The Marriage Lie(42)

“I realize that finding out all this stuff about Will is gutting you.”

“It is.” A sob pushes up my throat, but I catch it before it escapes.

“But have you considered the obvious?”

“Which is?” I push aside my pillow, and there he is, my twin brother, staring down at me.

He gives me an encouraging smile. “That maybe he did change. Maybe that’s why he never told you. Maybe he was looking to start fresh, to press control-alt-delete on his shitty life and start all over with you.”

“Okay, then tell me, why did he get on a plane to Seattle?”

The smile drops from his face. My question has stumped him, and even worse, it’s stumped me. Why did Will get on that plane to Seattle? Suddenly, the idea of hiding out in a hotel room is no longer so appealing. Sighing, I throw back the sheets and haul myself out of bed.

“Thank God,” he says as I head off into the bathroom, “because I’ve seen Beaches a million times.”

*

Twenty minutes later, as I’m getting out of the shower, a text from the blocked number pings my phone. Why are you still in Seattle? I mean it, Iris. Go. Home. There’s nothing for you there.

I wrap a towel around my torso, shove it under my arms and type out a reply as quickly as my shaking hands will allow. I’m not going anywhere until you tell me who you are. And you were wrong, btw. So far Seattle has been very enlightening.

Two seconds later, another lights up my screen. Don’t believe everything you hear.

My pulse ratchets up, and my stomach tightens with something that feels like excitement. Then what should I believe?

I wait, watching the screen until it goes dark, then black.

*

We find Lewis Griffith at Providence House, a memory care facility for the indigent and the most depressing place on the planet. The floors are grungy, the air is smelly, and the ceilings are low and stained. We find a grim-faced nurse on the second floor, and she points us down a dark hallway. “Room 238, but don’t expect him to say much. He’s got Alzheimer’s, you know.”

I thank her, trying to decide if Alzheimer’s is the worst or the best way to cap off six decades of a hard life. It’s a slow and unpleasant way to go, but at least this way he’s not aware of it.

We find him in a closet-sized room that reminds me of a cheap roadside hotel I once stayed at in Guatemala, barely bigger than the bed Mr. Griffith is confined to. There’s nowhere for me and Dave to sit, so we stand, shoulder to shoulder and pressed between two flimsy walls, at the foot end of the bed.

I look down at my father-in-law, and a thunderclap rolls through my head. I search his face for pieces of my husband and find only a few. The broad forehead, the square jawline, the slight upward tilt to the eyes. I might find more, if Mr. Griffith didn’t look so wrecked, if his skin weren’t so waxy and wan, more Madame Tussaud than human, and smothered in brown spots like lunch meat.

I reach for Dave with a shaking hand, and he gives my fingers a squeeze.

“Mr. Griffith, my name is Iris, and I’m your daughter-in-law. I was married to your son, Will. Or Billy. Do you remember him?”

Nothing. Mr. Griffith doesn’t seem to hear me. He takes us in with empty eyes.

I pull up a picture on my phone and hold it in Mr. Griffith’s line of vision. “This was taken about a month ago.”

His forehead creases. A frown?

“Do you remember him?”

Nothing.

“This isn’t getting us very far,” Dave whispers behind a hand.

I give a subtle shake of my head, slipping the phone in my back pocket. “Mr. Griffith, about fifteen years ago, there was a fire in the apartment where you lived, in Rainier Vista. Three people were killed. Does that ring any bells?”

Mr. Griffith doesn’t nod, but the way his gaze wanders to mine straightens my spine.

“Your wife, Kat, was one of the victims, as were two small children. You and Billy survived unharmed.”

His sandpaper lips flap around for a few seconds, like he’s trying to speak. Or maybe he is speaking, I don’t know. Either way, nothing but air comes out.

“Do you remember anything about that night? The fire? Your wife and son?”

His face curls into a grimace, and his mouth moves around some more. Dave and I grip the metal bed frame and lean in closer, straining to hear.

“Did he just say Billy?” Dave says, looking at me with wide eyes.

My heart rate spikes, and the blood roars in my ears. I’m pretty sure he did. “Mr. Griffith, do you remember Billy?”

For the longest moment, there’s nothing but the sound of his wheezing, a breathy whistle sung by rattly lungs. And then he lifts an arm high and slaps the mattress, once, twice, again. His skinny body begins flailing about, limbs writhing, both palms pounding the mattress. Dave and I exchange a worried look.

“Is he okay?” I say.

As if in answer, Mr. Griffith hauls a breath, opens his mouth wide and makes a long, creepy sound somewhere between a moan and a scream.

“Oh, jeez,” Dave says, pulling at his collar.

The moaning stops but not the writhing, and only for a second or two, long enough for Mr. Griffith to suck another rattling breath and begin again.

Dave backs away from the bed, moving closer to the door. “Maybe I should go get a nurse.”

“You stay here. I’ll go.” I’ll be damned if he’s leaving me here alone.