Page 35 of Enigma
Olive didn’t answer. Instead, she asked, “What happened to your face?”
Her mother’s hand moved to her cheek, her fingers tracing the bruise. “I tripped in the dark. Fell right into the bathroom door like a klutz.”
But Olive had heard enough arguments between her parents to know that wasn’t true.
Still, she hesitated, everything going still around her before she asked, “Did Dad hurt you?”
“Your dad? Of course not, honey. Your father would never hurt me.” Her mother’s voice was calm, soothing.
But sometimes she wasn’t sure exactly who her dad was. Was he the doting husband and father? The astute businessman?
Or was he a criminal?
She hated to ask herself that question, but she had no choice.
A memory from when Olive was eight years old slammed into her mind. Her father had taken her to a town about thirty minutes away from their own and he’d made Olive tell people she was sick and ask for money.
Before they’d left that town, she’d seen her dad talking to a man in the parking lot. She’d never forget his face, never forget the feeling she’d had as she watched them.
Whatever was going on between them, it wasn’t good.
Mom paused and turned toward her. “But Olive, I need you to listen to me very carefully. Can you do that?”
Olive nodded and leaned against the wall.
“Sometimes grownups have disagreements, and sometimes those disagreements can look scary to children. But what’s important is that we handle these situations the right way.” Her mother stood and moved to the mirror above the sink. “Peopleare going to ask questions when they see this bruise. Neighbors, maybe someone at the grocery store. It’s very important we tell them the right thing.”
“You mean, the truth?”
“The truth.” Something in her mom’s tone suggested there were different versions of the truth. “The truth is I fell and hit my face. That’s what happened. When people see me upset, they’ll assume it’s because I’m embarrassed about being clumsy.”
Olive watched as her mother began experimenting with her reflection, adjusting her expression in subtle ways. First, she let her shoulders slump slightly and allowed her eyes to fill with unshed tears. She became the picture of a woman barely holding herself together.
Then she straightened and forced a bright, brittle smile that didn’t reach her eyes. She was the image of someone putting on a brave face.
Olive squinted in confusion as she watched. “Why are you doing that?”
“I’m practicing. When people see someone who looks angry or calculating, they get suspicious. They start wondering what really happened.” Mom turned away from the mirror and faced Olive. “But when they see a worried mother trying to be strong for her child, they want to help. They don’t ask difficult questions.”
Olive narrowed her eyes even more. “But youdolook angry.”
Her mother’s smile widened, appearing more genuine. “That’s because you know me better than anyone else. But strangers? They see what I show them.” She demonstrated again, letting vulnerability creep into her posture, making her voice slightly shaky. “Can you see the difference?”
Olive nodded, fascinated despite her confusion. “It’s like you’re two different people.”
“We’re all different people depending on who’s looking at us. The trick is choosing which person to be in each situation.” Mom rocked back on her heels, studying Olive’s face. “If someone asks you about the bruise today, what will you say?”
She was certain this was a trick question. “That you fell?”
“That’s right. And if they ask how I’m feeling?”
Olive thought about it. “That you’re okay but embarrassed?”
“Perfect.” Her mother straightened and began pulling items from the medicine cabinet—concealer, powder, lipstick. “Now watch this.”
Olive watched as her mother carefully applied makeup. When she finished, the bruise was barely visible.
“How do you know how to do that?” Olive asked, impressed by her mom’s skills.
