The Lies That Bind(80)

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A few hours later, it’s morning, and I’m leaving the rental car place near my apartment in a little blue Kia. There is a map of upstate New York on the seat beside me, but I don’t think I’ll need it. I have always had a good sense of direction, and paid close attention when we left the cabin to drive back to New York on Memorial Day.

As I navigate city traffic, then cross the George Washington Bridge, it occurs to me that I’m doing things in the wrong order. That if I’m going to tell anyone that the baby might be Grant’s, it should be Matthew. He should be first. It also occurs to me that I should have emailed Byron to ask for his permission to visit. But it’s too late now. So I just drive, keeping my mind as blank as possible, determined to get through this mission.

    The next few hours pass surprisingly quickly, the traffic getting more sparse and the trees more dense, until I am back on the long, narrow dirt road leading to Grant and Byron’s cabin. My heart floods with memories as I pull into the clearing and see the house, along with an old green Pontiac that must belong to Byron’s nurse. It takes me several emotional minutes to work up the courage to get out of the car, and as soon as I do, I’m hit with another wave of intense memories. In some ways, it feels like yesterday that Grant led me to the front door. In other ways, it feels like years have passed.

My knees feel weak and my chest hurts as I walk down the path leading to the porch steps, climb them, and look for a doorbell. Finding none, I use the heavy brass knocker, rapping twice on the door. A moment passes, then another. I knock three more times, as hard as I can. Once again, nobody comes.

My heart thumping in my ears, I reach out to try the knob. It’s locked, but I remember the key under the mat. I tentatively check, almost hoping it’s not there. But it is. I put it into the keyhole and twist, hearing the heavy unlatching sound. I turn the knob, then push open the door a few inches.

“Hello?” I say, my voice sounding so small. Silence in return. I clear my throat and call out with a little more temerity. Still nothing.

I push the door open the rest of the way and take a step into the cabin, bombarded with a familiar musty, woodsy scent. Glancing around, I spot a bowl and spoon on the kitchen table, along with a coffee mug, a stack of newspapers, and a closed laptop. It crosses my mind that I am basically Goldilocks in this scene, brazenly breaking and entering.

    “Hello? Is anyone here?” I call out in the direction of the bedroom, thinking that surely Byron and his nurse are back there.

I force myself to keep going, walking toward the bedroom, worried about what I might find. What if the nurse isn’t here, and Byron is alone? What if it’s really bad? The door is open, so I brace myself and glance inside, discovering an unmade bed and a large leather duffel bag that I recognize from Grant and Byron’s hotel room in London.

I walk over to the window and part the curtains enough to look out, discovering that the backyard is desolate and unkempt, long weeds sprouting everywhere. I shiver and turn back around, reentering the living room and staring at the ladder leading up to the loft. Is it worth checking out? It seems highly unlikely that he’s up there, given his condition, but I guess it’s possible—and after driving all this way, I need to be thorough. So I walk over to the ladder and slowly climb it, stopping only when I get to eye level with the loft floor.

Overwhelmed with more memories, I panic. I shouldn’t be here—and I definitely shouldn’t be snooping around. I start to back my way down the ladder just as I see a figure moving under the covers in the bed. A second later, Byron is staring right into my eyes. I jump, and can tell he’s just as startled—and that he’s been sleeping. His hair is shaggy, longer than it was in London, and his face is unshaven. There are dark circles under his eyes.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” I say.

He keeps staring at me, but says nothing, looking more stricken by the second.

“I just wanted to see you….I drove up here to talk to you,” I stammer. “About Grant.”

Suddenly, his expression changes. His eyes fill with tears as he says my name.

It’s only a whisper, but in that instant, I know.

“Oh my God,” I hear myself whisper back. “Grant.”





Before Grant can respond, I am backing down the ladder, terrified, wondering if I’ve just seen a ghost. I’ve never believed in those things, but I can’t think clearly. I can’t think at all.

He calls my name, and out of the corner of my eye, I see movement. He is out of bed, coming toward me.

“Wait,” he says. “Don’t go.”

I freeze, my vision blurring with tears, my heart pounding.

“Don’t go,” he says again. “Let me explain.”

I look up just as he’s reaching for my hand. I give it to him—not because I want to, but because I feel like I might fall if I don’t. He gently pulls me up toward him, and a second later, I’m sitting on the floor beside him, shaking, my head in my hands. He tries to put his arms around me, but I recoil.

“I thought you were dead!” I say with a sob.

“I know. I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”

I let myself look at him again, and see that his eyes are frantic—and also tearing up.