“Just sit here for a minute. Let me get those off.” He turned off the lights, clicking on only a bedside reading lamp. The room felt calmer, and her sobs quieted to hiccups.
Matt pulled up a chair so he sat facing her. He reached for her hands, damp from her soggy tissue.
“Lauren, I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” she said. And then the words she’d been holding in for four years: “Because it’s all my fault.”
There. It was out. And maybe this was what she’d been afraid of revealing all along, not Rory’s failings, but her own.
“Lauren, you know guilt is a common feeling in a situation like this. He died; you’re still here. I felt it too with my brother.”
“No, you don’t understand. Rory volunteered for that second tour.”
Matt said nothing for a minute, and she knew the storyteller in him could put the pieces together. She’d refused to see her husband and banned him from their home. And after two months of being shut out, he turned back to the place where he felt useful, strong, in control; he sent himself back to Iraq. And he lost his life.
“I didn’t even know it was possible for him to go back that soon,” she said. “He had to have gotten special permission. He had to have wanted to get away that badly.”
“He would have been sent back eventually. You know that,” Matt said.
She shook her head, unable to speak. All she could hear was Emerson’s words the day of Rory’s memorial.
Hordes of photographers and news vans waited outside of her house. Two of Rory’s former teammates went into the house first, returned with bedsheets, and used them to shield her from the cameras as they hustled her from the car and through the front door.
The doorbell kept ringing. The house was filled with military personnel, the guys from Rory’s platoon and many more, plus the entire LA Kings team and guys from nearly every team he’d played on since middle school.
She noticed Rory’s mother and Emerson heading toward the bedrooms. Lauren had offered to have Kay Kincaid stay with her, but she’d said she preferred the hotel where her son was staying. Lauren wondered if she was going to the guest bedroom to lie down, if she was feeling okay.
Lauren followed them into the hallway.
“Kay, are you doing all right?”
Rory’s mother, tall for a woman and once spry and athletic, looked frail as she leaned on Emerson. She was in her late sixties; her hair was stark white and her olive complexion was uncharacteristically pale against her plain black dress. Her eyes were dark. They were Rory’s eyes.
“Are you following us?” Kay said.
“What? No. I mean, yes. I wanted to check on you.”
“She’s fine,” said Emerson. “Mother, go on ahead. I want to talk to Lauren for a minute.”
This was it, Lauren thought. She and Emerson were finally united. But it was too late for it to matter.
“Rough day,” she said.
“Save your crocodile tears for someone who buys it.”
She looked at him, stunned.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“If you hadn’t thrown my brother out of this house, if you hadn’t refused to join him on post, he’d probably still be here today.”
She knew she shouldn’t bite, but she couldn’t help herself. She was already blaming herself for everything. Emerson’s recriminations couldn’t be worse.
“No one wishes more than I do that we’d fixed our marriage before…before…”
“He volunteered to go back, you know.”
She hadn’t.
“No. It was soon, but I thought—”
“He campaigned for redeployment. It was the only thing he could do to get over losing his marriage. I have all the letters to prove it.”
She was shocked, but her instinct for self-preservation forced her to defend herself.
“He wouldn’t have been there in the first place if it weren’t for your influence!”
“You know, there’s a reason they give guys dwell time, keep them stateside after a deployment. They need it. But a public figure like Rory jumping right back in? Permission granted. Still, you have to wonder how things would have played out if he’d waited to go back until he was more battle-ready. If he hadn’t been running away from you.”
“It’s all my fault,” she said to Matt.
“Lauren, listen to me: You know better than that. You think you should have stayed in a dangerous, abusive situation to keep your husband around so he wouldn’t go back into a war zone? Think about this rationally. Just take a step back and look at it. I see things in terms of narrative, okay? My work is to understand cause and effect. You are not connecting the dots in a logical way.”
She sobbed. “You really don’t see it how I do?” she said. “It’s so obvious to me.”
“No, Lauren. No one would see it the way you do. Probably not even Emerson in a more rational frame of mind. And you have to stop blaming yourself. Or it’s going to ruin your life. And you deserve to have a life, you know.”
She cried and he moved his chair close enough that he could hug her. She sobbed against his shoulder, and he repeated, “You deserve to have a life.” She heard it again and again, even after he was silent, even after her breathing returned to normal.
“I should go,” she said, pulling back.
“Yeah, God, it’s late. Um, okay. Let me find my car keys.”
“Oh, it’s fine—I can walk.”
“Lauren, don’t be ridiculous.”
Outside, the air was thick with water and salt. Soon, the sun would be up. It was a magical hour, night just about to turn into day. Everything around her seemed to hum and vibrate with life.
She lowered the window on her side, letting the air whip through her hair. Matt turned on the radio and the car filled with a song she remembered from eighth grade, “Drops of Jupiter” by Train, told a story about a man who is too afraid to fly so he never did land.
Matt pulled up in front of the Green Gable and turned off the car. Through the open window, she heard the cicadas humming in the tall grass that framed the stairs to the beach.
“One summer, when we were in high school,” she whispered, “I was driving us around in the rain. Rory opened the sunroof. Something about that moment…it was the most free I ever felt in my life.”
Matt reached for her hand. “You’ll feel like that again someday.” She pulled her hand away.
“I never told anyone what happened between me and Rory.”
“You mean about him hitting you?”
She nodded.
“Didn’t you go talk to anyone after he died? A counselor? Anything?”
“I saw a psychiatrist. But all she did was give me a prescription for Zoloft.”
“Fantastic,” he said sarcastically. “Did you at least tell your mother? A friend?”
“No,” she said. “No one. Until you.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Beth sat up with a start in the early-morning darkness, her mind racing.
During her year in pastry school, she would start her day similarly, except she’d be thinking in French. It was just a few phrases without context or meaning, fragmented evidence that her mind had been churning overnight.
Now, the morning after Nora’s party, it wasn’t mise en forme or le pétrissage, but the words four walls rushing at her pre-coffee. Sometimes you have to sell everything you’ve got. Even the four walls.
She realized, pulling on her yoga pants, that Howard was dealing with the failure of the store all wrong. Or, rather, he was not dealing with it. And selling the Green Gable wasn’t the answer.
It was still dark, but she padded down to the kitchen, expecting to find Lauren getting ready for her daily run. Surprisingly, her bedroom door was still closed. Stephanie’s door, however, was open. And it was obvious her bed hadn’t been slept in.
An hour later, nursing her second cup of coffee at the kitchen table and waiting until it was a decent time to c
all Howard, Beth heard the patio door slide open.
“Good morning,” she said.
“Jesus! You scared the shit out of me,” Stephanie said.
“Should I even bother asking where you’ve been all night?”
“I was with Neil, obviously. So you can officially stop pushing Lauren on him.”
Beth sighed. “Well, I hope you’re happy now.”
“Do you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you really hope I’m happy? Because that would be a switch. I can’t remember the last time you thought about anything other than Lauren.”
“That’s unfair, Stephanie. Lauren suffered a tragedy. If I’ve been more focused on her—”
“It’s always been this way! Dad’s the only one who gives a shit about me and now you’ve driven him away too!”
Beth was momentarily stunned into silence.
Stephanie headed upstairs. Beth followed her, saying in a loud whisper, “I’m going to Philly today. Overnight. I’m taking Ethan with me.”
Stephanie turned around. “Why?”
“Why am I going to Philly?”
“No, why are you taking Ethan?”
“Because I can’t in good conscience leave him here to be ignored for hours at a time.”
“I resent that,” Stephanie said.
“Well, if you don’t start making some changes, one day your son is going to wake up and resent you.”
It was the first time in four years that Lauren had overslept. She woke up thinking about the coach’s interview as if it had been replaying in her mind all night long. But hockey culture demands resilience. Guys feel pressure to prove their toughness, and, frankly, they know they can be replaced. Especially the rookies.
She laced her sneakers, figuring she still had time to get in a quick run before work.
Outside, a mist settled around her. Lauren jogged in place on the boardwalk, taking deep breaths. It’s okay, she told herself, launching into the run. Her legs found their familiar rhythm, her feet hitting the boards in steady repetition.
The disease evolves in stages…you start to see the patient exhibit rage, impulsivity. He most likely will suffer depression.
Lauren ran faster, willing herself not to think about the end. To think, instead, about the beginning.
Ojai, California. Christmas in the Southern California mountains.
“Laur, are you dressed? Come out here.”
Rory on the hotel-room terrace watching the sun set. In the background, the Topatopa Mountains were bathed in pink light.
“Incredible, right?” he said, patting the chair next to him. She sat and he put his arm around her.
She nodded. It was breathtaking.
“The valley is lined up with an east–west mountain range so it gets this pink light at sunset. It’s one of the few places in the world where you can see this.” He kissed her, his hand grazing the silver heart around her neck. “I love that you still wear this.”
“Of course I do. I never take it off.”
He reached under his chair and presented her with a small white box.
“I hope you’ll wear this—and never take it off.”
“Oh!” Lauren said. “Are we doing gifts now? I have yours in the room—”
“Lauren, just open it.”
Lauren ran faster, picking up her pace. Atlantic City was in view.
It was a solitaire diamond, set in an intricately carved, art deco platinum band.
“It’s from the 1920s,” Rory said. “One of a kind. Like you.” And then he got down on one knee. “Lauren, will you marry me?”
Lauren couldn’t breathe. She bent over, hands on her knees, telling herself it would be okay. The vise slowly loosened its grip around her chest.
There was no way she could run home. She didn’t even want to try to walk. She didn’t have her phone with her, no money. She never brought either, even though her mother told her that was a mistake. “What if something happens?” she always said.
She could ask someone to borrow a phone and call for a ride. She couldn’t call her mother because she’d get too alarmed. She was always worrying about her; why give her more reason? She’d have to call Stephanie.
Matt found it difficult to watch the footage from last night, to see Lauren so upset. But the thesis of his film was confirmed. He had his movie, and yet his conversations with Stephanie at the bar nagged at him. His instincts as a filmmaker told him he was missing something.
Henny knocked on his door. “Sorry to disturb,” she said.
“No problem. Everything okay?”
“Everything’s fine. This is awkward and certainly not my favorite part of the job…” She nervously twisted the turquoise beads around her neck.
Money. He hadn’t paid for the room since Craig pulled the plug. And his free nights were up. He was out of time.
Unless…
Matt composed an e-mail and attached last night’s interview file. Without letting himself second-guess the idea, he e-mailed it to Craig.
“Thanks. Sorry to bother you,” Lauren said, climbing into Stephanie’s car. “Can you just drop me at work?”
Stephanie stared at her.
“You’re a sweaty mess.”
“There’s a shower there.”
Stephanie started the car. “I was half asleep. Why didn’t you call Mom?”
“Because I don’t want to worry her, okay? She already thinks I run too much.”
“Yeah, well, that’s because you do. It’s pathological, Laur.”
“A lot of people run.”
“Not this much,” Stephanie said, using one hand to fish around in her bag for a piece of gum. “You run down here and back every day? It’s crazy. No wonder you feel faint. Maybe Mom should be worried.”
Lauren barely heard her. She had a déjà vu, a flashback to another time Stephanie had picked her up. It had been a turning point in their relationship. The breaking point, actually.
Lauren and Rory planned their wedding for July 9, a date safely clear of the NHL playoffs. Beth pushed for their country club as the venue, and Rory’s mother pushed just as hard for a Catholic church wedding. Neither option appealed to Lauren and Rory, so Lauren flew to Philly to find a spot that felt right for them.
Stephanie picked her up at the airport. It was strange to see her pregnant. Lauren hoped the baby was something they could bond over, hoped that impending motherhood would somehow soften her sister’s attitude.
But before they’d even pulled out of short-term parking, Stephanie said, “I think you’re making a mistake with this wedding.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
Where was this coming from?
“You can’t trust him,” Stephanie said. “Haven’t you seen that over the years? You’re signing on for a life of misery.”
“I don’t believe this!” Lauren said. “You’re about to become a mother, and you’re still jealous of my relationship with Rory.”
“I’m not jealous, Lauren. I’m just being honest. You deserve better.”
Lauren unlatched her seat belt and jumped out of the car.
“I really thought we were past all this,” Lauren said, shaking. “I was going to ask you to be my maid of honor. But if this is your attitude, I’m not sure I even want you at the wedding.”
And in the end, Stephanie didn’t show up at the wedding. Looking at her now, after everything that happened, Lauren thought it all seemed so silly. If nothing else, she wanted to fix their relationship.
Stephanie drove up to the front of Nora’s Café. Lauren opened the door, then turned around and said, “I’m glad you’re here this summer. And not just for the ride.”
Stephanie smiled.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
After sending the footage to Craig, Matt couldn’t sit still. He considered a walk to the beach but found himself wanting to see Lauren instead. Being around her gave him the sense that he was making progress even if he wasn’t t
echnically working. At least, that’s what he made of the impulse.
“Hey! Matt.”
Matt, just outside of Nora’s, looked around. He spotted Stephanie in a parked car.
“What are you doing? Staking out the joint?” he said.
“For your information, I just dropped off my sister. What are you doing here?”
Stephanie’s hostility at the party the other night had surprised him, but he knew it shouldn’t have. He’d seen it before: an interviewee said something he or she regretted, then felt “tricked” by the filmmaker. Matt had weathered more than one strongly worded legal letter. The thing was, Stephanie hadn’t even made the incriminating statement on camera. What was he supposed to do with her drunken ramblings at a bar? Damned if he knew.
“Having breakfast,” he said.
“Why are you bothering her?”
“I think that’s your own guilt talking,” he said.
“You’re the one who should feel guilty, using my sister for your stupid movie.”
“If she knew the truth, I doubt Lauren would agree that I am the one who should feel bad.”
Stephanie’s lower lip trembled.
“If you tell her, I’ll deny it.”
Matt barely heard her. His mind kept going over and over the same question: Why had Rory betrayed Lauren?
Matt had footage of all the coaches and teammates and military guys extolling his virtues. He had Lauren, acknowledging his injuries and the difficulties in their marriage toward the end. But there was a missing piece along the way, a breach between the man and the myth.
He needed Stephanie back on camera.
“I don’t want to tell her, Stephanie. I have no interest in upsetting your sister or causing problems between the two of you. But if you’re worried about her finding out—and someday she might, because the truth has a way of coming to the surface—then I suggest you take this opportunity to own it.”
“How?”
“I’m offering you the chance to tell your side of the story. On the record.” He waited, watching her mull it over. “I think you know I’m not the enemy here. And I don’t think you’re the bad guy either, Stephanie.”
The Husband Hour Page 22
