A lie tasted delicious. A cherry ice pop on a hot day or a pumpkin-spiced latte as the weather cooled. There were as many flavors of lies as there were of the petit macarons in the glass windows of Noelle Clarke's favorite patisserie in Georgetown. Some lies were savory, with bits of pistachios and matcha, the truth folded into the fabrication to make them more sincere. Some were even gory, like her father's signature dish at Red Bone, his world-renowned restaurant: a luxurious beef bone, sliced open to reveal the decadent marrow inside, pomegranate reduction drizzled on top, like blood. But the lie leaving Noelle's mouth was thick and salty, like burnt caramel crystallized along the edges of an expensive saucepan. "I didn't do anything, you know?" she told the nurse who was slipping a blood pressure cuff around her bicep. "It wasn't me." The red-faced woman didn't glance up from her chart. "I'm just here to get your vitals, honey." "Then I can go home?" Noelle searched the woman's face for the truth. Every person she'd encountered since leaving the boat was lying. The sweet kind of lies. And she knew it. "Of course. You've all been through a trauma. We have to run tests to make sure you're both physically and mentally okay. It's just terrible what happened."
Noelle didn't need a reminder that the last few days had been awful—monstrous, in fact. She'd barely made it out. "But how long will it take?" Her front teeth nibbled her bottom lip until she got what she was after: blood. She felt bad about breaking the skin, but only a little bit. The nasty habit, as her mother called it, should’ve been “fixed” by now with all the expensive therapy appointments, stimming objects, and menthol-laced lip gloss her parents had invested in to deter the compulsion. But as the first metallic pearl oozed through the cut, throbbing with heat, Noelle was reminded that she was still alive. That she’d survived what had happened on that godforsaken island.
The nurse shook her head. “What did I tell you about doing that?” She handed Noelle a piece of gauze to apply pressure before wiping it with stinging antiseptic.
Noelle flinched as her skin sizzled. “I want to go home.” This was probably the hundredth time she’d said it.
“The officers will be back soon, and we need the results of your bloodwork and tests. Some of you were in such bad shape . . .” The nurse’s statement had a question underneath: How did you get hurt like this?
The machine beeped. They watched together as Noelle’s heart rate spiked. She didn’t know how to respond. She didn’t know where to begin. She didn’t know if she even wanted to.
So she avoided eye contact, instead surveying the small hospital room again, counting each item like she did when she’d prepare to bake one of her award-winning creations. (She’d won the Washington, DC, Capital City Junior Bake-Off Championship two years in a row.) She’d assess each ingredient, making a mental inventory of what she was working with. In this current reality: a tiny bathroom with a leaky faucet she could hear when the room got too quiet; one wobbly chair; a hospital bed that she reluctantly occupied; a single window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean (a body of water she never wanted to see again if she could help it); and one door leading to a hall clogged with police officers, detectives, and security. Aka her only exit led right to the people who wanted to keep her here.
The machine beeped again, and the blood pressure cuff pulled her focus back to the nurse. The woman’s blue gaze was fixed on Noelle’s injuries with curiosity. Noelle wondered if she could see deeper, beyond the cuts and bruises, down to her heart, where the real damage lay. Noelle knew if she caught a glimpse of herself in the small wall mirror, she’d see just how terrible she looked. Her brown skin boasted a constellation of bruises. The whites of her eyes were streaked with red.