(See the first chapter for disclaimer, notes, spoiler, etc.)
Chapter Nine: "Can't Hide"
May 2017
I blinked in the quiet as the space around me transitioned from sleep to blurriness to awake to recognition. Our bedroom. The bedroom we've spent our entire married lives, minus the six months we lived as newlyweds in Gregory's condominium at the marina club. Lazy beams of sunlight fell in familiar patterns, staining the space. So, it was morning. Again.
With a single exhale, I turned my head, watching Gregory's half of the bed. He wasn't there. And, he hadn't been. Not for months. My right arm slipped out from beneath the sheets, my palm finding a home on his pillow. Even during my darkest descent into alcoholism, when I would wake up the foulest hangovers, waking then was never as painful as it was right now. As it had been every day for the last four months. When I opened my eyes. When I realized my husband was still dead. When my heart cleaved in half.
When I wondered why Gregory was still dead and I was still alive.
With my hand still on my husband's pillow, I turned back to the ceiling. It was a ridiculous thing to realize, but it made so much sense the moment I did realize. But…I had always thought we would die together. Of course, one doesn't realize something as ridiculous as that until they're presented with the alternative they never knew they didn't want. But, I couldn't picture anything outside of a life with Gregory. Couldn't imagine a world without him. After all, we shared our lives for more than forty years. Since he retired, we were together every single day. It was literally impossible to think of us as separate people. "Gregory and Olivia," I murmured. See? In one single breath, there we were.
Why was Gregory dead?
Why was I alive?
Immediately, my eyes fell to the triple dresser. It stood across from the bed and possessed the cruelest reminder of my reality. The urn glowed in the sunlight, sparkling as if it was an artifact from ancient Rome in a museum. But, it wasn't. But, it wasn't Gregory either. How could it be? How could someone like Gregory, full of life and vigor and passion, be reduced to dust?
And, despite what our youngest child thought, he would despise being relegated to the dresser and gathering dust next to my jewelry box. But, there was nowhere else for the urn to be but with me. Gregory, the urn, and Olivia. That took two breaths to say.
My right hand twitched against his pillow and I reached up, rubbing my right shoulder. But, it was fine. Healed. Never better. As if the car accident never happened. But, it did. I was healed, but Gregory was still dead. I closed my eyes and flinched, not happy with that set of circumstances.
Why was Gregory dead and I alive?
My bare feet padded down the bare staircase and I felt the way my nose sniffed the air. Casey was cooking breakfast for the children because Rose had the weekends off. Pancakes. Gregory made pancakes often for Caitlin and Sean when they were small. As they grew older, he grew busier, he and I drifted apart, and the pancakes stopped. I gripped the banister as I stopped abruptly, my lips parted. Had Gregory made pancakes for Evy? I suddenly couldn't remember.
"Hi, Nana."
My head jerked, coming back to the lingering aroma of pancakes as Nicola stood at the foot of the stairs. "Good morning, darling," I said softly as I forced my feet to move. She smiled up at me, her hair tied back in a long plait, as her arms went around my waist. Casey looked up as I hugged her back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. She was an extremely affectionate child and had been for the entire year-and-a-half I knew her.
"Morning, Olivia! Hungry?" Casey called out as he flipped half-cooked pancakes on the skillet.
No. No, I'm not. I don't want them. They're not Gregory's pancakes. Instead, I just shook my head and glanced at the table. Harrison was sitting in his usual chair, intently staring at his tablet. He had his ear buds in too. He probably didn't even notice I entered the room. Teenage boys were like that. Sean had been. I cleared my throat as Nicola slipped deeper into my embrace and asked, "Do you know what time Evy got home last night?"
My youngest daughter was, unsurprisingly, not at the kitchen table. Casey shrugged and reached out, crunching a small piece of aluminum foil into a ball. Without a moment's hesitation, he tossed it across the room and I watched, somewhat amused, as it bounced lightly off Harrison's head. The teenage boy sighed, pulled out his ear buds, and looked up at his father. "What?"
"Say 'good morning' to Nana," Casey replied firmly.
Harrison sighed, deeper, as he turned to me. But, when our eyes met, his annoyed expression softened and he flashed me a small smile. "Morning, Nana." I only smiled in reply as he turned back to Casey, his annoyed expression returning. "So…what?"
"What time did Evy get home last night?" he asked his son.
The teenager shrugged and pressed one of the buds back to his left ear. "I dunno. Late? I think 2…or maybe 3."
As Harrison put the other bud back in his ear, I felt the frown bloom in my expression as I met Casey's face. It was a mirror of my own. My daughter was headstrong like her father. Once she's decided something, that's it. In the last few weeks, she's been out on so many dates with Benjy Evans that I've lost count. It's not something I'm thrilled about and, judging from the unhappy expression on Casey's face, neither is he.
He knows what I know. Half the town, at least those of us who lived here during the chaos, knows too. But Ben had his way and remade the truth. He made it disappear. He made Benjy into his son. His and Maria's. But, Benjy wasn't. He's the son of insane serial killer and his equally insane accomplice.
As Nicola slipped away, I sighed and rubbed the furrowed space between my eyebrows. My headstrong daughter appeared to be dating the son of a serial killer. If Gregory were here, he'd be furious. His reaction to Caitlin dating AJ Deschanel's son wouldn't even compare to the way he would've erupted if he knew about Evy and Benjy. But, he didn't. There was no eruption.
Why was Gregory dead and I alive?
I've read these translated articles so often since Morris delivered them to me, I could recite several from memory. My eyes narrowed as I glanced away, rolling that realization around in my head. I couldn't remember the day my husband died, but I could memorize the articles about his death. Just another in a long line of ridiculously unfair realizations I've had over the last several months.
Suddenly annoyed, I shoved the stack of translated articles away. I folded my arms against my chest, watching the way they fanned across the small coffee table in my office. As I leaned back into the sofa, the memorized words swirled in the silence. I kneeled next to the driver, trying to pull open the door. But, it was stuck, jammed after the car rolled down the hill. But, the window was broken and I could see the man inside. He was awake, but he shook his head. He said to me, Help my wife first. I looked down at my lap, those four words wrapping around my shattered heart.
Help. My. Wife. First.
Wasn't that so like Gregory? I can recall hundreds – no, thousands – of instances over the course of our life where he put himself last. Help my wife first. It was exactly what he would've said, what he would've done. And yet, in the face of the void that day has left in my memory, I can't picture it. The words ring false because I can't remember him saying them.
I pulled the woman from the vehicle, but she was barely conscious. Her head was bleeding. I was carrying her up the hill to the road when the car caught fire. Within seconds, it was an inferno. I- I couldn't go back for the man. He was lost. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying in vain not to picture what that must've looked like. What that must've sounded like. Gregory had been conscious. The man had spoken to him. Gregory knew what was coming, what was happening. But, he was trapped.
Why was Gregory dead and I alive?
Slowly, my eyes opened and I blinked back hot tears as I rubbed my now-healed right shoulder. Perhaps…perhaps the children, Bette, and Morris were right. Perhaps some things were better left to a black hole, never to pass the event horizon. As I wiped my cheeks dry, I thought, not for the first time, perhaps this was somehow Gregory's way of protecting me. Still. He'd chuckle sarcastically and roll his eyes if he knew I attributed my inability to remember to his intervention from the afterlife. As strict Christmas-and-Easter Catholics, we'd hardly proscribe to being faithful believers. But, if I believed in anything, I believed in Gregory. In the way he would've done anything to keep me safe. Perhaps the blank spot in my memory was his doing. He wouldn't want me to remember him consumed by fire, would he? What that must've looked like. What that must've sounded like.
There was an energetic knock and I looked up as Bette pushed open the door. "Hi, Toots," she said as she walked in, rubbing her hands. I don't know what I would've done without her. The children were wonderful and, oh, how they tried. The same way I had tried to help my father after my mother passed away. But, they didn't know. They didn't know the pain of suddenly losing the one who had been your friend, your lover, your protector, your everything. But, Bette…Bette did. She and Jeffrey might not have had exactly what Gregory and I had, but she knew what this horrific aftermath of shock and grief was like. She glanced down at the coffee table and nodded. "Doing some light reading, I see."
I shrugged, watching as she pushed the articles back into a neat stack. She sat on the edge of the coffee table and placed the articles in her lap as she leaned in. Her eyes moved over me carefully and I couldn't help the sigh that rose in my throat. "Morris still hasn't found the man that pulled me out of the car," I replied to the silent question brimming in her eyes. She nodded and reached out, giving my hand a comforting squeeze. "Don't you think that's odd?"
She shook her head, her hand still covering mine. "Not really, Toots. Italy is a big country and – what's the kid's name again?"
I cleared my throat, reciting the name from memory. "Gianni Cappello."
She shrugged. "Italy's a big country and that name sounds about as common over there as John Smith does here."
Perhaps. "What if I don't get to speak with him?" I asked. Bette's eyes turned as I continued, "What if he knows something that could help me remember?"
She patted my hand and smiled sadly. "Are you kidding me? The Big Guy will find him for you if he needs to fly over to Italy and personally knock on every Gianni Cappello's front door until he found the one that saved you." She meant it as a joke, but we both knew Morris would do that if it came to it. "Come on though. I have a great idea."
My eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Oh?"
She nodded, giving my hand another squeeze as her eyes lit up with enthusiasm. "I'm treating you to lunch!"
Lunch. Outside this house. In a restaurant. Where everyone would stare. I shook my head. I could do without the spectacle, thank you very much. "Bette-"
"Can't say no. Muscles and Blondie think it's a great idea. I think it's a great idea and not just because it was my idea!"
"You asked the children for permission?" I marveled, somewhat insulted.
"Of course not!" she said quickly, but I could see the lie in her eyes. "I just had to make sure they didn't already have hot plans with you for today."
Bless her for trying. "Bette, I really-"
"Olivia." Whenever her tone grew grave and serious, it was impossible to ignore her. She was smart. She only ever reserved that voice for when it really mattered. As our eyes met, she continued, "You need to get out of this house. You haven't left it since Greggy's funeral except for the occasional doctor's appointment." She rubbed my hand as she continued, "What are you going to do if you don't come to lunch with me? Sit here? Torture yourself with these articles? Go through Gregory's inbox again and read the three emails he sent the morning of the accident? Stare at the listing of the villa you were scheduled to tour that day?"
I looked down, embarrassed, as a chill raced through my veins. She knew me too well. "Fine," I murmured. I cleared my throat and said, "Tell Hans we want a quiet corner table and don't you dare prolong this ordeal by ordering dessert and cappuccino."
She beamed, despite the dessert restriction. "A quick and quiet lunch at a table where we won't be stared at or disturbed. Got it."
Bette's hand was at my elbow as she led me through Grenadine's. I can barely contain the tremor that goes through me, recalling all the times it was Gregory's hand on my elbow. "See?" I heard her whisper proudly as we arrived at the table. Indeed, it was in quiet and dim corner of the restaurant, the afternoon sunlight not reaching this far. "No one noticed us."
Slowly, I pulled my sunglasses from my face, blinking rapidly. As my eyes adjusted, I saw several people openly gaping and I cleared my throat, turning to her. "Everyone noticed," I murmured as I sat and reached for the menu the hostess held out. Blessedly, it was large enough to hold in front of me, shielding me from the prying eyes.
Bette glanced up at them, her glare crackling across the room. "Ugh, who cares about them? They're nobody." She reached over and patted my arm. "Forget them. Want to share a cheese board?"
"I'm not hungry." Her hand continued to pat my arm, but she said nothing as our waiter appeared. My eyes gazed vacantly at the menu as I ignored the litany of specials he recited. Why had I agreed to this? Was it just because my closest friend, without the hint of judgement or pity, decimated my plans for the day by naming them? Hearing them said aloud indeed made them sound like the pathetic actions of a broken person, someone in denial. (Isn't that what you are, hissed the tiny voice deep in my mind.)
"Why, thank you," she cooed at the waiter as I rolled my eyes. "Of course you're hungry," she said, turning back to me as if we had never been interrupted. Her hand slipped down to my right wrist, her thumb and middle finger easily looping around it. I frowned, watching as she slid her looped fingers up my arm. With an irritated sigh, I gently shook off her hand and ignored her implication. She was being ridiculous, I thought as I turned back to the menu. I've always been slim.
"We always liked the Comté," she pointed out. "Let's order some of that to start."
"Fine." What was the point of arguing?
Bette's eyes turned back to the menu and she cleared her throat. "Casey ready for the shareholders meeting that's coming up?"
With a sigh, I narrowed my eyes, blurring the black typeface of the menu. It would be my first Liberty shareholder meeting without Gregory. Was that all my life was now? Full of events I sadly denote as my first without my husband? "I-I think so," I murmured, belatedly realizing Casey was at the forefront of her question. It wasn't: Are you ready for the shareholders meeting that's coming up? As if she was trying to make this lunch as normal as possible, as if we were back to having our standing weekly lunches together. Because the last one we had was right after New Year's, before Gregory and I went to Florence. She was trying. She was trying for me. "He's nervous," I said in a low voice, forcing myself to actually read the menu, instead of just pretending. "But, he'll be fine though. I know it."
"He was certainly reading up a storm when we left!"
I nodded, but said nothing. He wanted to be prepared to discuss the property development project with Ben and I. He wanted to contribute. But really, whether he realized it or not, he wanted to make Gregory proud. "Yes," I forced myself to say, hearing how coarse my own voice sounded. I cleared my throat, suddenly grateful for the menu. "We liked the grilled Portobello starter the last time we were here, didn't we?" I asked.
If she noticed how quickly I changed the subject, she didn't comment on it. "We did! Let's order it!"
I nodded and turned back to the menu as a deep voice said, "Ladies, enchanté." I felt a shiver run down my spine as I heard a voice I haven't heard in four decades. Bette told me she had seen AJ several weeks ago. But, I hadn't seen him. How would I? I hadn't left my house in months. I suddenly remembered a book I read years ago, sitting snug in first-class with Gregory as we flew somewhere. One of the characters wondered when it was safe for a widow to reenter the world. Never, I thought now as I looked up slowly. It was never safe. (You can't hide from him when he's standing right there, the voice in my head teased.)
I forced a smile to my face as Bette offered a gushing reply and held out her hand. Dutifully, AJ bent forward, his lips brushing against her hand. As he straightened back up, our eyes met over Bette's hand and I squared my shoulders, my hands gripping the edges of the menu. "Olivia," he sighed as he turned to me, smoothing his tie, "it's wonderful to see you again."
Thank you. It's nice to see you too. Those and a half-dozen other replies swam in my mind, but I couldn't speak. My throat muscles were tense, rendering me suddenly incapable of speech. Not that it mattered. As I offered a half-smile in reply, he continued, "I was very sorry to hear of Gregory's death." His lips kept moving, but a dull hum suddenly filled my ears. I felt myself nodding, having a vague memory of doing this at Gregory's funeral. Weren't we all sorry? Even people like AJ, who I know despised Gregory, were sorry. Everyone was sorry.
No one though was sorrier than me.
Why was Gregory dead and I alive?
I knocked on the door, listening to the sounds from the bedroom as I waited. "Who is it?
"Mum." Gregory always teased me for referring to myself that way when none of our children did. Your children are American, Liv. It's as simple as that. I folded my arms against my chest, remembering the way he cupped my face and drew me in, his lips soft against my own. I flinched as my fingers brushed against my lips now.
A moment later, the door swung open and Evy stood there, swaddled in her robe. "Hey!" she exclaimed, combing her damp hair with her fingers. She had another date with that boy. The serial killer's son. "How was today's edition of 'Ladies Who Lunch'?" she asked, teasing.
I nodded, ignoring her question so I could get straight to my point. "I want you to invite Benjy to dinner. Here. Tomorrow night."
She frowned and leaned against the doorjamb. "Okayyyyy," she sighed, long and dramatic. Her fingers danced against the pink terrycloth lapels as she asked, "You know, we've just had a few dates and it's not serious-"
"Evelyn, I wasn't born yesterday." Her eyes narrowed as she took in my tone. "No girl sees the same boy this consistently for the last month and says, 'We've just had a few dates and it's not serious'. You're dating Benjy Evans."
Her face melted and my stomach clenched as she smiled bashfully. "Yes," she whispered, her cheeks blushing as my lips parted. This wasn't the way she reacted when she told me about her first boyfriend. Or any boy she remotely had feelings for. This was different. Benjy was different. The serial killer's son was different. "Mom," she began when the silence stretched, "I know you said to be careful because I'm going back to school and it's stupid to start a relationship when I'll just be leaving again in a few months, but-"
As she continued rambling, as if trying to reassure me, her words swirled together. I did say she should be careful. But, not for the reasons she thought. "And…" I heard her trail off as she pressed her hands to her enflamed cheeks.
"And what?" I asked.
"I really, really like him, Mom." An internal sigh deflated me as she continued, "He's not like any of the other boys I've dated. He's sweet. And smart – like, ridiculously brilliant. And kind. And funny. And, oh Mom, we just talk for hours and hours and hours!"
My lips parted as I forced myself to nod. Didn't I use some of those words to describe Gregory to my own mother more than forty years ago? Evy was in love. She might have thought she was in love with other boys she's dated, but she wasn't. Not until now. Love was coloring her words and the expression on her face. "Well, then," I said softly, "don't you think it's time he came over for dinner?"
She clapped her hands excitedly and beamed. "I'll tell him tonight! I don't think we had plans for tomorrow night." She reached out and took my hand, squeezing it gently. "He might not be able to stay late though. His LSAT study group meets on Saturday morning."
My eyebrow arched. "He's going to be a lawyer?"
She nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, he's sitting for the exam in the fall. He works part-time at Liberty while he's studying." I feel surprised to hear that, but my head insists I knew that. Yes. Ben told Gregory and I after Thanksgiving that Benjy had just graduated and he was going to put him to work doing something tedious, like accounting. Her face fell and she dropped her voice, confiding, "I think he has to work because his step-mother doesn't want him to be a freeloader while he's staying in their guest house."
As I nodded blandly, she continued, "Can it just be us at dinner? Can Casey and the kids do their own thing?"
"Why?" I asked, perplexed. She adored Casey and his children.
Her face turned and she murmured, "Casey is friends with Meg. Meg doesn't like Benjy."
"Darling, Casey is a grownup. I'm sure he's capable of forming his own opinions about Benjy without Meg's influence."
"Please, Mom?" Her brown eyes widened, pleading, as she squeezed my hand again. "I really want you to like him."
I sighed. "Fine."
She beamed again and threw her arms around me. "Thanks, Mom!" I reached up, smoothing her damp hair we embraced. She swallowed hard and whispered, "Do you think Dad would've liked him?"
I sighed, shrugging my shoulders as I lied, "I don't know, darling." It was easier when Gregory was here, dealing with the love lives of our children. He was naturally the suspicious one, interrogating our children's partners like they were witnesses for the prosecution he needed to cross-examine. But, wasn't he utterly amused and silent when I put Shasta through the third degree? It was easier then because we were a team. Because we worked together to reassure ourselves that our children were with people who were worthy of them. I felt my hand tremble against Evy's cheek and she reached up, covering my hand. And now, I had to deal with Evy and the serial killer's son on my own.
Why was Gregory dead and I alive?
A/N: The book Olivia recalled reading is "A Widow for One Year" by John Irving.
