He could see her grappling with the idea of confessing. He’d witnessed it many times over the course of his career. People needed to talk. The need for absolution was a strong and universal impulse.
When Stephanie looked back at him, she had tears in her eyes.
“The guilt is killing me,” she said. “And I have no idea what to do about it.”
The house was empty when Lauren returned after work. Her mother’s car was gone from the driveway. Lately, her mother had been spending a lot of time baking, but the kitchen showed no sign of activity even from earlier in the day. The deck was empty, the pool quiet. Would she have a rare night of the house all to herself? For once, she actually didn’t want to be alone.
She dialed her mother’s cell.
“How’s it going there, sweetheart?” Beth said.
“Fine—I just got home from work. Are you here for dinner tonight?”
“Didn’t your sister tell you? I went to Philly with Ethan for an overnight trip. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
When she hung up, she immediately tried Stephanie’s phone, but it went straight to voice mail.
She walked upstairs, paced around her bedroom, then called Matt. Again, voice mail.
“Matt, it’s Lauren,” she said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said last night, and I just don’t want your portrayal of Rory to be so mired in the negative. I don’t believe that’s who he was. The end doesn’t define the beginning. You know what I mean? Call me when you can.”
The house was completely silent.
Lauren opened her closet.
The boxes from the attic were still taking up the entire bottom. She dragged them out, the one she’d already opened with her high-school keepsakes and another marked 2010–2011. She remembered packing this one, basically dumping an entire dresser drawer into it: cards from her wedding, Ethan’s blue birth announcement (Stephanie Adelman is proud to announce the birth of her son, Ethan Jake Adelman, 7 lbs., 8 oz., April 6, 2011), her wedding album (which she would not open under any circumstances), a few editions of the Los Angeles Times that mentioned Rory in the sports section, a scented candle from their honeymoon hotel in Negril, two shot glasses from Jamaica, and there, at the very bottom, a hotel-room key card that read OJAI VALLEY INN AND SPA.
She reached for it, clutched the small piece of plastic to her chest. I held this on one of the happiest days of my life, she thought.
Lauren placed the key card back in the box. And then she changed her mind about the wedding album—sort of. She wouldn’t look through it, but she would hand it over to Matt. Maybe there was something in there he’d find useful. After all, Rory was more than a hockey player and then a soldier. For a time, a brief time, he had been a husband.
They’d married on the roof deck of the Franklin Institute, framed by a panoramic view of the Philadelphia skyline at sunset. The reception took place in the planetarium, under the stars.
Lauren walked down the aisle on her father’s arm; she wore a simple A-line dress that she’d picked out with her mother at a bridal shop in Center City. Rory stood at the altar flanked by his groom’s party: his brother, Dean Wade, and two friends from Harvard. Her bridal party consisted of friends from Lower Merion, her roommate from Georgetown, and Emerson’s wife. She felt Stephanie’s absence acutely and regretted their argument that day at the airport.
But all of that paled next to what truly marred that nearly perfect summer night: the secret she held deep and sharp in her gut. In six weeks, Rory would be leaving for basic training in Georgia. As he was a Ranger, his enlistment would be three years, and he could choose among a few places to be stationed. They’d decided on Fort Lewis, outside of Seattle.
And then, for a brief and shining moment, as she stood with Rory on the scenic roof deck, a warm summer breeze rustling her waterfall veil, the confrontation with Emerson didn’t matter. Stephanie’s absence didn’t matter. Rory’s enlistment did not matter. Hand in hand with Rory, both of them turned toward the nondenominational minister they had chosen, everything that had happened in the past nine years leading to that moment unfolded in her mind, a storybook montage. It was a miracle that they were standing there together, a beautiful miracle. Rory’s dark eyes locked on hers as they exchanged their vows. She felt safe and sure, and everything else fell away.
Lauren rummaged through her desk for a pair of scissors. The next box, labeled LM, was wrapped in layers and layers of blue tape.
Underneath a thick layer of maroon and white clothing, she found the Philadelphia Inquirer article that Matt wanted to see. She stared at the grainy black-and-white photo of seventeen-year-old Rory standing in a face-off on the ice at the Havertown Skatium. She put it aside.
Next, a beat-up hockey puck saved from a game, the significance of which was long forgotten.
A midnight-blue velvet jewelry pouch. Inside, she’d tucked his dog tags, knowing she should keep them but not knowing when she would ever want to look at them again.
And then her fingers found a white sealed envelope scrunched in the corner. Lauren’s hand covered her mouth.
Strange, how the mind worked. How it could obsess or obfuscate. How strange that it was possible to be the unreliable narrator of your own life. She shouldn’t be surprised that she had forgotten about the letter. But she was.
She hadn’t set eyes on it in four years.
In the days following Rory’s death, she had been surrounded by friends and family, consumed with logistics and arrangements. The night of his memorial was the first time she’d been alone in the house, alone with his things. All she had left of him.
Two in the morning, and she was still wearing her black dress. She went to Rory’s bureau and opened the middle drawer. It was filled with carefully folded T-shirts. She opened the top drawer, where his socks were all paired together. He’d always had a better organizational sense than she did. And he was neater than she was—the opposite of how it usually was between husbands and wives. She teased him about this.
In all of their months of separation, she’d never thought to move his belongings. Even in her darkest moments, she had not imagined that he would never return to the house.
She gathered a bunch of socks in her hands. They had to go—everything had to go. She couldn’t live amid his clothes, his photographs, his furniture. But she couldn’t part with them either. She would box it all up like she had the first half of their lives together, packed in the basement.
Next, his closet. She pressed her face to one of his sweatshirts, which somehow still smelled like him. She sat on the floor, trying to breathe.
So many sneakers, a pair of hiking boots. And then, a sliver of white caught her eye, peeking out from underneath a pair of Adidas pushed way in the back. On her knees, she reached for the envelope, saw her name written in Rory’s familiar, precise lettering.
Lauren sank back on her heels. She knew what it was. She’d heard about them from other military wives. He’d left her a just-in-case letter.
She dropped it like it was on fire. It wafted to her feet.
When had he written it? Before his first tour? It had to have been then. There was no way he’d written it before the second. Either way, it didn’t matter. The letter must not be read—not ever.
Once she read the letter, he would be gone forever.
Lauren took the envelope, ran back down to the basement, and shoved it into one of the many cardboard boxes they’d never unpacked. Then she taped it and taped it and taped it closed, as if the box were never to be opened again.
And now she’d opened it.
Lauren’s phone rang. Matt.
“Hello?” she said, trying to sound normal.
“Hey, it’s Matt. Sorry I missed your call but I was working. What’s up?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
She hesitated, trying to normalize her voice.
“Yes. I w
as just going through some old things.”
“Where are you? Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m at home,” she said, sobbing.
“I’ll be right over.”
Chapter Forty
Lauren climbed into the front seat of Matt’s car. The night had cooled and she zipped her hoodie.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked.
“Just drive. Anywhere.”
Atlantic Avenue was busy. At another time in her life, she would have appreciated the promise in the air, a beautiful night just waiting to unfold.
Stopped at a light, Matt said, “I’m sorry you got upset.”
“It’s not your fault. I wanted to find some things you could use for the film to counter all the negative stuff we talked about. I don’t want him to be remembered as a tragic figure. I want people to understand why I loved him, to see what a happy life we had together, if just for a moment.” She started to cry again. He pulled the car to the side of the street and found her a tissue from his glove compartment.
“Thanks.” She sniffed. They were right in front of Lucy. “I used to love this elephant.”
“What’s that restaurant right next door? Want to get a drink?”
They waited a half an hour at Ventura’s Greenhouse to get a table at the rooftop bar with a view of Lucy. The music was loud and commanding, courtesy of a live DJ.
“We’re the oldest people here,” she shouted.
“I know. I think we got reverse-carded—to see if we’re under thirty, not over twenty-one.”
She smiled. The waitress, sunburned and with a sheet of straight, white-blond hair, took their orders—a beer and an Italian hoagie for Matt, and for Lauren, a drink called a strawberry shortcake: ice cream, strawberry mix, and amaretto.
“Do you come here a lot?” he asked.
“I haven’t been here in, like, ten years.”
“Were you old enough to come here ten years ago?”
“No! That was the point.”
“I didn’t imagine you as a fake-ID type of teenager.”
“Stephanie was a bad influence. She lured me here with promises of a bird’s-eye view of Lucy.”
“Such a crazy idea for a building,” Matt said, looking at the six-story elephant. “Have you ever been inside?”
“My grandparents took me to the top every summer when I was little. We spent weekends at my grandparents’ house—the house I live in now. The car ride from Philly seemed endless, but as soon as I saw Lucy, I knew we were here. I would get so excited. It’s amazing how easy it is to be happy when you’re a kid.”
“This is a great town for kids. You’re lucky.”
“I know. I’m glad my sister is here this summer so my nephew can get to experience it.”
“You’re getting along with her?”
“I am.” She smiled. “I feel like we’re reconnecting a little.”
A strange expression crossed Matt’s face, a mix of surprise and puzzlement.
“What?” she said.
He hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “Well, you originally weren’t happy about me interviewing her so I figured you two had some issues.”
“Don’t all siblings?”
He contemplated her question. “Not necessarily. I had more issues with my parents. I got along really well with my older brother.”
“I’m sorry that you lost him. Do you mind if I ask what happened?” She had met only a few people over the years who had lost loved ones in the military. Each time, she felt a compulsive urge for details, to know when and where and how the person had died, as if somehow it would help her make sense of what had happened to Rory. This, maybe, was the appeal of war-widow support groups. But she was no more inclined to join a group now than she had been when she was an army wife.
“It was a blast. An IED near his convoy.”
Her heart began to beat fast. “Like what happened to Rory?” she whispered.
“No,” Matt said. “There is a parallel to what happened to Rory, but that’s not it.”
Their waitress arrived with Matt’s beer and hoagie and Lauren’s frothy pink drink. Lauren pushed it aside.
“What, then?”
“Do you know what the signature wound of Iraq and Afghanistan is?” he said.
“Traumatic brain injury.”
He nodded. “My brother wasn’t killed by the blast. He suffered what they call a primary blast injury and got a medical discharge. He had seizures. He was depressed, had memory loss. It was my junior year of college. I took some time off to be with him, but I barely recognized him. And then my senior year, I came home for winter break. We went to my aunt’s on Christmas Eve, but Ben stayed behind. He got bad headaches. My mother left the party early when he didn’t answer his phone. She was the one who found him. He’d shot himself in the head.”
Lauren covered her face with her hands. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
“So I became really obsessed with traumatic brain injury. And the more I researched, the more I found how often athletes suffered the same thing.”
“Okay, but it’s different. I mean, you can’t compare athletes and soldiers.”
“In this context, you can. And Rory happened to be both.”
“We don’t know for a fact that he suffered from traumatic brain injury.”
“I think it’s textbook. You know it too.”
She sipped her pink cocktail.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” he said.
“When have you asked me anything but personal questions?”
He made a waving gesture. “That was for work. I mean as a friend.”
Were they friends? “Sure. Ask away.”
“Why haven’t you dated since Rory’s death?”
The question felt like a slap. Her drink was suddenly too sweet, all sugar and no anesthetic effect.
“Because…because that part of my life is behind me.”
He shook his head. “Lauren, you know that’s not rational, right?”
“I don’t expect you to understand.”
“Lauren, your husband died. It’s a tragedy. But it shouldn’t define the rest of your life.”
“Why shouldn’t it?”
“Should I let Ben’s death define me?”
“Aren’t you? Isn’t that what this whole thing is about? And besides, where’s your wife? Or girlfriend?”
“Okay, I’ll admit I’ve been a little consumed with work the past few years. My personal life has suffered. But I’m trying to do something positive.”
“Well, maybe I am too.”
“Or maybe you’re afraid.”
She pushed away her drink. “Maybe I don’t want to be in love again. I had a chance, I tried, and I failed.”
Matt shook his head. “Lauren, you didn’t fail.”
“Haven’t you listened to a thing I’ve said these past few weeks?”
“I’ve listened to every word you’ve said. And I’ve watched the footage. I know what you’ve said better than you do.”
“So then you know I left him when he needed me most.”
“How do you figure?”
She bit her lip. “He wouldn’t have been in Iraq that day if I had moved back to his post with him. He would never have asked to redeploy so soon.”
“Lauren,” he said slowly, “if anything, he failed you. Again and again. When did he ever put you first? You bought into this notion that he was special—hell, so did I. But guess what—he wasn’t. He was just a man, a man who made mistakes, who hurt people, and who ultimately lost his life. He was gifted, but he was flawed. And the system is flawed, and for Rory—and for others, no doubt—the combination was lethal. But nowhere in this whole story do I see your culpability.”
She covered her eyes with her hands, tears wetting her palms. “I could have made a difference in how things turned out if I hadn’t been so damn passive. I let the NHL make the calls about his health, I let Emerson influence him, and I let him decide to join the
military when really it should have been our decision as a couple. I let every external factor set the course. Because I wasn’t strong enough to set it myself.”
“I disagree. I don’t think it had anything to do with lack of strength. I think it took a lot of strength to keep putting your own needs, your gut instincts, aside. Because you didn’t want to get in the way of the great Rory Kincaid, because all you heard from his family was that you were a distraction, all you heard from coaches was that he was special and he was destined for greatness, and all you heard from him was that he needed to excel and dominate or he couldn’t be happy. You two were living by different codes. They were impossible to reconcile. But your code was unconditional love, and you were true to that until it became dangerous. If you’d been with another type of person, you would have gotten back what you were giving. You would have been happy.” He took her by the shoulders, turned her toward him. His face was emotional, the neutral listener gone. “And Lauren, I’m sorry to say, but you’re fucking crazy for not giving yourself a chance to experience that.”
“Experience what?” she said bitterly. “What, exactly, am I supposed to experience now?”
He stared at her for a beat, his hands moving from her shoulders to her face.
And he kissed her.
Beth tucked Ethan into bed, telling him that Aunt Lauren would read to him tomorrow night, for sure.
“Is she out with Mommy?” he asked.
No, Beth highly doubted that. “Maybe,” she said. “I’m sure they’ll be home soon. But it’s bedtime for you. You’ll see them in the morning.”
She kissed him on the forehead and slipped out of the room. What an exhausting day. The last mile of driving on Black Horse Pike, she could barely keep her eyes open. But Ethan, overstimulated from a day running around Center City, Philadelphia, with her, had been a nonstop chatterbox. She probably should have stuck with her plan to stay overnight, but she felt compelled to drive back to the shore at the last minute.
A breeze blew into the kitchen through a window she’d left open. It was a beautiful night. She opened a bottle of white wine and poured a glass. She leaned against the counter and sipped slowly.
The Husband Hour Page 23
