The Husband Hour(76)
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
She hesitated, trying to normalize her voice.
“Yes. I was just going through some old things.”
“Where are you? Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m at home,” she said, sobbing.
“I’ll be right over.”
Chapter Forty
Lauren climbed into the front seat of Matt’s car. The night had cooled and she zipped her hoodie.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Just drive. Anywhere.”
Atlantic Avenue was busy. At another time in her life, she would have appreciated the promise in the air, a beautiful night just waiting to unfold.
Stopped at a light, Matt said, “I’m sorry you got upset.”
“It’s not your fault. I wanted to find some things you could use for the film to counter all the negative stuff we talked about. I don’t want him to be remembered as a tragic figure. I want people to understand why I loved him, to see what a happy life we had together, if just for a moment.” She started to cry again. He pulled the car to the side of the street and found her a tissue from his glove compartment.
“Thanks.” She sniffed. They were right in front of Lucy. “I used to love this elephant.”
“What’s that restaurant right next door? Want to get a drink?”
They waited a half an hour at Ventura’s Greenhouse to get a table at the rooftop bar with a view of Lucy. The music was loud and commanding, courtesy of a live DJ.
“We’re the oldest people here,” she shouted.
“I know. I think we got reverse-carded—to see if we’re under thirty, not over twenty-one.”
She smiled. The waitress, sunburned and with a sheet of straight, white-blond hair, took their orders—a beer and an Italian hoagie for Matt, and for Lauren, a drink called a strawberry shortcake: ice cream, strawberry mix, and amaretto.
“Do you come here a lot?” he asked.
“I haven’t been here in, like, ten years.”
“Were you old enough to come here ten years ago?”
“No! That was the point.”
“I didn’t imagine you as a fake-ID type of teenager.”
“Stephanie was a bad influence. She lured me here with promises of a bird’s-eye view of Lucy.”
“Such a crazy idea for a building,” Matt said, looking at the six-story elephant. “Have you ever been inside?”
“My grandparents took me to the top every summer when I was little. We spent weekends at my grandparents’ house—the house I live in now. The car ride from Philly seemed endless, but as soon as I saw Lucy, I knew we were here. I would get so excited. It’s amazing how easy it is to be happy when you’re a kid.”
“This is a great town for kids. You’re lucky.”
“I know. I’m glad my sister is here this summer so my nephew can get to experience it.”
“You’re getting along with her?”
“I am.” She smiled. “I feel like we’re reconnecting a little.”
A strange expression crossed Matt’s face, a mix of surprise and puzzlement.
“What?” she said.
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well, you originally weren’t happy about me interviewing her so I figured you two had some issues.”
“Don’t all siblings?”
He contemplated her question. “Not necessarily. I had more issues with my parents. I got along really well with my older brother.”
“I’m sorry that you lost him. Do you mind if I ask what happened?” She had met only a few people over the years who had lost loved ones in the military. Each time, she felt a compulsive urge for details, to know when and where and how the person had died, as if somehow it would help her make sense of what had happened to Rory. This, maybe, was the appeal of war-widow support groups. But she was no more inclined to join a group now than she had been when she was an army wife.
“It was a blast. An IED near his convoy.”
Her heart began to beat fast. “Like what happened to Rory?” she whispered.
“No,” Matt said. “There is a parallel to what happened to Rory, but that’s not it.”
Their waitress arrived with Matt’s beer and hoagie and Lauren’s frothy pink drink. Lauren pushed it aside.
“What, then?”
“Do you know what the signature wound of Iraq and Afghanistan is?” he said.
“Traumatic brain injury.”
He nodded. “My brother wasn’t killed by the blast. He suffered what they call a primary blast injury and got a medical discharge. He had seizures. He was depressed, had memory loss. It was my junior year of college. I took some time off to be with him, but I barely recognized him. And then my senior year, I came home for winter break. We went to my aunt’s on Christmas Eve, but Ben stayed behind. He got bad headaches. My mother left the party early when he didn’t answer his phone. She was the one who found him. He’d shot himself in the head.”
Lauren covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“So I became really obsessed with traumatic brain injury. And the more I researched, the more I found how often athletes suffered the same thing.”