It was almost midnight, which meant it wouldn’t be long before June’s second lie arrived at her front door.
She wondered who it would take the form of this evening. A disgruntled teacher, maybe, the one who had been told June’s dog had barfed all over her homework, hence why she had not brought it in for grading. Or perhaps today’s lie would be her old boss, who’d been led to believe her star employee would be sticking around for another year. Only time would tell, June supposed.
This was how it was in Westfield. The clock struck midnight and right there on your doorstep, appeared one of your lies—your mistakes personified. Of course the visitors weren’t actually the people they appeared to be, not in character nor free thought. They were, however, scarily exact carbon copies, identical in voice, appearance, and memory. No one knew exactly when the midnight visitors had come to Westfield. Just that they were harmless, albeit a tad unsettling.
Last night, June’s lie had appeared as her childhood best friend. She’d snorted at the irony; the first night in her new city—the start of her new life—and already she was being reminded of her old one.
Rae, who was not really Rae, looked just as she had the last time June had seen her. That had been over nine years ago. Platinum blonde hair fell to the edge of her sharp chin, her immaculate fingertips painted forest green. On her feet were navy platform Converse. June had worn a matching pair to their high school graduation because that was what they had planned.
“Best friends forever,” were the words that flew out of Not-Rae’s mouth as soon as June opened the door. That’s what you said before you completely ghosted me for those dumb sorority girls and acted like I never existed.
Not-Rae’s voice had been clear, but flat, like the tension atop a still lake before the first stone is thrown in. Her eyes, however, betrayed everything her voice did not. They were thin and scanned June up and down in a way only the two of them knew was rehearsed.
I did mean it, June had said. At the time.
Not-Rae had tilted her head, a slight frown flickering across her pale skin. The wind, warm and muggy, somehow chilled the air between them.
If you’d meant it, I wouldn’t be here.
To that, June had said nothing.
For what it’s worth, Not-Rae said as she turned to leave, it’s good you found some new people, vapid as they were. That’s all there is really.
On the second day, June thought of her dad. Westfield’s the place to be if you want to get honest, he said when she told him she was moving to the city. Or if you want to get quiet.
Still, despite his obvious reluctance, he’d helped her pack all her stuff up and into the U-Haul, waved her goodbye from the street until she could no longer see his shadow.
At midnight on the second day, a man June didn’t recognize waited on the porch.
“Sorry,” he said. June stared, confused by both his identity and his singular word.
You ran into me yesterday, the man tried again. “Sorry,” you said. But you didn’t mean it. You lied.
Oh, June said. Truthfully, she could only vaguely recall the interaction and hadn’t the faintest idea of what she should say next. Sorry.
The man grimaced. You’ll be seeing me again.
June frowned. Right.
He regarded her for a moment, with a look June couldn’t quite read. Then with a shrug, he turned and walked off.
That’s it? she called out.
That’s all there is, was his faint response. June closed the front door and went back inside.
On the third day, one of June’s predictions came true. Not-Donna, June’s previous boss, stood impatiently at her door.
“Of course I’m staying,” Not-Donna said to June. “You guys are my family.”
June examined Not-Donna’s dress, baby blue and pristine as ever. The edges of her shoulder pads, like always, were crisp and made June feel like the five-foot-three woman towered over her. It was such a familiar sight that June had the sudden urge to pull her into an embrace.
I’m sorry, June said. This one she meant. I shouldn’t have lied—not about that. I just didn’t want to hurt you.
Donna sniffed. She pulled at an invisible string on her perfect dress.
You guys really are my family, June added.
Donna straightened. The ghost of a smile played across her lips.
Well, good, she said matter-of-factly. That’s all there is, you know.
So I’ve been told, June replied.
On the fourth, fifth, sixth, and seventh days, a variety of characters paid June a visit. From her third-cousin Maxine, whom June had promised she would visit more, to Arnold, the taxi cab driver she assured she wasn’t drunk, June got used to her Westfield visitors. She liked to think of her midnight visits as her own kind of housewarming party.
After sixteen days, she’d gotten into a routine; go to work, come home and get ahead on tomorrow’s work until dinner, which she ate in front of her TV. Afterwards, she cleaned the kitchen, took a long, hot shower, and watched Disney movies until midnight. After thirty days, she no longer felt even a trace of apprehension about the upcoming visitor. They were simply part of her life now and she could accept this.
On the thirty-third day, two things happened. One, June turned twenty-eight years old. Two, at midnight, her mother showed up on her doorstep. June knew it was her only by the woman’s scent. She’d been five when her mother had left them.
Angela, June blurted out. Normally, she would never speak first. She found it best to give each visitor the space to air out their grievances. But this was different.
Like Rae, her Not-mother hadn’t aged a day. Lucious brown curls splayed out around her head, the very ends bleached blonde. Her brown skin was smooth and milky, not a wrinkle in sight. The warm scent of vanilla and pear enveloped the pocket they stood in.
“I hate you,” her not-mother said. She smiled wistfully as she said it. It was not dissimilar to the look of a young parent whose child has walked into school without looking back for the first time. The comparison, although fitting, sent the anger’s slimy fingers thrumming at June’s heart.
She stared at the woman before her. A minute passed, then two. The pair stood still in a long silence June didn’t quite know how to break. She didn’t know if she wanted to.
Not-Angela did it for her. Well, she began. She’s still alive, you know. June’s heartbeat grew unnaturally loud in her ears.
She’s in Tennessee. Memphis, I think.
June shook her head, trying to clear out the cobwebs of intrigue. The last thing she wanted on her birthday was vague, and clearly bad advice from an emotionless clone of her least favorite person.
I don’t care, June snapped angrily—famously, the emotion of indifference. Not-Angela just listened, calm and unmoving.
I needed her then, June said. A burning sensation pricked the back of her throat. I sure as hell don’t need her now.
Not-Angela blinked. But—
June knew before she opened her mouth what words were to follow.
This is all there is, they said together.
Not-Angela smiled, a broad, full one this time. Something painful and familiar stretched wide in June’s chest at the sight of it. She couldn’t bring herself to smile back.
Enjoy your birthday, Junebug, Not-Angela whispered. With a flourish, she turned, click-clacking down the porch stairs. The streetlights danced across her back as she strode down the pavement, washing her in a golden blaze.
June watched her mother go until she could no longer trace her shadow. When she was sure Not-Angela could no longer see her, she raised a hand in farewell. June breathed in deep, inhaling every bit of this beautiful ending.