The Good Liar(46)

TJ: Are you still in touch with your sister?

FM: Not . . . not so much.

TJ: Have you spoken to her since you reconnected with your mother?

FM: Not really.

TJ: Does that mean no?

FM: Why are you cross-examining me?

TJ: I didn’t think I was.

FM: “Does that mean no?” That’s so totally from The Good Wife or whatever. You sound like a lawyer, not a filmmaker.

TJ: [Laughter] My parents would be so happy to hear that.

FM: They didn’t want you to be a filmmaker?

TJ: Nope.

FM: But you’ve had so much success.

TJ: That’s kind of you to say.

FM: But it’s true! I mean, you get to do something amazing. Like that documentary you did about The Tragically Hip . . . And now with Gord Downie dying and everything . . .

TJ: You know The Hip?

FM: Yeah.

TJ: Do you have some connection to Canada?

FM: Well, Kaitlyn’s from there originally.

TJ: True, but . . . When did you learn that?

FM: She told me.

TJ: So you didn’t know before you met her?

FM: No.

TJ: So that’s not why you know about The Hip . . .

FM: There you go again.

TJ: Pardon?

FM: You’re doing that lawyer thingy again. I’m telling you. Just show this tape to your parents, and they’ll be super proud of you.

TJ: Maybe I will. But you never answered my question.

FM: The Hip? My sister got into them in her first year of college. She was playing them when she was home for Christmas. Over and over . . . It grew on me. How did you know about them?

TJ: There were some Canadians in my film school class. And then later, a friend of a friend introduced me.

FM: It must’ve been cool to be out on the road with them.

TJ: It was. So your sister, Sherrie, introduced you to the band?

FM: Yes.

TJ: But you haven’t been speaking?

FM: Not for a while.

TJ: Why not?

FM: I don’t want to talk about it.

TJ: How come?

FM: None of your business. Besides, like I told Ted, it’s not what this film’s about, is it?





Chapter 21


Order Up


Cecily

Though I made a confession of sorts, I didn’t tell the kids everything. Cassie and Henry didn’t need to know that their father cheated on me or how I found out. Telling them that we’d had some serious problems before he died was enough. And if I’m being honest—ha!—I’ve told so many lies about that time it’s affected my memory.

Did I actually, for instance, spend the whole trip to New York with Tom and not mention the texts? Sit silently through the flight, where he took my hand in his and smiled into my eyes and sighed as if he was letting go of a great weight? Say nothing about it during our late dinner at Nobu, ordering ridiculously expensive sushi we couldn’t afford and drinking sake until we were both giggling as we hadn’t in years? Did I let him lace his fingers through mine on the walk to our hotel and agree when he suggested we take a detour through Central Park?

I think I did, but there was a riot in my mind that night. I searched for the words again and again to bring it up and couldn’t get them past the lump in my throat. I caught him looking at me closely time and again, wondering, perhaps, whether I was going to say something. Convincing himself that I must’ve missed it, that he must’ve managed to escape detection. And when I asked him why he was staring at me, he simply said, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. My wife. My amazing wife.”

We were full of sushi and sake, and the lace on the dress I was wearing was itchy. Tom, on the other hand, looked completely comfortable in a checked chambray shirt and a newer pair of khakis he’d picked out, uncharacteristically, for himself. It was a nice night, though, to be in Central Park, a soft spring night, where the smells of the city were hidden by the scent of new grass and perennials.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“That may be. Yes, I think that’s true.”

“You’re talking funny.”

“Am I?”

He tipped his head back, looking, I knew, for the constellations to steady himself. It was something he’d done since college. He told me once that if he could find Cassiopeia, he knew he’d remember what he’d done the next day. But it was New York, no stars visible, and I was the one hoping neither of us would remember that night.

“Tom?”

“Mmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Looking for your star.”

“My star?”

“Yeah. I . . .” He patted himself down, looking for something. He found it in his left pants pocket, a folded-up piece of bond paper. “Here. Sorry, I meant to wrap this, but the day got away from me.”

I took the slightly damp paper and unfolded it. It was a certificate attesting to the fact that some distant star in the universe was now named after me. Lily’s star was up there somewhere, apparently, though it wasn’t bright enough to be seen in New York.

“You had a star named after me?”

He gave me a soft grin. His eyes were not quite focusing. He looked so harmless, standing there. Not like a bomb that had gone off in my life, and yet he was.