The Last Flight(21)

Leaving the TV paused, I grab my computer from my bag and take the stairs two at a time up to Eva’s office. The internet router blinks its green lights from a corner of the desk, and I turn it over, finding the password on the back, praying she never bothered to change it. It takes me three tries to match the password with a network name, but I’m in.

I click on the window I opened last night and take a quick look through Rory’s inbox while he’s on live TV. There are several messages from Danielle, cc’d copies of emails she sent this morning, letting the Detroit hotel know Rory will be using my reservation, informing the school that Rory would be the one doing the event.

And one message exchange between Bruce and Rory, shortly after the news of the crash broke.

I think we need to delay the announcement.

Rory’s reply was brief.

Absolutely not.

But Bruce would not be deterred.

Think about the optics. Your wife just died. There’s no way you can announce next week. It’s insane. Let the NTSB recover the body. Have a funeral. Then announce after that. Tell them it’s what Claire would have wanted.

Even though it doesn’t surprise me, the fact that they’re worrying about the Senate announcement right now still hurts. Despite our problems, despite his temper, I know Rory loved me, in his own broken way. But underneath is a tiny thread of satisfaction that I’d been right to break away now. That if given the choice, Rory would never pick me over his ambition.

I open a new tab and Google Petra Federotov. A long list of what appear to be art catalogues pop up, with brightly colored graphics and names I can’t pronounce. Page after page of them. I revise my search to Petra Federotov phone number, and the list grows slightly longer—a pizza parlor in Boston, links to sites offering people-finding software for a thirty-dollar fee. But I’m certain Nico has made sure their information is scrubbed from those databases, and most likely scrubbed from the web as well.

I leave my computer open and go back downstairs, where Rory is still frozen on the screen, his arm about to swipe a chunk of hair that has flopped over his forehead. In another lifetime, I would have reached out to smooth it back, my touch gentle and loving. I stare at his face, remembering what it felt like to love him. The early days, when he’d pick me up from the auction house and surprise me with a dinner at Le Bernardin or a summer picnic in the park. His mischievous smile as he’d sneak us in the back door of a club, the tender way he’d brush the edge of my lip with his thumb, right before he’d kiss me.

Those memories aren’t lost. Just buried. Maybe someday I’ll be able to pick them up again. Hold them in my hand and examine them objectively, keeping the good ones and discarding the rest.

I press Play. Rory clears his throat and says, “This morning, like many of the families behind me, I kissed my wife, Claire, goodbye for the last time.” He pauses, taking a deep, shuddering breath before continuing, his voice cracking and wobbling over the words. “What was supposed to be a humanitarian trip to Puerto Rico has thrust me, and the families of ninety-five other passengers of Flight 477, into a living nightmare. Be assured we will not rest until we get answers, until we fully understand what went wrong.” He swallows hard and clenches his jaw. When he looks into the camera again, his eyes shine brighter, filling with tears that tip over the edges of his eyes and slide down his cheeks. “I don’t know what to say, other than I’m devastated. On behalf of the families, we thank you for your thoughts and prayers.”

Reporters shout questions at Rory, but he turns away from the cameras, ignoring them. I think about how effortlessly he lies. He didn’t kiss me goodbye. He didn’t say goodbye at all. And I realize, now that I’m dead, Rory can tell whatever story he wants about me, about our marriage. There is no one left to refute it.

The scene shrinks to an inset, and we see Kate Lane again, her familiar short gray hair and black-framed glasses filling the screen. I’d met her several years ago when she was interviewing Rory for the segment she was doing on Marjorie Cook’s legacy, and I remember being struck by how cool she’d been toward Rory. She’d smiled and laughed in all the right places, but I sensed a part of her watching him, as if from a distance. Examining all his shiny surfaces and flourishes, and deciding they weren’t real.

Her expression now is both somber and steadying. “Mr. Cook has been a frequent guest on this show, and I, along with everyone else at Politics Today, extend our deepest sympathies to the Cook family and all of the families affected by today’s tragedy. I’ve had the good fortune of meeting Mrs. Cook on several occasions, and I knew her to be a smart and generous woman, a tireless advocate for the Cook Family Foundation. She will be deeply missed.” In the inset picture over her shoulder, a man appears at the bank of microphones Rory just left and Kate says, “It looks like the director of the NTSB is going to answer some questions. Let’s listen in.”

The crowd of reporters begin shouting questions, but I silence the noise by turning the television off and, staring at the faint outline of my reflection in the dark screen, wonder what happens next.

*

I carry my bag back up the stairs and into the master bedroom, pushing aside a discarded pile of clothes on the bed—a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt—and sit. A dark wood dresser, drawers tightly shut, and a closet door that isn’t closed all the way, revealing a jumble of clothes inside. And that’s when it fully hits me: Eva will never laugh, or cry, or be surprised again. She won’t grow old, with sore hips or a back that aches. Never lose her keys or hear the sound of birds in the morning.