The Lies That Bind(61)

She knows what I mean by the question, of course, her expression turning somber. “I’m okay,” she says. “It’s such a cliché—but I really do have good days and bad days.”

I nod, knowing what she means, but also amazed that she can have any good days at all when I’m lucky to have a decent stretch of a few hours.

“And Grant’s brother? How is he doing?” I ask, tensing up, afraid of her answer and the tumultuous territory I’m entering.

She bites her lip and lets out a long sigh. “To be honest, I’m not really sure. I haven’t talked to him in a couple of weeks.”

I watch her stir her Bloody Mary with the celery stalk, wondering how she could not know how her very sick brother-in-law is doing. Her husband’s twin. It crosses my mind that he could be dead. Would she even know? Who would tell her the news? I try to think of a way to tactfully ask the question, but before I have to, she goes on to explain that the last she heard, he was at his cabin in the Adirondacks.

    “He’s alone?” I say, trying to hide how horrified I am by the thought of him in that isolated, decidedly handicapped-unfriendly cabin.

“No. No,” she says. “He’s with a nurse.”

Relieved, I say, “Good. But you don’t know how he’s doing?”

“I really don’t….I’ve offered to visit, but his nurse wrote back that he doesn’t want visitors right now….I don’t think he wants me there.”

“But I thought you guys were close?” I say.

“We used to be. When we were younger. But Byron can be difficult. Even before he got sick.”

Remembering that awful visit to the hospital in London, I feel a little better knowing that it’s not just me. “Difficult how?” I ask, hoping for more insight into Byron—but also Grant. Always Grant.

“He can be moody…dark. A little mean.” She hesitates, taking a sip of her drink, then says, “He and Grant had a complicated relationship. So that sort of transferred to me.”

This is news to me, and I can’t hide my surprise. “Complicated in what way?”

“I don’t know. It was just rough at times….I mean, don’t get me wrong,” she says, as I hang on her every word, “they were really close. They loved each other…but…it’s hard to explain.”

I know I should probably leave it at that, but I can’t. “Were they competitive? Or just really different? Did they argue?”

She takes a deep breath, exhales, then chews on the tip of her pinkie, a habit I’ve noticed before. “A bit of all those things, I guess…the usual sibling rivalry that is probably intensified with twins….But it was also…I don’t know…it sort of felt like Byron resented Grant.”

    I say, “So…in a jealous way?”

“Yeah….Things just came easier to Grant when they were younger….He got better grades and was better in sports and got into Stanford….Then we got married, and Byron stayed single…and he never really had a steady job.”

I nod, forcing myself to take a bite of my breakfast, even though I’ve completely lost my appetite.

“And then, of course, Byron got sick. So things got even more lopsided, and Grant felt so guilty. I can’t tell you the number of times I had to tell him that it wasn’t his fault Byron got the bad gene and he was the lucky one—” She halts abruptly, looking stricken, as if the wind has just been knocked out of her. I know that she must be thinking what I’m thinking—that there is no shittier luck than being on the wrong floor of the World Trade Center on the morning of 9/11.

Sure enough, she lets out a brittle laugh as her eyes well up with tears. “So yeah. I guess in the end, it was fair. They both got equally fucked.”

“I’m so sorry, Amy,” I say. “None of this is fair. It’s all just so tragic.”

She nods, blotting her eyes with her cloth napkin, then examining the mascara stain before refolding the napkin and returning it to her lap. “How does all of this happen to one family?”

I take a breath, trying to come up with something—anything—to say. But all I am thinking is that Grant is now reunited with his parents, and his brother will be there soon, too. As strong as my faith is, and as much as I believe this to be true, it’s obviously not an appropriate thing to say.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to do this,” she says, filling our silence. “I’m totally ruining brunch.”

“No, you’re not. Not at all…I’m sorry for asking you so many questions—”

“No. No. I’m glad you did. I was due for a cry. And now it’s over.” She clasps her hands together, forces a big smile, and says, “So tell me. What are you going to wear to the party?”

    “I’m not sure,” I say, trying to smile back, wondering how she can switch gears so quickly. “What about you?”

“I think I’m going to wear this skirt and top I just snagged at a sample sale….But who cares what I’m wearing? You’re the bride! What are you thinking? A dress? You have to wear a dress.”

“Okay. A dress it is,” I say, dreading being the center of attention—and wondering if I’d feel different if I weren’t pregnant. “I’ll find something.”