by Emily Giffin
“We got married in June of ninety-seven,” she says. “Four years ago.”
I nod, wondering about the exact date in June—whether they were together for their anniversary this year. It was after we met, of course, but was it before or after Grant left for Europe with his brother? I am suddenly desperate to know the answer, but tell myself that’s not a question I can ask without revealing my ulterior motive—so I move on, doing my best to maintain a scrap of journalistic integrity.
“And do you…have any children?” I ask, holding my breath.
Amy shakes her head, her lip quivering. “No. We never had kids….We were going to…but didn’t.” Tears roll down her cheeks.
I look away, feeling a wave of relief, followed by a greater dose of shame and guilt. For hoping against something that might have given this poor woman a shred of comfort.
I hesitate, then reach over and gently touch her arm. It’s something else I can’t remember ever doing during an interview. “I’m really sorry, Amy,” I say so softly that it comes out a whisper.
“Thank you,” she says, sniffing, then wiping her eyes with her fists.
I give her a few seconds as I stare at my wine, fighting the urge to finish it in one swallow while trying to come up with something to say, another question to ask.
“How did you two meet?” I finally say.
“That’s kind of a long story…but we met as kids…when we were about six or seven. Our parents became friends…and then the kids got to know each other…meaning me and Grant and his twin brother. I’m an only child.”
“Oh. He had a twin?” I say, hating myself a little more each second.
“Yeah. We were all close as kids.”
I nod, then say, “So when did you start dating Grant? Were you…like…high school sweethearts?”
“No. He actually lived in Buffalo, and I grew up in the city. We didn’t start dating until college,” she says. “We both went to Stanford. His brother was out there, too…in culinary school at the time….Maybe you should talk to him….”
“Yes. That’s a good idea,” I say as my stomach lurches, knowing I can’t and won’t.
She nods, leans over to grab a pen, and writes his email address down on a nearby notepad. “Then again, he’s very moody,” she says, frowning, as she puts her pen down. “And he’s also ill….He has Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Oh, no…That’s awful,” I murmur, keeping my eyes down as my face burns hot.
“Yeah. The worst,” she says, then takes a long drink of wine, giving me a chance to collect my scattered, racing thoughts. “Well…” She lets out a brittle laugh. “Almost the worst.”
“Yeah,” I whisper, using it as a segue to 9/11. “So? Can we talk about that day? Are you up for that?”
She nods and says, “Yes. Although there’s not much to tell….I really don’t know much…you know, about what happened…exactly….”
“Well, maybe just tell me everything you do know?” I say gently. “About the time line…as far as you know it.”
She sighs, then says, “Well, let’s see…Grant was in Europe with his brother for much of the summer. He was getting treatment there—in London—as part of a clinical trial. But it didn’t work….So they left London and traveled for a bit….” Amy’s voice trails off, and it takes her a few seconds to continue. “They flew home on Monday night…on the tenth.”
“And you saw him? That night?” I ask, my heart pounding in my ears.
She nods and says yes. “But only briefly. He had to get back to his brother….”
I stare at her, but all I can see is Grant coming into my apartment that night. And everything that followed.
I feel like I really might vomit, and it takes me a few seconds to catch my breath and ask, “So then…he went from his brother’s place to work?”
“Yes. We assume so….He was a trader…in the World Trade Center.”
“Which building?” I say, my voice shaking.
“The South Tower. On the seventy-fifth floor.”
“And so…that morning…did he try to call you? Or…leave a message?” I ask, thinking of all the heartbreaking final calls and messages from airplanes and offices. I hold my breath, bracing myself for her answer, hoping for her sake that the answer is yes, but knowing that it will be another blow to my heart if he called her, not me.
She shakes her head and whispers no, she never heard from him.
I ask if he tried to call Byron.
She pauses and looks at me, then shakes her head before taking another sip of wine and several deep breaths. “It must have all happened quickly….We hope and pray that was the case….His company lost one other person—a young female associate. We’re thinking maybe they were in the same area of the building…or maybe in an elevator or stairwell. She never placed a call, either….Then again, maybe they weren’t together at all….” She stares into the distance, then shrugs. “I guess we’ll never know.”
I nod, feeling the full weight of her statement. “I’m so sorry,” I say, reaching out to touch her arm for the second time.
“Thank you, Cecily,” she says. “I’m grateful that you’re here…that you care.”
I nod, my heart pounding. “You’re welcome,” I mumble, my face burning.
“And I’m honored that you want to put him in a story. He deserves to have his life talked about….He really was a good man. And a good husband.”
I meet her eyes and nod again, suddenly so relieved that I haven’t told her the truth. That she can go on thinking the very best about him.
“Would you like to read his obituary?” Amy says, staring at me with wide eyes. “What I’ve written so far?”
“Sure,” I say, even though I wouldn’t. Not at all.
“Okay. Come on,” she says, standing and motioning for me to follow. “It’s in the kitchen. And I can get us a refill.” She glances at my glass, almost as empty as hers.
Already buzzed, I know I should decline the offer. That nothing good can possibly come from downing more wine with the widow of the man I love. Loved. If I’m not going to tell her the truth, there is no reason to prolong the visit and my own torture and deceit.
But I can tell she wants me to say yes. I can see it in her eyes, pleading with me. I wonder why—does she feel a connection with me or does she just not want to be alone? But I decide it doesn’t matter. I will give her what she wants. It’s the least I can do, considering.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s have another glass.”
We transfer to the kitchen—a cheerful space with natural sunlight, granite countertops, and state-of-the-art appliances.
“Do you like to cook?” I ask her, feeling sure that she does. And that she’s good at it. And that she cleans as she goes and always gets the timing just right and isn’t tempted to eat along the way.
She says yes, but that she likes baking better.
“Because it’s more of a science?” I say, the stock answer bakers always give.
“No,” she says, smiling. “Because I like dessert best.”
I smile back at her, adding that to the list of her attributes—she likes desserts and looks like a model. I watch as she pulls a bottle of wine out of a huge stainless-steel refrigerator. She moves so slowly that I wonder if she’s medicated—I bet she is—as she refills our glasses, then brings them over to the counter. She sits on one of two swivel barstools, and I take the other, angling it toward her. Our eyes meet before she turns and looks down at the counter at a notebook, the page covered with small, neat cursive.
“Is that it?” I say, pointing toward it, my stomach lurching. “Your husband’s obituary?”
“Yes,” she says.
“May I?”
“Yes, yes,” she says, pushing the notebook my way. “Please do.”
She hands me a pen a
nd says, “And feel free to edit. I could use the help. I’m no writer.”
I take the pen, then steel myself as I read. Dates and places and names swirl in my head. His father, his mother, his brother. I try to focus more on grammar than actual content, pretending that it’s the summary of a stranger’s life—which in some ways, it is.
At the end, there are some generic platitudes, stock obituary sentences. Wonderful brother, husband, friend. Love of nature, zest for life. Warm smile and infectious laugh. Lots of trulys sprinkled throughout.
“It’s beautiful,” I say, putting the pen down, then taking a gulp of wine. I feel her staring at me, so I add, “Really beautiful.”
“You don’t have any changes?” she says.
“I really don’t,” I say, glancing down at it again. “I mean…maybe a few tiny things….”
“Please…make as many edits as you’d like,” she says.
I know she’s asking because I’m a writer, not because she thinks I knew Grant, but I still feel transparent—naked—as I reluctantly add a few commas, break up a run-on sentence, and cross out one truly. I finish and put the pen down.
“Is that all?” she asks, so painfully earnest.
I nod, but then look down, scanning again. “Well…I actually might reorder these two paragraphs. Put the family stuff ahead of Stanford and the basketball part.”
“Okay. Yes. That’s good,” she says, picking up the pen, drawing an arrow, and making a note in the margin. She puts the pen down, sighs, and takes a sip of wine before reaching out for a fabric-covered box I hadn’t noticed before. She lifts the lid and pulls out a stack of photographs. Immediately, I see the one of Grant from the flyer. Looking at his eyes, I feel an electric jolt through my whole body. I can’t believe he’s gone. I can’t believe any of this.
“Which photo do you think I should use? For the obituary?” she asks. “They want a headshot, so some of these won’t work, and some are too blurry.”
Amy fans about seven photographs on the counter and my eyes go straight to a wedding portrait that looks professional. In it, Grant is wearing a black tux, and she’s in a gorgeous off-the-shoulder mermaid-style gown, her hair long and loose but pulled back on the sides. There are flowers in her hair. His arm is around her waist, pulling her close, and they are gazing adoringly at each other, seemingly oblivious to the friends and family who surround them.
“Wow. You look gorgeous,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says. “Feels like forever ago.”
“Where was your reception?” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
She tells me the Pierre, a faraway look in her eye. “We filled the room with white and blush peonies…and danced to jazz and big band classics….”
“Sounds like a fairy tale,” I say, staring at her, aching with jealousy. Even if he’s gone. Even if he cheated on her. She still got to marry him. He belonged to her. Oh my God, I’m jealous of a widow. What is wrong with me?
“It was a fairy tale….It really was…but—” She stops, her expression changing from wistful to troubled.
“But…what?” I say, then stop breathing for a few seconds.
She shakes her head and says, “Nothing…It’s just…I don’t know….It was my dream wedding. But I don’t think it’s the wedding that Grant wanted….Actually…I know it wasn’t the wedding he wanted.”
On some level, this makes me feel better, and I hate myself for being so petty.
“What did Grant want?” I say.
“Something simple…”
“Like…smaller?”
“Like…City Hall,” she says.
Yes, I think. That is the Grant I knew. A cabin in the woods over the Hamptons.
“I feel guilty about it,” she continues.
“That you had a big wedding?”
“That I did a lot of things the way I wanted….But I guess that doesn’t matter now, does it?” It seems to be a rhetorical question, but then she looks right at me, as if waiting for an answer.
Flustered, I shrug, searching for the right thing to say. Anything to say.
“I don’t know…I wouldn’t say it doesn’t matter….But I don’t think you should have regrets about your wedding, either….I’m sure he just wanted to make you happy.”
She nods and says, “Yes. He tried very hard…but it wasn’t always easy.”
“Relationships are never easy,” I say.
She nods, then asks me, out of the complete blue, “Are you dating anyone?”
Both startled and flustered by the question, I start stammering, wondering if she’s at all suspicious. “Well…that’s a long story…but sort of….I mean…I was in a long-term thing…but then we broke up…at the start of the summer,” I say, my words slurring together as I realize that I am officially buzzed.
“Why’d you break up?” she asks.
“He wasn’t ready to commit,” I say, then tell her about that day in Bryant Park, how he told me he thought we’d made a mistake. Suddenly I wonder if maybe I had made a mistake, too blinded by my attraction to Grant to see things clearly. After all, Matthew would never have cheated on me. No chance.
“Do you still love him?” she asks.
I shrug. “Part of me will always love him,” I say, feeling so nostalgic for the past, though it’s hard to say whether it’s for Matthew or for the world before 9/11.
I can feel her staring at me as she says, “You should go see him. Find out if there’s anything still there.”
I just look at her, at a loss for words, thinking I never expected the conversation to go in this direction. “How did you know?” I say softly. “That Grant was ‘the one’?”
She bites her lip and says, “There wasn’t a big moment. We just sort of transitioned from friends into dating….” She reaches for the pictures and plucks one out randomly, like a game of Old Maid. I look down and see that it’s a photo of them together. They’re both wearing winter coats, hats, and gloves. Behind them is the Rockefeller Center Christmas tree, all lit up.
“Were you dating when that photo was taken?” I ask.
She gives me a funny look, then says, “No. That’s actually his brother, Byron.”
“Oh,” I say, looking more closely. “Gosh, he looks so much like Grant there.”
“Yeah,” she says. “They used to look more alike.” She puts that photo down, then picks up another from their wedding day.
I start to ask another question, but she suddenly sweeps up all the photos and returns them to the box, putting the lid on, pressing it firmly closed. “Sorry,” she says. “I just can’t look at these anymore.”
“I understand,” I say, completely exhausted myself. “I should go, anyway….I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“Oh, you don’t have to go,” she says. “I didn’t mean that….”
“I know you didn’t,” I say. “But it’s getting late….”
“Okay,” Amy says, looking reluctant and sad. “Is there anything else you need for your piece? Anything I can help with?”
I hesitate, then ask the final question I’ve been dreading. “Um…yes…uh…What about funeral arrangements? Have you made any?”
“No,” she says. “Not yet.”
“When do you think you’ll have one?” I ask, thinking that it feels unimaginable for me to miss it—but equally unimaginable to go.
“I’m not sure,” she says. “His brother wants to wait.”
I hesitate, then say as gently as I can, “Wait for what?”
Amy sighs and says, “He says he just needs some time….”
“I get that,” I say, nodding.
“I think he can’t bear the thought of saying a final goodbye to his brother,” she says. “Maybe he wants to have a joint funeral….Isn’t that morbid?”
With a lump in my throat, I say
yes, a little, but that it’s also really beautiful.
“Yes,” Amy says. “And I want to respect his wishes—the twin relationship is so special. Do you think that’s wrong? To wait?”
“No,” I say, then regurgitate advice I’ve heard before. “Nothing is right or wrong when it comes to grief.”
She gives me the most grateful look and says, “Oh, thank you, Cecily. I really appreciate that….You have no idea.”
I manage to keep it together in the cab ride home, as I think I’m still in shock from the whole experience. But the second I walk through my door, I cry a long, hard, ugly cry. Then I call Scottie and Jasmine, in that order. Still crying on and off, I confess that I just couldn’t do it—that I couldn’t tell her the truth—and they both absolve me.
I tell them everything else, too—about Grant, and his life and marriage, and their last moments together, which, as it turned out, happened right before my last moments with him. I tell them about Amy’s literary-named dog and her Sesame Street block and her Pottery Barn catalog home. I tell them how much I wanted not to like her, but that I did like her, and that maybe it was the wine, but I felt a bizarre bond with her, my partner in grief.
I know she and I are not the same—not even close. She was the wife; I was the other woman. She’d known Grant since they were kids; we shared only one summer—and he was gone for most of it. She’s the widow who will be written about in newspapers, including my own; I’m the secret that Grant took to his grave. Yet we still lost the same man in the same way—and I’m not talking about losing him to a terrorist attack in the rubble of the World Trade Center, but rather in an avalanche of lies. And even though she doesn’t know the truth, I think somewhere deep down, she feels a connection to me, too.
So I’m not surprised when Amy sends me an email the following day, thanking me for my time and help with the obituary. “If you ever leave your job as a reporter,” she writes, “you would make a great therapist.”
An unethical one who would lose her license, I think, swallowed up by a fresh wave of guilt. I push it away and write her back, thanking her for her time and the wine. I tell her, once again, how sorry I am for her loss.
