The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  I look at her, thinking that’s the funny thing about faith. Either you have it—or you don’t. And with this one flyer, this one black-and-white photograph of Grant holding up a shot glass, my faith has been extinguished, just like so many of the candles blowing out around us.

  I eventually get up off the sidewalk.

  I can’t bear the thought of going home alone—or home at all—so Jasmine and I take the subway to the Upper East Side, where she lives. She shares an apartment with a roommate who is stuck in Chicago, where’s she’s been for work; all flights are still grounded. On the way to her apartment, we stop by a liquor store for a bottle of wine, then huddle together on folding chairs on her concrete-slab balcony overlooking the East River. It’s too dark to really make it out, but I stare in its direction anyway, remembering that Matthew once told me it’s not actually a river, but a “saltwater tidal strait” that travels in both directions, depending on the time of day. I tell Jasmine this now, adding that the Hudson isn’t a river, either, but an estuary, a factoid I also learned compliments of Matthew.

  She gives me a skeptical look, shakes her head, and says, “Great. Now stop stalling. Call the number.”

  I sigh and look down at the flyer I’m clutching in my lap. I was reluctant to take it, but Jasmine convinced me that it was okay. That this one flyer wasn’t going to make the difference in his return.

  “Not yet,” I say, gulping wine, on a mission to get drunk—and numb.

  “Why not?” she says, staring me down. “What are you waiting for?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, although I do know, actually. I’m afraid of the final confirmation that may come with the phone call. I’m also afraid to say this aloud. As if Grant’s chances of survival might be somehow correlated to my lack of faith.

  Jasmine follows my gaze back to the flyer and says, “Who do you think hung it?”

  I shrug and say I don’t know. “I can’t imagine that his brother is out hanging flyers…and he’s never mentioned any other family in the city….So I guess a friend? Maybe a colleague who last saw him…” I close my eyes, but the images come anyway: horrible visions of smoke and flames, and the worst one of all—jumping through broken glass. Falling.

  “Well, whoever it is…won’t it make you feel better to talk to them?” she says. “To connect with someone else who cares for him?”

  “Maybe,” I say, shuddering. “But maybe not.”

  “Okay, look,” Jasmine says after a long pause, her voice back to being all business. “If you don’t call that freaking number, then I’m going to.”

  I hold my breath, both terrified and relieved, as she keeps her promise, picking up her cellphone. She glances at the flyer and starts to dial. As she puts the phone to her ear, I can hear a faint ringing sound followed by a voice on the other end of the line saying hello. It sounds like a woman, but I can’t be sure.

  “Hello,” Jasmine says, as I put my head in my hands, waiting. “My name is Jasmine Baker. And I’m calling…I’m calling about a flyer that I believe you hung in Washington Square Park….”

  There is a short pause, then Jasmine says, “No, no. I’m so sorry—I should have said that first. I don’t have any information….I was just…I’m a reporter…and I’m writing a story. I was at the candlelight vigil held in the park tonight…and I’m writing about family and friends of the missing—all those who are hanging flyers in the city…and wanted to check…if you’ve…heard anything?”

  As Jasmine falls silent, I peer through my fingers. Even before I see her anxious expression, I can tell the answer is no.

  No, the person on the other line hasn’t heard anything.

  No, Grant hasn’t been found.

  No, he’s not coming back.

  Ever.

  My stomach in knots, I throw back the rest of the wine in my glass, then refill it from the bottle at my feet, only half listening as Jasmine continues in gentle reporter mode, asking all the obvious questions about who and what and why and where and how. She takes notes as she goes, and at one point, she gives the person her number. She finishes by saying, “I’m so sorry. May God bless you. May God bless both of you.”

  As she hangs up, I brace myself and hear her whisper fuck.

  “What?” I say, staring at her. “Tell me. Tell me everything.”

  Jasmine clears her throat and starts talking in a low monotone, staring straight ahead in the direction of the river. “She mostly told me things you already know. That Grant just got home from London…after a leave of absence from work….She said yesterday was his first day back….That he was only going to go in for a few hours, to pick up a few things….He worked in the South Tower…on the seventy-fifth floor….” She stops abruptly, and takes a deep breath.

  I wait for her to continue, but she doesn’t. “Who is she?” I ask.

  Jasmine looks at me for a long beat, pursing her lips, then she shakes her head once, and says, “Her name is Amy.”

  I stare at her, thinking that surely it’s not the same Amy that Grant mentioned in the Adirondacks. The name of his ex.

  “Amy Smith,” Jasmine says, her eyes narrowing.

  “Smith? Did she say how they’re related?” I ask, thinking that she isn’t the ex, after all. That she’s a cousin or aunt he never told me about. Or maybe the Smith is just a coincidence—and they’re not related at all. It is the most common surname.

  “Yep,” Jasmine says with a look I know well. “She mentioned that….”

  “And?” I say.

  “And she’s his wife,” Jasmine says.

  Several seconds pass before I can speak. “But that’s just not possible,” I finally say, feeling dizzy, the balcony swaying under my feet. “She must be his ex-wife? Are you sure she didn’t say ex-wife?”

  “Honey, yes. I’m positive,” Jasmine says.

  “But…he wasn’t wearing a ring….He was living with his brother….”

  “Did you ever go to his place?” she asks.

  “No…but…” I shake my head. “It’s not possible….There’s no way.”

  Jasmine stares at me with a look of pure pity, as I process exactly what I know she’s thinking. That of course there’s a way, and it happens all the time. Men lie and cheat. They take their rings off in bars. They sleep with other women. They tell those women they love them. Sometimes they actually do; sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they tell the mistress; sometimes they lie to everyone. Sometimes they get away with it. Sometimes they get caught. And sometimes, whether from karma or bad luck, they are exposed only in death.

  “I need to meet her,” I say. “I need to talk to her. Face-to-face.”

  Jasmine nods and says, “I know you do. I got her address. She lives in Brooklyn. You need answers. She needs answers, too, even though she may not know it yet.”

  “Does she need answers even if he’s dead?” I say.

  “Yes. Even if he’s dead,” she says, raising her chin, being strong for both of us, the way the best friends always are.

  “But what’s the point?” I say, crumbling more with every passing second.

  “The truth is the point,” Jasmine says. “The truth is always the point.”

  Over the next several days, as I struggle to sleep, barely eat, and numbly write and revise various pieces about what everyone is now calling 9/11, I find myself slipping into a weird state of denial. It’s not that I forget for a single second that terrorists smashed planes into buildings, knocking them down, killing thousands of Americans from all walks of life. There’s no way to escape that, as it’s all anyone is talking about—whether on television, or in the newspapers, or out in the world. And even when people seemingly resume their normal pre-9/11 lives, riding the subway or strolling the avenues or sitting in diners and bars, the pain remains etched on everyone’s face, hanging in the air just like the lingering smoke and sten
ch still wafting up from lower Manhattan.

  But amid all of this, I can’t fully come to grips with the reality that Grant is among the dead, and more incredibly, that he left behind a wife—now a widow. Losing him in an ordinary fashion would be overwhelmingly heartbreaking, but facing the fact that our whole relationship was based on a lie is nothing short of unbearable. So I just don’t let myself go there.

  I think Scottie intuits this—so he comes up with explanations I can cling to. Maybe they were divorced, and she just calls him her husband as shorthand. Maybe they married only so she could secure a green card—and they’re really just friends. Maybe she’s a stalker, suffering from delusions. I don’t really believe any of his far-fetched theories, but they enable me to put off calling the number for a bit longer.

  Until one morning, about a week later, when I finally bite the bullet and make myself call the number on the flyer. A woman answers on the first ring, and her soft voice fills me with so much agony that I nearly hang up. But I stay the course and force myself to say, “Hello. Is this Amy Smith?”

  “Yes. This is she.”

  My heart racing, I say, “My name is Cecily Gardner. I’m a reporter with The New York Mercury….I believe you talked to my colleague…?”

  “Oh, yes,” she says. “I did.”

  I pause, waiting for her to say something more, and when she doesn’t, I start stammering. “Um, have you, have you by chance…found him?…Your husband?” I say, instantly regretting my clumsy words, which sound more like I’m inquiring about a missing cat or dog.

  “No,” she says. “We have not.”

  As I’m wondering who the “we” is—his brother or someone else—she continues. “At this point, we’ve accepted he’s not coming back,” she says with a catch in her voice.

  Her words catch me off guard, the finality of them, and I can manage only a very quiet “I’m sorry.”

  “Thank you,” she says.

  Part of me wants to stop right here, and just wish her the best, but I know I can’t do that. At the same time, I can’t blurt out the whole truth. It’s just too cruel. So I clear my throat and say, “I wonder if you’d be open to meeting me? For a story I’m writing…?”

  It’s not a total lie, as my editor has given all of us carte blanche to write features on any aspect of the attacks. But I still feel guilty about meeting under false pretenses—and being anything other than completely transparent in my reporting. At the least, it is a breach of journalistic ethics. At the most, it’s immoral.

  I hold my breath, awaiting her answer, praying she tells me no. That she’s not up to it. That she wants her privacy.

  Instead she says yes, how about this afternoon?

  * * *

  —

  Hours later, I am approaching Grant and Amy’s home in Park Slope, a serene, tree-lined neighborhood in Brooklyn that reminds me of Sesame Street. Checking the numbers on the buildings, I find their brownstone with bay windows and potted yellow chrysanthemums on both sides of the steps leading up to the double front doors. On the verge of hyperventilating, I climb the stairs, reach out, and ring the bell.

  As I listen to the chime echo inside, followed by the high-pitched barking of a dog, I desperately wish I had taken Jasmine up on her offer to come with me. I’m not sure why I didn’t—other than a gut feeling that this was something I needed to do alone.

  I hold my breath as one of the two doors swings open, and I see her for the first time. Although I expected Grant’s wife to be pretty, I didn’t expect her to be this gorgeous. She could easily be a model—the fashion-runway kind, with long legs and no hips. She has pale blue eyes and long baby-blond hair that remind me of Carolyn Bessette Kennedy and Gwyneth Paltrow. A long-haired dachshund yaps frantically at her feet, and as I glance down at it, I see that Amy’s toenails are painted a deep burgundy. The reality of this woman is a punch in the stomach.

  “You must be Cecily?” she says, speaking first.

  I nod, as her dog continues to bark. She tries to shush her, but it doesn’t work, so she stoops down and scoops her into her arms. “Yes. Hi. I’m Cecily Gardner,” I say. “And you’re Amy?”

  She nods, shifting the dog, extending her arm. I shake her hand, her palm cool in my clammy one.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say, my stomach in knots. “I wish it were under different circumstances….I’m so sorry.”

  She nods without speaking, looking so fragile. It doesn’t help that her dog is staring at me with a mournful expression of her own.

  “Thank you for agreeing to talk to me,” I say, wondering how I will ever be able to find the courage to tell her the truth.

  “No. Thank you,” she says as I make eye contact with her dog again.

  “She’s cute,” I say, stalling, reaching out toward her, letting her sniff my hand before petting her silky head. “What’s her name?”

  She tells me it’s Tony.

  “Oh, he’s a boy,” I say.

  “No, no,” she says. “You had it right. She’s a girl. It’s Toni with an i. As in Morrison.”

  “Ah,” I say, feeling even sicker as I recall the copy of Beloved I saw in Grant’s cabin.

  I wait for her to say something more, but she doesn’t. So I clear my throat and gently ask if I can come in.

  “Oh, yes. Of course,” she says. “Sorry…I’m a little out of it these days….”

  “That’s understandable,” I say as she turns and leads me through the foyer and into a bright, spacious living room with elaborate crown molding, a high ceiling, and classic but still hip décor. On the walls hang beautiful paintings of nudes and seascapes.

  He had everything, I think. A beautiful wife, a stunning home, a cute dog—and yet he still had an affair with me. Why? It just doesn’t make any sense.

  “I’m sorry it’s such a mess.” Amy says, as Toni hops up onto one of the chairs and continues to inspect me.

  “It’s lovely,” I say, thinking that it’s hardly a mess, just comfortably cluttered with books and newspapers (including this week’s Mercury), along with a few empty glasses strewn across the coffee table.

  She thanks me, then asks if I’m hungry. “Friends have brought so much food….I can’t possibly eat it all.”

  “No, thank you,” I say. “I just had lunch.”

  “What about something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water? I think we have some cranberry juice….”

  We.

  I know she’s only talking about the contents of a refrigerator, but it still overwhelms me, and I am certain in that moment that he belonged to her. Never to me. He was her husband.

  I open my mouth to tell her a glass of water would be great as she continues, “Or how about some chardonnay?…It’s five o’clock somewhere, right?”

  The Jimmy Buffett reference feels odd given the circumstances, but in a way that makes me warm to her. I smile, then say, “Thank you, but I really shouldn’t….”

  “Oh, come on,” she says. “No one’s following the rules right now.”

  I hesitate, then nod, thinking that it’s possibly the only way I’ll get through this conversation. “Okay. Thank you.”

  “Be right back,” she says, looking slightly more relaxed.

  I nod and force a smile, then watch as she gracefully turns and leaves the room, Toni scampering after her. Once alone, I exhale, feeling my shoulders slump as I glance around, quickly searching for photographs or other traces of Grant. I find nothing, a source of simultaneous relief and frustration. I tell myself I will have answers soon enough as I sit down on the edge of the sofa, then pull from my tote bag a small notebook, two mechanical pencils, and my handheld recorder, placing them all on the coffee table. I rearrange them, then run my hands over the smooth leather of the sofa. I take a breath, close my eyes, then open them.

  A moment later, Amy returns, carrying t
wo stemless glasses of wine. She hands me one, and I take it from her and thank her. Liquid courage, I tell myself, as she sits down beside me. As Toni jumps up between us, I take a sip. The wine is crisp and cold, and feels like it’s directly entering my bloodstream. “I typically don’t drink on the job, but—” I feel the need to say.

  “Nothing is typical about any of this,” Amy says, taking a sip, too.

  “True,” I say, feeling the weight of her statement.

  I take another small sip, then reach for a coaster on the table.

  “Oh, don’t worry about that,” she says, waving it off.

  I take it anyway, putting down my glass, stalling a few more seconds before I force myself to meet her gaze, clear my throat, and summon all my strength to begin the hardest conversation of my life.

  But in the next beat, I chicken out, hearing myself say, “So. Again. I’m working on features about the people who lost their lives…as well as the surviving family members….”

  She nods, her eyes instantly welling with tears.

  “I’m sorry. I know this is really hard…” I say, as an intense wave of grief washes over me. Worried that I may start to cry myself, I take another breath, then offer an out for both of us. “If you’re not up to it—we could postpone?”

  “No. No. It’s okay,” she says, pressing her palms against her eyes as if to dam the tears. “I…I want to talk about Grant…my husband.”

  The word husband is a knife in my heart, but I try to remain calm. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?” I ask, gesturing to my recorder and picking up my pencil and pad.

  “Go ahead,” she says as Toni rearranges herself, resting her chin on Amy’s thigh.

  I hit the red record button, then say, “So. Can you tell me your husband’s name?”

  “Grant Smith,” she says.

  My stomach lurches, but I continue. “And…let’s see…when did you marry?”