The Lies and Times of Amanda E. James

creative nonfiction

Amanda* is a liar.  I met her in kindergarten, and my mother thought it would be fun for us to play outside of school, so she took me over to Amanda’s grandparents’ old, brick house in town.  I had no idea know why Amanda lived with her grandparents or where her parents were or if she even had any—and I still don’t know. 

            After kindergarten, I moved schools and Amanda stayed, so I did not see her again until I was eighteen.  I walked into a house party and latched on to the cute, peppy blonde pouring the drinks.  After a few minutes of chatting, I realized that I had forgotten to introduce myself.  When she told me her name, my eyes popped out of their sockets.  “You were my best friend in kindergarten!” I yelled in her face.  She pretended to remember me out of politeness, but I could tell that she did not.  Since that party, I have become great friends with her again.  I spent hours with her every day for a year; I think of her grandparents as my own; I even lived with Amanda in an apartment for a summer.  And yet, despite all the heart-to-hearts we have had, all the crazy nights we have partied until dawn, all the tears we have shared, I still know nothing about her.

            Amanda’s dad died a few weeks after I met her.  I called her every night so that she would feel as if she had someone who would be there for her.  He died again the summer we lived together, and once more last year.  The most recent time, he was driving on the wrong side of the road in Costa Rica and had a head-on collision.  Soon after, her fifteen-year-old brother died.  I met him two weeks later at her house.  He seemed like a nice kid.  She told me that she was getting custody of him because their father abused him. 

 

            Amanda is clingy.  When I re-met her at the party, I also met her boyfriend Ricky*.  He was the best friend of her previous boyfriend and an overall, pretty stand-up guy.  When he broke up with her because she cheated on him, she became unglued.  Every conversation contained his name for the next two years.  Every night ended in hysterical tears and death threats to all who opposed her erratic behavior.  When we took a road trip to a campsite three hours from home, Amanda brought her cell phone programmed with Ricky's number as speed dial number one.  By dark, she was engaged in a one-sided screaming match with his voicemail.  When her phone died, she broke down unexpectedly into shoulder-shaking sobs then stole my phone to call him back.  Then she began to walk home.

            These fits of rage were the result of every single night out with Amanda.  The whole town knew every brutal detail of her relationship with Ricky, and anytime she had disappeared at a party, I was certain that there was some kidnapped victim trapped in a corner listening to Amanda’s tale of woe.  People avoided her as if she were infected with a contagious, incurable disease, yet I found myself calling her every time I felt the urge to go out for a drink.

 

            Amanda is a bad mother.  We moved in together in May of 2006.  We partied harder than we ever had that summer, complete with drugs and alcohol.  Amanda brought home random guys frequently, yet still talked about Jonathon incessantly.  I counted eleven different guys that she brought back to our apartment that summer, and many nights she did not come home at all.  The last week of June, she came down with the flu.  A visit to the doctor told us to pack our bags and move out.  Amanda was six months pregnant. 

            According to Amanda, the father was undoubtedly Ricky, and the paternity test proved it.  Now a year and a half later, Amanda has told me countless stories—all with a different set of colorful details—about how bitter and stressful the custody case is.  Miraculously, the toddler does resemble Ricky, but then again, two or three other of Amanda’s February man-friends had blonde hair and blue eyes also.  Amanda has admitted to me on a drunken night that she wished she had never had the child, but as soon as she sobered up, she claimed that if she loses custody in this hard-fought battle, she would take her baby and leave the country—perhaps to Costa Rica.    

            If this custody battle were actually happening, Ricky would undoubtedly be granted parental rights to their son.  He has married, earned his Masters degree, and secured a high-paying job since his break up with Amanda.  Amanda has been fired from a job for sleeping with her married boss, ruined her credit (and mine), and her topless photos have become an Internet sensation in our hometown.  Lucky for her, we all know that there never was any court battle at all.

I never confront Amanda about her lies.  In her mind, she is creating a father she never had and reliving a tragic departure from him that she was never given.  No matter how annoyed I get, I listen to Amanda’s broken heart pour out every time she needs to talk about her lost love who has long since moved on because she must have been left by a negligent mother, and this was just a reminder of how hurtful a careless discard from a loved one can be.  I don’t protest to Amanda’s awful parenting.  When her son screams his head off at dinner and Amanda just smiles sweetly at him, I think to myself that no matter how bad this kid turns out to be, he will never be able to make up stories that replace a parent who was not there for him. 

Author's Note

*name has been changed

Reviews

[Courtney]

That is a good question, and I've been asking myself this for years.

[Dustin Chang]

Tragic. I've known some self-destructive people in my life so this story is not far fetched at all. Well written and attention grabbing. My question is though, what's the narrator's attraction to Amanda to put up with all her stuff?