You couldn't count all the liars. Admittedly, it would have been too difficult, but you tried. At Emily's swim practice, poolside, breaking voices of teenage coaches barking commands in the background, water lapping and heat rising. You tried. At first, you foolishly thought yourself capable of this accounting through memory alone. No pen. No paper. That was a mistake, but how could you have known?

In the beginning, the list seemed to generate itself; at first it was an uninterrupted current of names coming fast. A fecund water following gravity through the garden hose...mom, dad, jenny, Mrs. McKinsey, nana Jo, cousin Lara.....that was just physics, bodies in motion. Soon enough, five minutes? Ten minutes? Enough time for the swim team to line up, a row of thirty purple little t-shirts-- soon enough your memory sprung leaks. Jeff popped up. He should have been after dad, but that would change Lara's place.

The glare of the sun blinds you for a moment. You make a visor gesture with your hand over your eyes. You scan the pool. The coach blows a whistle. You hear splashes. Diving practice.

Carol. You couldn't remember if you had included her. Your instinct, rightly so , told you she hadn't always been a liar. That came later didn't it? After it was discovered Uncle Red had been abusing her. 'Discovered' that too was a sort of fabrication. Had there been a discovery or just a silent acknowledgment after Carol died? You remember distinctly the change in Carol from honest to liar.

It still leaves a queasiness.

It was at the beach, the one you could walk to; as a child it had seemed far but later, when you were a bit older it was so close that no adult needed to accompany you. Back then gentle waves lapped at your toes. The sand was hot and you both took shelter in the sliver of shade provided by the lifeguard umbrella. You had wanted to share something with Carol. Do you remember what that was? It was that lifeguard you had kissed. Charley Royls, that was his name. Carol smiled at you, big floppy hat, sunglasses—and you thought 'God is she beautiful. God I wish I were Carol.' You envied her, don't you remember? She was sophisticated. She was pretty and grown up. But then she lifted her hand in a wave. It was subtle but unmistakable. She'd taken him from you. That was the exact moment when you knew she was a liar and so was Charley.

You put aside your calculations for the time being, scan the pool and deck. The team photographer is having girls throw buckets of water on each other for the summer team photos. You think of Girls Gone Wild. But really these were just little girls, eleven or twelve years old. You wipe the thought out of your mind, but still you wait for boys to be similarly doused and photographed just so you know it wasn't sexist. They never were. You cringe, don't do anything but dread when they throw a bucket of water on your daughter, Emily. You are just about to get up and prevent it—no it wouldn't be traumatic, she wouldn't know the implications and you wouldn't tell her either—would you? You'd never been that kind of mother. The kind to insinuate. But as you start to get up, a boy screams from the deep end "call 911".

They threw the dummy doll in the water.

Oh God. You are relieved. A lifeguard rescue drill.

Call 911.

That must have been it. Something about a false emergency. That split second summoned him. Perhaps, the greatest liar of them all.

The nameless one.

The evil one rose up into your consciousness. Where should he be recorded on the list? You realized that his lies were heavier, more demonic, but you hadn't weighted any of the others. Up until that point the organizing rule was simply chronology. You re-examined your strategy and employed another. A mental calculation was insufficient. Perhaps if you were alone on a life raft out on the south seas --perhaps then-- you would have had to rely on your mental faculties, even honed them through memory exercises. But you knew, that even if you had been floating out in the vast ocean alone --even then-- you would have realized you needed a system to keep track of these liars. Notches on wood or fish scales. You would have found a way.

There were just too many and lies, by their very nature, are complicated.

You start over; a whistle blows. Practice starts. Emily stands tall and womanly at 12 years old. She reaches her arm up and pulls it back with her other arm. Stretching. You realize then that she must have a list of liars too, hers are ticking away too. You realized as the sun is beating down on the plastic lounger, you realize as you scanned the pool deck and see all the other mothers had somehow found shade. Staked claim even. You realize that you've tried to make sure Emily's list was short. There were trains you stood in front of, lies you protected her from. You knew there were some she keeps from you; she owned them now.

You tell yourself you're a damned good mother. Damn it you are.

Oh God but as she grows older, the list will grow longer.

Sitting there watching your daughter stretch and wait for warm ups, you once again begin the calculations. This time around Uncle Red's lies stand out. Uncle Red. The evil one. That God damned bastard has changed the algorithm.

Fuck.

You feel yourself getting over heated. You pull your hair back and when you bring your hands back down, the ponytail feels severe. You imagine the other mothers, particularly the one in a pale romper, the one carrying the little red haired baby. Maybe she'd passed a glance your way, you don't remember. It didn't matter. But when you see her you think perhaps you've pulled your hair back too much and you start to wonder if you look crazy. Skin too tight around the forehead, too much of the ears.

You fumble in your purse. You absolutely need to write this list down, have scratch paper to add, cross out, draw arrows. You smile at that same overwhelmed mother. She's trying to sit down and adjust the diaper bag. You find the pen and practically let out a cry in relief. Pen and paper. This is good –your mind is in motion—it's not a list it's an equation.

At first, you create symbols and icons to code and reorder. Yes. You realized there was a hierarchy to your list of liars. You couldn't blame Carol after you found out about her father. So you cross Carole off. But you stop mid-erase. Was that it or was it that you didn't blame her because you had won? Oh, don't you remember.

The sky grows dark and you worry about a thunder storm? You have the urge to run to the side of the pool and call to Emily. The cloud passes. You let out a breath and look down.

Carol. You'd crossed her off. Because you can't blame her for her lies.

Yes. That was true, you don't blame her because she lost everything. You grew up and can hardly even remember Charly Royles. It wasn't long after she took him from you that Carol became a slut. You shake your head, look up and smile at the dark haired mother who'd sat down at the plastic lounger next to you.

"Hot" she says. Smiles. She makes an exaggerated fanning motion with her hand.

"Yes." You say but your dazed. "It is."

You had been so deep in thought that you smile at her but don't take the conversation any further. You know where it would have gone. It would have been a long rambling waste of time about hot days, making lunches, kids growing up fast. Jesus Christ, you just want a minute to calculate this stuff.

You turn back to your work. Re check the names. You stop at Lara. You honestly don't know if you should keep Carol on the list at all. You thought back to that day at the beach --her get up was absurd; her signature floppy hat and glasses were ludacris not sophisticated at all.

She died of an unusual "disease" while you continued to sit amongst liars at thanksgiving and Fourth of July get together.

This list had to be finished. There in the hot sun, mothers unwrapping cheese sticks and concoctions of God knows what kind of soy wheatgrass smoothies, you are determined to get it all done once and for all.

You look like every other mother at the Goddamned summer swim practice.

In so little time, you'd really done a remarkable job. Your page is covered with arrow and numbers and formulas. 2x 3 (Susan Gippeyo). X's were calculated on a 1 to 100 scale. Anything under ten was petty compared to say aunt Elizabeth who was a 60 xxxx or18.

The evil one who although was incalculable was instead given a value if 100 x to the 100th power 81.

Although you wouldn't likely admit to it, the page in front of you is frightening you. You feel crazy and naturally anyone would agree; if they saw what you were doing. That's was why you keep the notebook half covered in a beach towel? It is an awkward way to write, but you press on. Invigorated by your record keeping despite it's appearance of something worse.

You need more room. More than a page.

You relocate to the car.

You needed more space to lay out the sheets of paper; for substitution purpose, you said. God knew what that really meant. You were waiting in the car for Emily to finish practice. The heat was unbearable on that particular afternoon. You held the worn papers.

You decipher all they chicken scrawl. The x's, the obviously incalculable scale. You remember that, don't you?

You ask yourself if you should do one final inventory of the liars. Almost done. A relief. God knows it's a relief. Your eyes pass over the name Crystal Reindo (remember you had categorized then by age. Yours and theirs)? Crystal was 7 at the time. So were you. Mrs. Reindo, Crystal's mother, was on the next page three quarters of the way down. Could you really call Crystal's denial a lie? Her little voice swearing to God, on her brother's life that she hadn't stolen your pen collection. But you knew, didn't you.

Yes. You did.

You knew if you opened that Fisher price camping backpack, still plastic smelling and clean—you knew you'd see them right there where she'd hidden them after she stolen them from you. Was her crime a lie or theft? You had to stop and think. What the hell difference did it make? But, it did.

Make a difference. For your purposes. You decided that technically yes crystal should be on your list of liars. But really wasn't it Mrs. Reindo who was the liar? After all she told you to leave crystal alone. Go home, that there was nothing in the back pack. . But you weren't going to have it.

"Look in your back pack!" You defiantly screamed. Even your mother, who was on your side, said "you didn't have to scream that loud." She had said that when you were walking back across the street to your house. You remember that don't you?

You felt like your pens were ruined. In the tiniest way you felt ruined -- the way you were ruined after that car ride with the evil one.

Finally, you remembered. August 16 ,1983. Uncle red. Bloodshot eyes and a failed deception : Wrigley's double mint on top if rancid brandy. You should have been frightened of him but you never were. You don't know why. His fists pounded but seemed doughy once he opened the door. That was the little apartment your mother rented after your parents divorced. What did you care that she was never home any more? If you are honest with yourself you liked that kind of freedom at 14.

None one would deny you grew up fast that summer. Your mother didn't know you had a fake id and spent your nights sneaking into bars. She'll never know you started taking money from her. You were saving up, weren't you? You were going to go to California with that girl Erin Lawrence. You'd always had a theory about Erin. Your theory was that she could make you both famous. You remember what you told her, don't you? You told her what happened with Uncle Red.

You stop writing.

For a little while you are frozen. In shock? You don't know.

Then a voice inside you awakens. Jesus Christ you are at Emily's swim practice!

You scramble and gather the papers, shove them into your purse.

You look out the window. For a moment you think you've lost track of time but really you're just in time. Your watch says 11:00. Emily's swim class ends at 11:00. You feel fine but your hands are shaking. You stare out the windshield. You want to cry but it's not the time.

You see Emily making her way down the cement path to the parking lot. She has a bright blue beach towel wrapped around her. She waves to you and you lift you hand and wave back.