The Last Flight(46)

I remember that moment, not because it was wonderful, but because of what happened shortly beforehand. I’d wandered over to the side of the room to talk to Jim, one of my former colleagues from Christie’s. I’d been laughing, my hand on Jim’s arm, when Rory joined us, interrupting Jim’s story with a hard stare.

“Smile,” I’d chided Rory. “It’s supposed to be a happy day.”

Instead, Rory wrapped his hand around my wrist, squeezing it so hard I nearly cried out. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said to Jim, “we’re needed across the room for some photographs.” His voice was smooth, giving Jim no clue that anything was wrong, but I knew, in the way he gripped my wrist, in the steel set of his mouth, in the narrowing of his eyes, that my flippant comment was something I’d pay for later.

I caught my college roommate watching us from across the room, where she and a few other friends were seated near the DJ’s table, and I gave her a wide smile, hoping to convince her that everything was wonderful. That I hadn’t just married a man who was beginning to terrify me.

Rory demanded I remain by his side for the rest of the reception. He made the rounds of the room, charming guests, cracking jokes, but never speaking a word directly to me. It wasn’t until we were in the elevator, on our way up to our lavish suite, that he turned to me with ice in his eyes and said, “Never humiliate me like that again.”

I stare at the photo of myself, barely recognizing the woman in it, and my finger traces the contours of her face. I wish I could tell her that everything was going to be okay. That she’d get out in the most extraordinary way, and all she needed to do was hang on.

*

After a quick peanut butter and jelly sandwich, I settle in front of my computer again, clicking over to check the Doc. It’s blank, but I notice that Rory has been working on my eulogy. I open it and start to read.

My wife, Claire, was an incredible woman who lived an extraordinary life of service and sacrifice.

I cringe. The pull quote from the magazine carried more emotion. This makes me sound like an octogenarian who has died peacefully in her sleep after a long and productive life. Not the vibrant person I was—and still am. And I wonder, what would I like Rory to say instead?

I was incredibly hard on Claire—much more so than she deserved. I know I scared her. I sometimes hurt her. I loved her in a broken and warped way that made it impossible for us to truly be happy. But Claire was a good person. A strong person. I shake my head. Even in my imagination, I can’t make Rory say what I need him to say.

I’m so sorry, Claire. What I did to you was wrong.

But the eulogy on the screen in front of me doesn’t say any of that. It talks about my childhood in Pennsylvania and goes on to describe my charity work, the many lives I touched, the people I’ve left behind. Even here, I feel a lack of any real grief or regret. But perhaps that’s all I was to him. The wife from humble beginnings. The wife who tragically lost her family. The wife who was successful in the art world until she gave it up to join her husband’s charitable foundation. And now, the wife who died too young. It reads like the plot points of a secondary character in a novel, not my life.

I imagine my former colleagues from Christie’s, sitting in a back corner of the church at my funeral. People I haven’t spoken to in years, thanks to Rory’s isolation. How many will actually show up? Four? Two? In many ways, I feel like I died a long time ago. Nothing of my former self remains. The person in this eulogy is a stranger.

Just then, Rory’s email pings with a new message, and I toggle over to his inbox. It’s from the director of the NTSB, and the preview sends a chill zipping down my spine.

Dear Mr. Cook, I wanted to follow up on our earlier conversation regarding the section of the plane where your wife…

I’m tempted to open it, read it, and then mark it Unread. I need to know how that sentence ends. But I force myself to wait.

I stand and pace the room, never taking my eyes from the screen, silently urging Rory to check his email. Finally, after fifteen minutes, the message shifts to read, and I immediately race back to the desk to click on it.

Dear Mr. Cook, I wanted to follow up on our earlier conversation regarding the section of the plane where your wife was seated. I’ve just been informed that despite the relatively intact condition of the fuselage, recovery workers report that your wife’s seat was empty. We will continue to prioritize the recovery of her remains, and I will update you on any new developments.

All the air leaves my lungs in a white-hot rush, everything I’d believed shifting and turning into something completely different.

Rory’s reply pops up below this email immediately.

What does this mean? Where is she?

I sit back in my chair, Rory’s questions about what might have happened to my body tumbling around in my mind, evolving into questions about how Eva could have pulled it off. Who else she manipulated, and where she might have gone. A part of me isn’t surprised at all. A woman who lies about killing her husband, a man who doesn’t even exist, is certainly capable of this.

After a few minutes, a reply arrives.

Until we recover the black box and get more details about the crash, it’s impossible for me to speculate. There could be any number of reasons why your wife wasn’t where we expected her to be. I apologize, and ask for your patience. Reconstructing events of a crash takes time. It will be a while before we have any answers.