The Lies That Bind(47)

“I know you didn’t,” I say. “But it’s getting late….”

    “Okay,” Amy says, looking reluctant and sad. “Is there anything else you need for your piece? Anything I can help with?”

I hesitate, then ask the final question I’ve been dreading. “Um…yes…uh…What about funeral arrangements? Have you made any?”

“No,” she says. “Not yet.”

“When do you think you’ll have one?” I ask, thinking that it feels unimaginable for me to miss it—but equally unimaginable to go.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “His brother wants to wait.”

I hesitate, then say as gently as I can, “Wait for what?”

Amy sighs and says, “He says he just needs some time….”

“I get that,” I say, nodding.

“I think he can’t bear the thought of saying a final goodbye to his brother,” she says. “Maybe he wants to have a joint funeral….Isn’t that morbid?”

With a lump in my throat, I say yes, a little, but that it’s also really beautiful.

“Yes,” Amy says. “And I want to respect his wishes—the twin relationship is so special. Do you think that’s wrong? To wait?”

“No,” I say, then regurgitate advice I’ve heard before. “Nothing is right or wrong when it comes to grief.”

She gives me the most grateful look and says, “Oh, thank you, Cecily. I really appreciate that….You have no idea.”





I manage to keep it together in the cab ride home, as I think I’m still in shock from the whole experience. But the second I walk through my door, I cry a long, hard, ugly cry. Then I call Scottie and Jasmine, in that order. Still crying on and off, I confess that I just couldn’t do it—that I couldn’t tell her the truth—and they both absolve me.

I tell them everything else, too—about Grant, and his life and marriage, and their last moments together, which, as it turned out, happened right before my last moments with him. I tell them about Amy’s literary-named dog and her Sesame Street block and her Pottery Barn catalog home. I tell them how much I wanted not to like her, but that I did like her, and that maybe it was the wine, but I felt a bizarre bond with her, my partner in grief.

I know she and I are not the same—not even close. She was the wife; I was the other woman. She’d known Grant since they were kids; we shared only one summer—and he was gone for most of it. She’s the widow who will be written about in newspapers, including my own; I’m the secret that Grant took to his grave. Yet we still lost the same man in the same way—and I’m not talking about losing him to a terrorist attack in the rubble of the World Trade Center, but rather in an avalanche of lies. And even though she doesn’t know the truth, I think somewhere deep down, she feels a connection to me, too.

    So I’m not surprised when Amy sends me an email the following day, thanking me for my time and help with the obituary. “If you ever leave your job as a reporter,” she writes, “you would make a great therapist.”

An unethical one who would lose her license, I think, swallowed up by a fresh wave of guilt. I push it away and write her back, thanking her for her time and the wine. I tell her, once again, how sorry I am for her loss.

The back-and-forth continues for several days, going from formal to chatty. I ask if she’d like to include a photograph with the tribute I’m writing; she says yes, she’ll get me one ASAP. She tells me that Grant’s obituary ran in The Buffalo News and wonders if I’d like a copy. I say I’d love one, if she can spare it. She says she has plenty of extras, and could put one in the mail—unless I wanted to meet up for coffee or a drink?

Knowing that I need to end this strange friendship, I draft a noncommittal reply, saying that sounds nice, but I’ve been pretty slammed at work lately. She writes back that there’s no rush, then offers me a variety of dates. “If none of those work,” she adds, “just tell me what does!”

I tell her that I will—just as soon as I get the chance to look at my calendar.

She says great, then, out of the blue, asks whether I’ve reached out to my ex-boyfriend.

I tell her no—I haven’t yet.

“Well, don’t put it off,” she writes back. “You never know when it could be too late, and you don’t want to have any regrets.”



* * *



—

Amy’s words haunt me. I replay them again and again, wondering what she meant—whether it is generic advice, the way people tell you to “hug your loved ones” after something bad happens to a member of their own family. Or whether there is something specific she wishes she had said to Grant before he died. It doesn’t matter. I need to move on, because contact with Amy is unhealthy—masochistic, even—and just plain wrong.

    In the meantime, and coincidentally, Matthew calls and leaves a message saying he just wants to “catch up and check in.” At first it seems out of the blue, but then I remember that we said we’d talk in September, way back when we all thought that September would be just another month.

I don’t call him back right away, but I find myself starting to miss him. Not our relationship—but our friendship. The comfort of being with someone you could always trust.