I Liked My Life(40)

Eve blinks, embarrassed to have been busted. “Sorry. I’m out of it today. I-I noticed, I mean, I was surprised that … well, not surprised but, are you married?”

“Divorced, actually.”

“Oh, sorry.”

Rory slings a blue tote over her shoulder. “Don’t be. I’m confident you had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you have children?” Rory stops mid-step. Her expression sags. “I don’t mean to be nosy,” Eve backpedals. “You don’t have to answer that.”

Rory regains momentum toward the door. “No, no worries. I don’t have any. Call if you struggle on those problems.”

Rory walks to her car with the same distant expression I observed that first day in the grocery store, only this time I intuit what happened. Her daughter is dead. Rory blames herself. She has more in common with Eve and Brady than I realized.

The usual lyrical flow of Rory’s thoughts crumbles into a litany of random observations as Rory tries to fend off her emotions on the ride home: what’s for sale, what needs to be repaved, what’s closed during normal business hours. She pauses in her driveway before going in, knowing she can’t afford a slump with her mother sick. “People need you,” she says aloud, willing herself motivated. The pep talk is well rehearsed but unsuccessful.

Greta is surprised Rory doesn’t ask for details about Linda’s day, but graciously takes the hint and leaves. After giving her sleeping mom a kiss on the forehead, Rory pours a tall glass of Chianti, and plops on the couch in the dark room. If you substitute the Chianti with chardonnay, the sight is similar to my early evenings after Eve got older and didn’t require as much doting.

Enveloped in a silence disturbed only by the steady click of Linda’s IV machine, Rory stares at a picture of her daughter smiling, revealing a first tooth popping through swollen gums. She has the same chocolate-brown hair as her mother. I cannot fathom the heartache and desperation of such a loss. Losing Eve would’ve taken me to that ledge without bait.

Rory looks older sad. Her mood deflates me. I’ve learned how to get through, but not what to get through. I wanted Eve to invite Rory to stay for dinner, not tip her into depression. I want—oh hell, I don’t know what I want. I guess to be better at death. It should at least be easier than life.

I turn my attention to Brady as he interviews new assistants, quick to notice that none of the candidates are over thirty or at all hard on the eyes. I’m horrified by the prospect of Brady turning into a gawking old man. I prepare to haunt some sense into him until I listen to his reasoning. His hypothesis is that, human nature what it is, The Fireman might be less likely to lash out at a younger, more vulnerable woman. The idea of it repulses him—he wants to be wrong. I find his analytical approach fascinating. It’s scientific self-awareness.

“What were the working hours of your last position?” Brady asks.

The stunning applicant looks rather peeved. “I already told the HR lady that.”

Brady is equally annoyed. “Her name is Meredith. Do you mind terribly sharing the answer with me too?” His tone makes it far from a cordial request.

“It depended on what quarter we were in, and also Mr. Breack’s travel schedule.” She wiggles in her chair like it’s tickling her.

Brady twitches at the immature display, happy to be irritated despite her good looks. “So your schedule is flexible?”

She folds her arms. “Not really. That’s why I quit.”

Brady pauses the interview to scan the rest of her resume. She’s been out of college five years and held four jobs. She never should’ve made it through the screening process. He makes a mental note to discuss the infraction with Meredith, then glances at his iPhone, pretending to read an important email. “I’m going to have to cut this short. Something’s come up.” He shoos the lady with the tight ass out of the room, relieved. He’s an asshole, but he’s an equal-opportunity asshole.

Watching the scene play out unnerves me. I recount all the times when, in the middle of a conversation and without any prompting, Brady looked at his phone, then dismissed me because “something popped up at work.” This lady was a rude, job-hopping idiot. What was my offense?

Eve

Rory looked so whacked when I ask about children there has to be more to the story. As soon as her car is out of sight I get on my laptop. It’s what everyone did when my mom died. They switched to a whisper as I passed, but teenagers don’t whisper well. They want to be heard so badly. Did you read The Townsman? She didn’t leave a note. Or, Go Boston said she might have been on meth. Or, The Globe said Wellesley College didn’t even pay her and she was there, like, all the time. My friends were happy to throw in details the articles missed. I assume it was Lindsey who made my dad’s excessive travel and my mom’s evening chardonnay common knowledge. And I heard Jake tell Noel that my parents had been fighting, a detail that had to come from John since they were bickering about a summer vacation the last time he was over.

I google Rory Murray. There are millions of hits, tech geniuses to porn stars. I narrow it down by adding a common word from the articles on my mother. Tragic. And there it is, Rory’s misfortune for the world to read. I clutch my hand to my neck. The picture alone tells a story of what she lost: a good-looking man with his arm around a younger Rory as she holds up a newborn baby, beaming.