The Lie Under Nia’s Voice

I keep turning over the sentence Gideon supposedly heard from Ruth: I closed the door on you. It sounds clean enough to be rehearsed, and rehearsed lies are usually more useful than ugly truths. I wanted to call it manipulation the moment Nia said it. I also wanted to grab her by the shoulders and make her admit how badly she needs that wound to be real.

Her certainty weakened when I pressed her. That scared me more than the accusation. If Nia starts doubting Gideon now, she may have to find the truth underneath it, and the truth might be worse: Ruth wanted her, Ruth was afraid, Ruth reached out, and Nia did not come. Or perhaps Ruth did close the door. People get sick, frightened, proud. I know how quickly love can turn itself into a locked entrance.

The blue cup sits beside my phone like a challenge with no solution. I am afraid I used it to steer Nia when I should have left her alone. I am also afraid I will not do enough once she reaches the care home. There is no promise I am willing to make, and yet I feel the need to offer one.

I called the care home to ask whether Ruth has been asking for Nia. I wanted the answer badly enough that I hated myself for it. If Ruth has been waiting, then Gideon’s lie becomes cruelty with consequences. If she has not, Nia may walk in carrying a fantasy that will protect her from the uglier truth.