Page 9 of This is Why We Lied

“Waiting to ambush us,” Dave said.

Mercy figured that was what her father was planning. She was under no illusion that they were about to share a warm family moment.

She told them, “Let’s get this over with.”

Mercy led the boys across the compound. The two cats trotted alongside them. She struggled against her natural state of anxiety. Jon was safe. Mercy was not helpless. She was too old for a spanking, and it wasn’t like Papa could outrun her anymore.

Heat rushed into her face. She was an awful daughter for even thinking such a thing. Eighteen months ago, her father had been guiding a group up the mountain bike trail when he’d flipped head-first over his handlebars and plunged into the gorge. An air ambulance had winched him out on a stretcher while the guests watched in horror. His skull had been cracked open. Two vertebrae in his neck were fractured. His back was broken. There was no question that he would end up in a wheelchair. He had nerve damage in his right arm. If he was lucky, he would have limited control of his left hand. He could still breathe on his own, but in those first few days, the surgeons had talked about him like he was already dead.

Mercy hadn’t had time to grieve. Guests were still at the lodge. Even more were coming in the following weeks. Schedules had to be made. Guides had to be assigned. Supplies had to be ordered. Bills had to be paid.

Fish was the oldest, but he’d never been interested in management. His passion was taking guests out on the water. Jon was too young, and what’s more, he hated it here. Dave couldn’t be trusted to show up. Delilah was not an option. Bitty, understandably, wouldn’t leave Papa’s side. By default, Mercy had been given the job. That she was actually good at it should’ve been a source of family pride. That her changes had led to a large profit in the first year, that she was on track to double that now, should’ve warranted a celebration.

Yet from the moment her father had gotten out of the rehab facility, he’d seethed with anger. Not about the accident. Not about his loss of athletic ease in his body. Not even about his loss of freedom. For some unfathomable reason, all of his rage, all of his animosity, was directed squarely at Mercy.

Every day, Bitty would wheel Papa around the main compound. Every day, he would find fault with everything Mercy did. The beds weren’t being made the right way. The towels weren’t being folded the right way. The guests weren’t being handled the right way. The meals weren’t being served the right way. And of course, the right way was always his way.

In the beginning, Mercy had struggled to please him, to stroke his ego, to pretend like she couldn’t do it without him, to beg him for advice and approval. Nothing worked. His anger only festered. She could’ve shit out gold bars and he would’ve found a problem with every single one. She had known Papa could be a demanding bully. What she hadn’t realized was that he was just as petty as he was cruel.

“Hold up.” Fish’s voice was low, like they were kids sneaking off to the lake. “How’re we gonna play this, my peeps?”

“Like we always do,” Dave told him. “You’re gonna stare at the floor with your mouth shut. I’m gonna piss everybody off. Mercy’s gonna dig in and fight.”

That earned him a smile, at least. Mercy squeezed Dave’s arm before opening the front door.

As always, she was greeted by darkness. Dark, weather-worn walls. Two tiny, slitted windows. No sunlight. The foyer of the main house had served as the original lodge when it opened after the Civil War. The place was little more than a fishing shack back then. You could see the ax marks in the wood paneling where the planks had been cut from trees felled on the property.

By luck and necessity, the house had expanded over the years. A second entrance was added on the side of the porch so hikers saw something more inviting when they came off the trail. Private rooms were built for more affluent guests, which necessitated a back set of stairs to the upper floor. A parlor and a dining room were added for would-be Teddy Roosevelts who’d flooded in to explore the new national forest. The kitchen had been connected to the house when wood-burning stoves stopped being a thing. The wrap-around porch was a concession to the crushing summer heat. At one point, there were twelve McAlpine brothers stuffed into bunkbeds on the upper floor. One half had hated the other, which had necessitated building the three bachelor cottages around the lake.

They had mostly scattered when the Great Depression hit, leaving a lone, resentful McAlpine hanging on by the skin of his teeth. He had stored their ashes on a shelf in the basement as one-by-one they had returned to the property. This great-grandfather to Mercy and Fish was responsible for creating the tightly controlled family trust, and his bitterness toward his siblings was writ large in every paragraph.

He was also the only reason this place hadn’t been sold for parts years ago. Most of the campsite was in a conservation easement that could never be developed. The other part was restricted by covenants that limited how that land could be used. The trust required a consensus before anything major could be done, and over the years, there had only been asshole McAlpines battling against asshole McAlpines who avoided consensus if only out of spite. That her father was the biggest asshole in a long line should’ve come as no surprise.

Yet here they were.

Mercy squared her shoulders as she walked down the long hallway toward the back. Her eyes watered at the rush of sunlight pouring through the crank casement windows, then the Palladian windows, then the sleek accordion doors that led to the back of the porch. Each room was like the rings in a tree. You could mark the passage of time by the horsehair plaster and popcorn ceilings and avocado green appliances that complemented the brand-new Wolf six-burner cooktop in the kitchen.

That’s where she found her parents waiting. Papa’s wheelchair was pulled up under the round pedestal table Dave had built after the accident. Bitty sat beside him, back straight, lips pursed, hand resting on a stack of schedules. There was something timeless about her appearance. Barely a line etched her face. She had always looked more like Mercy’s older sister than her mother. Except for the air of disapproval. As usual, Bitty didn’t smile until she saw Dave, then her face lit up like Elvis had carried Jesus Christ through the door.

Mercy barely clocked the exchange. Delilah was nowhere to be seen, which sent Mercy’s brain spinning all over again. Where was she hiding? Why was she here? What did she want? Had she run into Jon on the narrow road?

“Is it so hard to be on time?” Papa made a show of looking at the kitchen clock. He wore a watch, but turning his left wrist took effort. “Sit down.”

Dave ignored the order and leaned down to kiss Bitty’s cheek. “Doing okay, Bitty Mama?”

“I’m good, dear.” Bitty reached up and patted his face. “Go on and sit.”

Her light touch temporarily smoothed the worry from Dave’s brow. He winked at Mercy as he pulled out his chair. Mama’s boy. Fish took his usual seat on her left; eyes on the floor, hands in his lap, no surprise.

Mercy let her gaze rest on her father. His face had more scars than hers now, with deep wrinkles that fanned from the corners of his eyes and dueling parentheses that sliced into the hollows of his cheeks. He’d turned sixty-eight this year, but he looked ninety. He’d always been an active outdoorsman. Before the bike accident, Mercy had never seen her father sit still for more time than it took to shovel a meal into his mouth. The mountains were his home. He knew every inch of the trails. The name of every bird. Every flower. Guests adored him. The men wanted his life. The women wanted his sense of purpose. They called him their favorite guide, their kindred spirit, their confidant.

He wasn’t their father.

“All right, children.” Bitty always started the family meeting with the same phrase like they were all still toddlers. She leaned up in her chair so she could pass out the schedules. She was a petite woman, barely five feet tall, with a soft voice and cherubic face. “We’ll get five couples today. Five more on Thursday.”

“Another packed house,” Dave said. “Good job, Mercy Mac.”

The fingers of Papa’s left hand wrapped around the arm of his chair. “We’ll need to bring in extra guides for the weekend.”