The Lies That Bind(41)

She gives me a skeptical look, shakes her head, and says, “Great. Now stop stalling. Call the number.”

I sigh and look down at the flyer I’m clutching in my lap. I was reluctant to take it, but Jasmine convinced me that it was okay. That this one flyer wasn’t going to make the difference in his return.

“Not yet,” I say, gulping wine, on a mission to get drunk—and numb.

“Why not?” she says, staring me down. “What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know,” I say, although I do know, actually. I’m afraid of the final confirmation that may come with the phone call. I’m also afraid to say this aloud. As if Grant’s chances of survival might be somehow correlated to my lack of faith.

    Jasmine follows my gaze back to the flyer and says, “Who do you think hung it?”

I shrug and say I don’t know. “I can’t imagine that his brother is out hanging flyers…and he’s never mentioned any other family in the city….So I guess a friend? Maybe a colleague who last saw him…” I close my eyes, but the images come anyway: horrible visions of smoke and flames, and the worst one of all—jumping through broken glass. Falling.

“Well, whoever it is…won’t it make you feel better to talk to them?” she says. “To connect with someone else who cares for him?”

“Maybe,” I say, shuddering. “But maybe not.”

“Okay, look,” Jasmine says after a long pause, her voice back to being all business. “If you don’t call that freaking number, then I’m going to.”

I hold my breath, both terrified and relieved, as she keeps her promise, picking up her cellphone. She glances at the flyer and starts to dial. As she puts the phone to her ear, I can hear a faint ringing sound followed by a voice on the other end of the line saying hello. It sounds like a woman, but I can’t be sure.

“Hello,” Jasmine says, as I put my head in my hands, waiting. “My name is Jasmine Baker. And I’m calling…I’m calling about a flyer that I believe you hung in Washington Square Park….”

There is a short pause, then Jasmine says, “No, no. I’m so sorry—I should have said that first. I don’t have any information….I was just…I’m a reporter…and I’m writing a story. I was at the candlelight vigil held in the park tonight…and I’m writing about family and friends of the missing—all those who are hanging flyers in the city…and wanted to check…if you’ve…heard anything?”

    As Jasmine falls silent, I peer through my fingers. Even before I see her anxious expression, I can tell the answer is no.

No, the person on the other line hasn’t heard anything.

No, Grant hasn’t been found.

No, he’s not coming back.

Ever.

My stomach in knots, I throw back the rest of the wine in my glass, then refill it from the bottle at my feet, only half listening as Jasmine continues in gentle reporter mode, asking all the obvious questions about who and what and why and where and how. She takes notes as she goes, and at one point, she gives the person her number. She finishes by saying, “I’m so sorry. May God bless you. May God bless both of you.”

As she hangs up, I brace myself and hear her whisper fuck.

“What?” I say, staring at her. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

Jasmine clears her throat and starts talking in a low monotone, staring straight ahead in the direction of the river. “She mostly told me things you already know. That Grant just got home from London…after a leave of absence from work….She said yesterday was his first day back….That he was only going to go in for a few hours, to pick up a few things….He worked in the South Tower…on the seventy-fifth floor….” She stops abruptly, and takes a deep breath.

I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Who is she?” I ask.

Jasmine looks at me for a long beat, pursing her lips, then she shakes her head once, and says, “Her name is Amy.”

I stare at her, thinking that surely it’s not the same Amy that Grant mentioned in the Adirondacks. The name of his ex.

“Amy Smith,” Jasmine says, her eyes narrowing.

“Smith? Did she say how they’re related?” I ask, thinking that she isn’t the ex, after all. That she’s a cousin or aunt he never told me about. Or maybe the Smith is just a coincidence—and they’re not related at all. It is the most common surname.

    “Yep,” Jasmine says with a look I know well. “She mentioned that….”

“And?” I say.

“And she’s his wife,” Jasmine says.

Several seconds pass before I can speak. “But that’s just not possible,” I finally say, feeling dizzy, the balcony swaying under my feet. “She must be his ex-wife? Are you sure she didn’t say ex-wife?”

“Honey, yes. I’m positive,” Jasmine says.

“But…he wasn’t wearing a ring….He was living with his brother….”

“Did you ever go to his place?” she asks.

“No…but…” I shake my head. “It’s not possible….There’s no way.”

Jasmine stares at me with a look of pure pity, as I process exactly what I know she’s thinking. That of course there’s a way, and it happens all the time. Men lie and cheat. They take their rings off in bars. They sleep with other women. They tell those women they love them. Sometimes they actually do; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they tell the mistress; sometimes they lie to everyone. Sometimes they get away with it. Sometimes they get caught. And sometimes, whether from karma or bad luck, they are exposed only in death.