ you said, slowing the car down and pulling over.
        And you turned the car and soon we were heading back.
 
 
I was kicking myself for leaving the phone on the table. It was probably because I got distracted. You hurried me up, like you always did, and I forgot to tuck it in my bag. We were in good time though, so I stepped on the gas and headed south down the highway. We were passing through wine country, autumn-coloured vines and trees sped past in flashes of yellow and brown. I asked if you could phone the café to say we were on our way. You were making a fuss about not knowing the number, when I noticed the truck.
        I was looking far ahead, with the road stretching out like a long grey arrow, and the truck was in the distance. At first I couldn’t make out which direction it was heading. Then I realised that it was coming straight towards us on our side of the road. It was overtaking a line of three cars and taking forever to do it.
        ‘Look out!!’ you screamed. I was scared but I knew what I was doing, I’d been on a defensive driving course, and I already had my escape route mapped out in my head. These roads are wide with large flat grass verges on either side. And this section of road didn’t even have any white posts to avoid. I was already slowing down, by taking my foot off the accelerator. No sudden movements. I knew that to brake now would send us into a skid and a spin. If the truck didn’t make it, all I had to do was move out and drive on the verge.
        ‘Do something!!’ you shouted.
        I felt you lurch towards me and I knew what you were going to do. You took the steering wheel. Why did you do that?
 
 
I can’t remember very much about the accident. When the police asked me what happened I told them about the oncoming truck. You must have swerved to avoid it and sent the car tumbling. That must be what happened. You always were a nervous driver. And now I can’t get the picture of you out of my head, the blood on the dashboard and you slumped over the steering wheel groaning. I’ve been told you don’t want to see me. It’s hurtful; don’t you think I need closure?
 
 
Andrew was at my bedside before I opened my eyes. And he’s here for the physiotherapy – there’s going to be a lot of that. I often think about the accident and I wonder if it could have been different. But something about it was inevitable, like the road crash that was our so-called friendship. I’ve told your family that I never want to see or hear from you again. It’s better for both of us I think. It’s not that I blame you, I just don’t want you twisting it. I might have to tell you the truth.