The Lies We Told by Diane Chamberlain Page B

was truly angry with me and didn’t care how I felt. But really, I was a grown woman. If I hadn’t wanted to come, I should have said so. It wasn’t up to them to take care of me. I’d kept my lips sealed, though. Adam was psyched and I was not going to give him one more reason, no matter how trifling, to be disappointed in me. He’d been cool toward me since our appointment with Elaine. I’d apologized over and over for keeping the abortion a secret from him and didn’t know what more I could do. One thing I’d learned over the years was that I couldn’t change the past, no matter how much I might want to.
    “The only time I was in Brazil,” Rebecca was saying, “my friends ordered this dish for me in a restaurant and it turned out to be boiled alligator.”
    Oh, great, I wanted to say. And why do we want to go to a Brazilian restaurant?
    We drove past a liquor store, where a string of women—clearly prostitutes—posed and preened on the sidewalk.
    “There it is.” Brent pointed to a tiny glass-fronted building squashed between a pawnshop and a video store.
    “That’s it? ” Rebecca sounded both astonished and delighted.
    There was no sign above the door. The word Restaurant was hand painted on a piece of cardboard taped inside the window.
    “Yeah,” Brent said. “They’re so new, they don’t have their sign yet.”
    “Cool,” said Adam.
    “Do you see any parking?” I asked, craning my neck. I wanted a spot right in front of the restaurant so we wouldn’t have to walk any farther in this neighborhood than was necessary.
    “Nothing.” Brent looked left and right.
    “Is that one?” Rebecca asked. “Up there on the right? Oh. Mini Cooper.”
    We drove one block. Then another. “Maybe it’s not a good night for this,” I said.
    “There’s one!” Brent shouted, and he started to whip the Prius nose first toward the curb, stepping on the brake just in time to avoid creaming the motorcycle that had been hidden from our view in the parking place. “Damn!” he said. “Dude’s taking up two spots.”
    “It’s puny,” my sister said. “Let’s move it!” Before I knew what was happening, she and Adam were out of the car, laughing as they half lifted, half rolled the bike out of our way. I watched the lightness in their movements, the energy, unable to remember the last time I’d seen Adam laugh, and I was glad I’d agreed to come despite my reservations. I wanted to see that smile on my husband’s face, even if I wasn’t the person to put it there.
    Brent managed to squeeze the car into the parking place once the motorcycle was out of the way. We were in front of a wig store. The window was full of mannequin heads, most of them dark skinned, wearing wigs in every shade of the rainbow.
    Adam offered me a hand as I got out of the car. “Oh, Maya,” he said, sudden sympathy in his voice. “We should have dropped you off out front. Are you up to the walk?”
    He meant physically, and physically I was fine. “I’m okay,” I said, already starting to walk, setting a brisk, brisk pace.
    “Look out,” Brent said as we bustled past the wig shop, “this woman’s hungry!”
     
    The restaurant was long and narrow and packed, but we found a table in the rear. As we walked toward it, I saw one of the E.R. docs from Duke sitting against the far wall, and she waved. I waved back. Seeing her there gave me courage, as if it had not been a stupid idea to come to this part of Durham for dinner after all. I began to notice the other patrons. Some dressed up; most dressed down. White, black, brown. Probably some native Brazilians, happy to enjoy a meal that reminded them of home.
    Rebecca and I took the far side of the table and sat down, facing the front of the room. By the time Brent and Adam sat down across from us, I was starting to relax. I liked this place, I decided. I liked the lively atmosphere. The laughter. The spicy smells.
    The menus were handwritten in Portuguese and filled with