{"id":10694,"date":"2026-09-07T16:25:11","date_gmt":"2026-09-07T21:25:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/?p=10694"},"modified":"2026-09-07T16:25:12","modified_gmt":"2026-09-07T21:25:12","slug":"lies-she-told-them-an-excerpt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/faithhopeandfiction.com\/content\/lies-she-told-them-an-excerpt\/","title":{"rendered":"Lies She Told Them \u2013 An Excerpt"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
<\/p>\n\n\n
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By Patricia Crisafulli<\/strong><\/em><\/h3>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
Author\u2019s Note: The following is an excerpt from a manuscript I wrote several years ago. Now, as I begin rewriting the book, I wanted to share a favorite scene.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n
Savannah watched the morning shadows crawl across the ceiling of her bedroom. A gray sliver near the window had grown fingers of light as she lay there, unable to sleep. No matter how tired her body was, insomnia stirred her mind awake. Savannah sighed loudly enough that Steve might hear her, but her husband didn\u2019t move. Having grown up in a household of four boys and two girls, Steve could sleep through anything. When Shannon was a baby, he\u2019d never hear her crying at night. Thunderstorms, cars with noisy mufflers, dogs barking\u2014nothing ever awakened him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 No, Savannah reminded herself yet again; she was always the one who got up at the first sound, listening and pacing. Suddenly annoyed at her husband\u2019s ability to block out everything, Savannah wanted to poke him in the back. But Steve had classes to teach and football practice after school, and with the big game tomorrow he couldn\u2019t afford to lose sleep. Besides, she couldn\u2019t tell him what was really troubling her\u2014that box, <\/em>and the doubts that Augusta had planted in her mind about their mother, about herself.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Damn her<\/em>. If only her sister hadn\u2019t torn apart the whole upstairs looking for that stupid old swing coat. Why did she want it anyway? It didn\u2019t fit her. Their mother had been five-foot-five, and Augusta hit six feet without her shoes on. If they\u2019d just stopped at old clothes, they could have enjoyed reminiscing about what they found: the Christmas dresses they\u2019d worn as children, the red wool coats with the black velvet trim. But, no, Augusta just had to keep digging.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Savannah punched her pillow into a hump and laid her head on it. First they\u2019d found an old book from a high school library somewhere in Pennsylvania, in which someone had written \u201cThis book belongs to Mary Margaret Urudell.\u201d So, what if the handwriting looked like their mother\u2019s, Savannah argued silently. People learned proper handwriting in those days. Probably everybody wrote the same.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Always spiteful, even though their mother had just died, Augusta latched onto that book as proof of what had been her real name. It was preposterous. Everything their mother owned\u2014the house, her car\u2014was in the name of Maggie Louise Gates. And that evidence was far better than some old book.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Harder to ignore, though, were what they\u2019d uncovered next. Savannah tried to block the images, but they surfaced in her mind as if she were holding the photos they\u2019d found. Their mother as a young woman. Their mother with Augusta, a toddler of two or so. Their mother, Augusta, and some dark-haired man. Based on the clothing and the setting, it was clear those photos had been taken the same day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 He could have been anybody\u2014a neighbor or a friend, Savannah told herself. But it had been the look on her sister\u2019s face that Savannah couldn\u2019t deny, shock mixed with recognition and the muttered words, I remember him. <\/em>And then the insinuation that this man could have been Savannah\u2019s father.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Sitting up in bed, Savannah threw off the covers as if that one motion could scatter every unwanted thought.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Slipping on her robe and stepping into her slippers, Savannah scoffed at Augusta\u2019s suggestion that she looked like that man. They both had dark hair, but so did three-quarters of the planet. She didn\u2019t look like him\u2014she looked like her mother. Everyone said so.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta was the odd one\u2014extremely tall with brassy red hair. If anyone ought to wonder where she came from, it was her sister. Suddenly, other possibilities came to mind. Augusta could be the child of some relative, an infant taken in by their parents after they married. Maybe deep down inside, Augusta knew that she wasn\u2019t a real daughter. She was the outsider.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Savannah had no doubts about her identity, her origin story.<\/p>\n\n\n
\n<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She\u2019d been in fifth or sixth grade, and the teacher had assigned a family tree. They had to write down the names of their ancestors and where they were born, as far back as they could. At the kitchen table, Savannah waited for her mother to pour a cup of coffee before sitting down beside her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWell, you know this row,\u201d Maggie had said, angling the paper so she could read it. \u201cIt\u2019s you and Augusta.\u201d Savannah wrote their names in her best cursive. \u201cAnd you know my name and your father\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cBut I don\u2019t know your name before you got married,\u201d Savannah said. \u201cThat\u2019s what I have to put down.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u201cWell, I\u2019m sure I\u2019ve told you a hundred times what my maiden name is. You just don\u2019t remember. My name is, or was, Lee\u2014like Robert E. Lee, but no relation.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Savannah put down all the names until all four rows were filled in. Long after that school assignment, she had memorized her grandparents and great-grandparents. She used to imagine them as guardian angels looking down at her, smiling proudly at what a good girl she was, so smart in school.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Reaching the bottom step of the staircase that bisected her small house, Savannah turned toward the kitchen and snapped on the light. The clock on the stove read 5:41. It was the kind of early hour when veils thinned and boundaries became porous. She knew from experience that thoughts she could bury in the busyness of the day were harder to avoid first thing in the morning.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 And here it was again, the fear that their mother\u2019s stories may not have been exactly true. What if, as Augusta always claimed, they had been mostly lies and fabrications?<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Savannah sat down wearily at the kitchen table, trying to talk herself out of eating a donut from the box she\u2019d bought the other day and hidden in the back of the cupboard. Her willpower did not last long.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Savoring the sugary taste and the buttery feel in her mouth, Savannah comforted herself with her favorite story. When she and Augusta were girls, they\u2019d ask their mother to tell it, over and over. Always, it began with the same line: I was just eighteen years old and in finishing school in Richmond<\/em>.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Her teacher, Miss Olivia Pennington, taught young women from the finest Virginia families how to walk and talk, to sit with their ankles crossed and their knees angled to the side, their spines never resting against the back of the chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 One day, as she left Miss Pennington\u2019s school, Maggie had to pick up a package for her grandmother at the pharmacist. As she walked down the sidewalk, Maggie came to a gap where the concrete had been broken up. Just as she was about to step off the curb and into the street, a man called out to her: \u201cYoung lady, do not move another inch!\u201d Surprised, Maggie turned to see a man in a finely tailored suit running across the street toward her. A truck was parked nearby, loaded with lumber. The man took a wide plank from the back and placed it over the gap in the sidewalk. Then, standing in the street, he took Maggie by the hand ever so gently and guided her across.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He gave her his card, which Maggie showed to Miss Pennington. At her teacher\u2019s instruction, Maggie wrote a short note, thanking him for his gallantry. Three days later, she received his reply, inviting her to join him for lunch, with a proper chaperone, of course. Miss Pennington, herself, accompanied Maggie to the Commonwealth Club, one of the finest establishments in the state. Sitting there, waiting for her to arrive, was John Worthington Gates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The story never disappointed, never failed to reassure her, Savannah thought as she spooned grounds into the coffeemaker. Neither she nor Augusta had any memories of their father; he had died right after Savannah was born. In shock and grief, their mother had left everything behind when she fled north to start a new life with her daughters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It all made sense to Savannah. So let Augusta try to poke holes in what they\u2019d been told since childhood. She knew exactly who she was.<\/p>\n\n\n
\n<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Early morning sunlight filtered through the gap where the shade met the window and spattered against the salmon-pink wall. The tiny bedroom was cold, even though the heat was on. Despite forty years of patches and repairs, this old house was prone to drafts. Augusta shivered and curled under the thin blankets.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Suddenly she remembered\u2014how when they were children, she used to tell Savannah that a monster lived in the walls and the draft by the window was its icy breath. She\u2019d make up stories about its big hairy body and red eyes that could see in the dark, scaring them both half to death. That\u2019s where their mother would find them: huddled in one bed, the comforter pulled up to their noses.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta rolled over and scanned the bedroom she\u2019d been staying in since the funeral. The clock on the desk read six-fifteen\u2014not quite five hours of sleep. She\u2019d stayed up too late last night, going over everything they\u2019d found in that box.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In her mind, the pictures told an obvious story: their mother out on a date with the dark-haired man; only a toddler, she had been brought along. Now she could only speculate about who the man was and his relationship with Maggie, though the photos squirreled away hinted at some special meaning. But she\u2019d bet that this man had fathered Savannah; the resemblance was uncanny.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Somehow, though, Augusta doubted that dark-haired man in the photo was her father, though she couldn\u2019t say why. And as for the John Worthington Gates saga, she didn\u2019t buy it. If they were descended from some fine Virginia family, where had all those relatives been? And as for their mother\u2019s accent, she\u2019d lay it on thick like an extra coat of mascara, and then nearly drop it altogether.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 But that book, those photographs. No matter what story they hinted at, they were real. Tangible. It\u2019s all she\u2019d ever wanted.<\/p>\n\n\n
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\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The cold floor shot needles through the soles of Augusta\u2019s feet as she went downstairs to use the bathroom. Washing her hands in the sink, Augusta studied her reflection, not looking for wrinkles and lines, but for traces of her mother. Always it was the nose\u2014the one feature that she, Savannah, and Maggie shared.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 In the kitchen, Augusta put a filter in the Mister Coffee on the counter and went to the pantry for a can of Maxwell House. Hanging on a peg behind the pantry door was an old wool cardigan, pilled at the elbows. My house sweater<\/em>, Mother used to call it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Augusta clutched the sweater to her chest, feeling the softness of the old knit and knowing that this had been one of the last pieces of clothing her mother had worn, if not on the day she slipped into a coma and died, then the day before or the one before that. It held the last of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By nine in the morning, Augusta had cleaned off most of the shelves in the pantry, separating food that could be donated from what had to be thrown out because it was open or past its expiration date.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Savannah came in the back door with a plate of apple-cinnamon muffins.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cYou bake like this every morning?\u201d Augusta asked and took a bite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOf course not. I\u2019m usually out the door before Steve and Shannon. But today, I wanted something special.\u201d Savannah looked around the kitchen. \u201cWe\u2019ve got a lot to do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cI found Mother\u2019s old house sweater.\u201d Augusta pointed to the cardigan hanging on the back of a kitchen chair.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cThat\u2019s hardly a surprise. She wore it all the time.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta ignored her sister\u2019s arched eyebrow that broadcast, not that you\u2019d know, since you rarely ever came to visit. <\/em>She opened the cupboard and took out another mug. \u201cYou want coffee?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 For the rest of the morning, they packed boxes with food donations and filled garbage bags with towels, bedding, and clothing. They loaded the trunk and back seat of Savannah\u2019s car, then did the same with Augusta\u2019s rental. In a two-vehicle caravan, Savannah leading the way, they brought it all to Cupper Falls Cares.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, Savannah,\u201d one of the volunteers said. \u201cSo sorry about your mother. We lost one of our best angels.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Savannah accepted the hug. \u201cMom loved helping out here, especially after she retired. I think she was busier with all her volunteer work, than when she was at the law office.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta walked back to the car and brought in another box. \u201cWhere can I put this?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cLeave it anywhere,\u201d the volunteer said. \u201cWe\u2019ll sort through it later.\u201d She turned to Savannah. \u201cDid your mother have any warning that something was wrong, before her brain started bleeding? I never heard of such a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cAneurysm. They call it a cranial hemorrhage,\u201d Savannah explained. \u201cOther than a headache that morning, she had no idea.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta went back to get another box. \u201cThere\u2019s bedding in this box\u2014all of it clean. There\u2019s even a package of sheets that\u2019s never been opened.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The volunteer looked over with a nod.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Augusta shifted her stance. \u201cDidn\u2019t Savannah tell you? I\u2019m Augusta\u2014Maggie\u2019s other daughter.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cOh, I didn\u2019t know!\u201d the volunteer exclaimed. \u201cYou two don\u2019t look anything alike. And I\u2019m not sure I\u2019ve met you before.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cShe doesn\u2019t come back very often,\u201d Savannah said as she began unpacking one of the boxes. She set a carefully folded stack of sweaters and blouses on a long table where donations were sorted.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Augusta carried in two large garbage bags, one in each hand. Passing the donations sorting table, she spotted Maggie\u2019s old house sweater. \u201cI don\u2019t think we should give this away,\u201d Augusta said, running her hand down the front where a button was missing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cIt\u2019s just an old sweater,\u201d Savannah said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
But when Savannah went back to unpacking, Augusta slipped the sweater off the pile, tucked it under her arm, and carried it out to her car. She couldn\u2019t explain why she\u2019d done that, except that she couldn\u2019t bear the thought of someone else wearing Maggie\u2019s sweater or, more likely, of one of the volunteers discarding it because it was so old and worn.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Raising it to her nose, Augusta breathed in the familiar scents: Jergen\u2019s hand lotion and L\u2019Air du Temps <\/em>perfume. It smelled just like her mother.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
By Patricia Crisafulli<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2,18],"tags":[25],"class_list":["post-10694","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-original-online-fiction","category-patricia-crisafulli","tag-short-story"],"yoast_head":"\n
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