The Lies That Bind(44)

“No. No. It’s okay,” she says, pressing her palms against her eyes as if to dam the tears. “I…I want to talk about Grant…my husband.”

The word husband is a knife in my heart, but I try to remain calm. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I ask, gesturing to my recorder and picking up my pencil and pad.

“Go ahead,” she says as Toni rearranges herself, resting her chin on Amy’s thigh.

I hit the red record button, then say, “So. Can you tell me your husband’s name?”

“Grant Smith,” she says.

My stomach lurches, but I continue. “And…let’s see…when did you marry?”

    “We got married in June of ninety-seven,” she says. “Four years ago.”

I nod, wondering about the exact date in June—whether they were together for their anniversary this year. It was after we met, of course, but was it before or after Grant left for Europe with his brother? I am suddenly desperate to know the answer, but tell myself that’s not a question I can ask without revealing my ulterior motive—so I move on, doing my best to maintain a scrap of journalistic integrity.

“And do you…have any children?” I ask, holding my breath.

Amy shakes her head, her lip quivering. “No. We never had kids….We were going to…but didn’t.” Tears roll down her cheeks.

I look away, feeling a wave of relief, followed by a greater dose of shame and guilt. For hoping against something that might have given this poor woman a shred of comfort.

I hesitate, then reach over and gently touch her arm. It’s something else I can’t remember ever doing during an interview. “I’m really sorry, Amy,” I say so softly that it comes out a whisper.

“Thank you,” she says, sniffing, then wiping her eyes with her fists.

I give her a few seconds as I stare at my wine, fighting the urge to finish it in one swallow while trying to come up with something to say, another question to ask.

“How did you two meet?” I finally say.

“That’s kind of a long story…but we met as kids…when we were about six or seven. Our parents became friends…and then the kids got to know each other…meaning me and Grant and his twin brother. I’m an only child.”

“Oh. He had a twin?” I say, hating myself a little more each second.

“Yeah. We were all close as kids.”

I nod, then say, “So when did you start dating Grant? Were you…like…high school sweethearts?”

    “No. He actually lived in Buffalo, and I grew up in the city. We didn’t start dating until college,” she says. “We both went to Stanford. His brother was out there, too…in culinary school at the time….Maybe you should talk to him….”

“Yes. That’s a good idea,” I say as my stomach lurches, knowing I can’t and won’t.

She nods, leans over to grab a pen, and writes his email address down on a nearby notepad. “Then again, he’s very moody,” she says, frowning, as she puts her pen down. “And he’s also ill….He has Lou Gehrig’s disease.”

“Oh, no…That’s awful,” I murmur, keeping my eyes down as my face burns hot.

“Yeah. The worst,” she says, then takes a long drink of wine, giving me a chance to collect my scattered, racing thoughts. “Well…” She lets out a brittle laugh. “Almost the worst.”

“Yeah,” I whisper, using it as a segue to 9/11. “So? Can we talk about that day? Are you up for that?”

She nods and says, “Yes. Although there’s not much to tell….I really don’t know much…you know, about what happened…exactly….”

“Well, maybe just tell me everything you do know?” I say gently. “About the time line…as far as you know it.”

She sighs, then says, “Well, let’s see…Grant was in Europe with his brother for much of the summer. He was getting treatment there—in London—as part of a clinical trial. But it didn’t work….So they left London and traveled for a bit….” Amy’s voice trails off, and it takes her a few seconds to continue. “They flew home on Monday night…on the tenth.”

“And you saw him? That night?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ears.

She nods and says yes. “But only briefly. He had to get back to his brother….”

    I stare at her, but all I can see is Grant coming into my apartment that night. And everything that followed.

I feel like I really might vomit, and it takes me a few seconds to catch my breath and ask, “So then…he went from his brother’s place to work?”

“Yes. We assume so….He was a trader…in the World Trade Center.”

“Which building?” I say, my voice shaking.

“The South Tower. On the seventy-fifth floor.”

“And so…that morning…did he try to call you? Or…leave a message?” I ask, thinking of all the heartbreaking final calls and messages from airplanes and offices. I hold my breath, bracing myself for her answer, hoping for her sake that the answer is yes, but knowing that it will be another blow to my heart if he called her, not me.