The Lies That Bind Page 28

  At the last minute on Sunday morning, right before my dad drives me to the airport, I tell my parents I’m moving back home, at least temporarily. I’ve been sitting with this plan all week, just to make sure it feels right. And it does.

  My mom is thrilled with the idea, quickly suggesting that we set up a nursery in Paul’s old room.

  My dad, suddenly concerned, looks at me and says, “So wait. In this scenario, would you still be with Matthew?”

  “I don’t know, Dad,” I say. “We still have to figure all of that out. But probably not. Probably I’d be alone.”

  “Well, you wouldn’t be alone,” my mom says, as my dad takes off his glasses, a sign that he’s about to say something of import.

  Sure enough, he puts them on the table and says, “Listen to me, Cecily. And listen very carefully.”

  I nod, thinking that this is a huge advantage of being the kind of person who doesn’t talk a lot. When you do speak, people really listen.

  “You were right the other night when you said that love isn’t about passion. That it’s about loyalty and sticking by someone…but I gotta say, it doesn’t feel like Matthew is sticking by you.”

  I look down at my engagement ring, which I haven’t been quite ready to take off. “By saying he wants to wait?” I ask in a small voice, my stomach in knots.

  My dad nods.

  “I know, Dad,” I say. “But I can’t really blame him….I mean, I don’t think it’s fair to expect him not to care who the father is.”

  “He can care, and still want to be with you regardless of that outcome.”

  “And he might. We just have to sort through everything.”

  He nods, looking sad. “Well, just know that we are always here for you. No matter what.”

  “No matter what,” my mom says.

  Other than an exchange of emails wishing each other a happy Thanksgiving, Matthew and I don’t communicate until my return from Wisconsin, when he walks into my apartment on Sunday night.

  He looks like shit—unshaven with dark circles under his eyes—which could mean either he has missed me terribly or he is ready to break up, although I guess the two things aren’t mutually exclusive.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi,” he says, even his voice sounding run down.

  I give him a little hug, then lead him over to my sofa, the way I have a hundred times before. When we get there, I ask about his holiday. He says it was low-key and nice—they all went to their country house in Bedford—but that his parents are worried about us. I start to ask what exactly he told them, but decide not to go there. While I care about his family’s opinion of me, it can’t factor into our ultimate decision any more than my own family’s feelings can.

  So I just nod, as he asks how the rest of my trip went. I tell him it went well, adding, “It’s so much easier for me to think in Wisconsin.”

  “Away from me?” he asks.

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. It’s just so much quieter there.” I take a deep breath, and say the rest, that I’ve decided to move back home. “It just makes sense,” I add. “At least in the short term.”

  “But what about your job?” he asks, which feels like a telling response. My job?

  I shrug and say, “There are other jobs. I’ve been sending my résumé out….”

  “Wow,” he says. “So you’re really doing this?”

  I nod and say yes, I am.

  Matthew lowers his eyes, looking downcast, and whispers wow for the second time.

  “What? Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, wondering if he’ll push back on the idea at all, offer another suggestion, although I don’t know what that would be. We both know I can’t move in with him right now.

  “It doesn’t matter what I think. It’s your life…your call,” he says, another very telling response.

  “I know that,” I say. “But I still want to know what you think. How do you feel about my decision?”

  “Well…I’m sad, of course. Very sad,” he says. “I don’t want you to move. I’d rather you be here. But…” He lets out a deep sigh. “I can see why you would want to go home.”

  I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. So I ask him a question. “If the baby turns out to be yours…and things somehow work out with us, would you ever consider leaving New York?”

  “For Wisconsin?” he says, as if I’ve just suggested a move to the Middle East rather than the middle of the country.

  “Yeah. Wisconsin. Or at least Chicago?”

  He blows air into his cupped hands, like he’s really contemplating the thought. “I mean…you can never say never…but not right now….Things are going really well for me at work. I’m working on some really cool stuff, with the best partners….It would be a bad career move at this point. Maybe down the road, though.”

  I nod, thinking he may mean what he’s saying, but it’s actually unfathomable to me that Matthew would ever leave New York City and his family for the Midwest and mine. I tell him as much, trying to keep my voice neutral, nonaccusatory.

  He gets defensive anyway. “That’s not fair,” he says. “We met here. Our lives are here.”

  Your life is here, I think, but that’s not really the point I’m trying to make. “I hear you,” I say, struggling for the words to explain what I’m feeling. That it’s not about Wisconsin. Or when and how or even if we get married. Or whether the baby turns out to be his. It’s simply about wanting to know how much he wants us. If he thinks we’re worth fighting for.

  But I can’t find the right words, so I just let him off the hook and say, “Look, Matthew. I don’t blame you for not wanting to move. Now or ever…you’re a New Yorker, through and through, and this really is the greatest city in the world,” I say, thinking of 9/11 and the way everyone has rallied together. Even though I’m leaving, I will always be proud to have been a part of the city, especially during this unfathomable tragedy.

  He nods. “Yes,” he says. “It really is.”

  “And I also don’t blame you for wanting to put the wedding on hold until we find out who the baby’s father is—”

  “Okay. So what do you blame me for?” he asks, cutting me off.

  “Nothing,” I say. “You’ve done nothing wrong…but at the same time, our relationship has always been on your terms and your schedule.”

  He tries to interrupt again, but I hold up my hand, and ask him to let me finish.

  He nods and mumbles sorry.

  I clear my throat and speak slowly, choosing my words carefully. “Back in the spring, I was ready to talk about marriage, but you weren’t. So we broke up….Then you wanted to get back together—so we did. And even though I didn’t want to rush things, you were out there buying an engagement ring….Then you proposed, and I wasn’t ready, but we still got engaged.”

  “But wait. That’s not fair,” he says. “You made the decision to break up with me. And you made the decision to say yes to the proposal. I didn’t make you do those things, did I?”

  I sigh and ask him to stop being so literal; it’s the kind of thing he usually says to me—and I can tell it catches him off guard. “This isn’t about being fair or unfair,” I continue. “The bottom line is—we always seem to end up on your time line, not mine. And now…here we are again.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning…you aren’t sure about us…so the wedding is on hold.”

  “Cecily, I don’t know how many times I have to say this. But it’s not us,” he says. “It’s everything else….If the baby is his, I just don’t know how I’ll feel….What if I can’t bond with it? What if this asshole comes back and wants joint custody? I’ve been mentally preparing to be a father—and now, suddenly, I may be a stepfather, instead….There are just so many unanswered questions—”

  “I know,” I say. “
I get that. And I agree, now isn’t the right time to get married. And for the record, I also love and appreciate and respect how steady and responsible and honest you are. That you don’t rush into things. That you think everything through and always try to do what’s right, even when it’s hard…”

  “But?” he says.

  “But…maybe love should be more about a feeling—not blind passion or an attraction that is destined to fade—but an actual feeling.” I put a fist over my heart, then move it to his chest. “A deep-down feeling—right here—that we belong together. No. Matter. What.”

  He stares at me, and I can tell it’s starting to sink in. That he understands what I’m trying to say. By the mournful expression on his face, I can also tell that he doesn’t have that feeling about us. And neither do I. He loves me, and he wants to be with me. But with conditions.

  And I love him back, but with reservations and unfulfilled wishes—not in the unbridled way I want to love someone. Maybe that doesn’t exist—it certainly wasn’t real with Grant. But then again, maybe it does. I have to find out.

  My heart racing and my hands shaking, and my eyes filling with tears, I take off my beautiful diamond ring and hand it back to him.

  He looks down at it, then back up at me, and says, “Are you really doing this?”

  I nod, fighting tears. “Yes, I am. We are doing this. We have to.”

  “Because things aren’t perfect right now?” he says. “We’re throwing in the towel on everything?”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head, tears now streaming down my cheeks. “Not because things aren’t perfect. Nothing is perfect. But because we just aren’t right together.”

  With wide, frightened eyes, he says, “How do you know?”

  “I just do. And so do you,” I say, trying, once again, to give him back the ring. “Please take it.”

  He shakes his head and says, “I’m not taking it back, Cecily. It was a gift.”

  “But I can’t keep it—it’s not right to keep it,” I say. “It was a promise to get married—”

  His eyes, now welling up, too, plead with mine. “Just think of it as another kind of promise….”

  “And what kind is that?” I say, really wanting to know.

  “A promise that I’ll always love you. And if the baby is mine, I will always be there for you both,” he says, his voice trembling.

  I try to speak, but can’t. I’m crying too hard.

  So I just nod and put the ring on my right hand, accepting his gift—along with his promise.

  I give my notice to The Mercury the morning after Matthew and I break up, and start to shut down my life in New York. My dad and brother offer to come move me in a U-Haul, but I tell them I can handle it, shipping boxes, selling and giving away furniture, and throwing so much away. I say my goodbyes at work, sending out a mass email. My editor surprises me with an email in return, thanking me for all my hard work and telling me I’ll be missed. I print it and put it in a folder with all my best pieces, nearly four years of work boiled down to one slim file. I remind myself that there’s more to it than a few newspaper clippings. I have experience—and I have Jasmine, a friendship that I know will last forever.

  On Tuesday, December 11, three months to the day, almost to the hour, from when that first plane hit the World Trade Center, my plane takes off from LaGuardia. My stomach twists in knots as I think about 9/11, knowing that nothing will ever feel fully normal again—at least not the old normal, the way things once were.

  Pressing my forehead to the glass, I peer down at the most spectacular clear view of Central Park, a rectangular patch of green bordered by the buildings of Midtown. I can make out the Empire State Building, and also the MetLife Building, where Matthew is probably now sitting at his desk, working.

  I miss him already, in some ways more than I did the first time we broke up, because now it feels more permanent. I look down at the diamond on my right hand, where I have vowed to keep it, at least until the baby is born. So far Matthew has kept his word, too, going with me to my last doctor’s appointment in New York and handling so many of my moving logistics. For now, we are still something of a team—just no longer a couple.

  A few seconds later, the plane crosses over the northern end of Manhattan. I look out my window and can see the length of the island and where those shiny towers once stood, the view still so shocking without them. I crane my neck to see the Brooklyn Bridge, remembering the morning I crossed it with Grant, that brilliant pink and orange sunrise, when I was so starry-eyed and sure that he was the one. How could I have been so wrong about him, I wonder, as Manhattan disappears from my view.

  I tell myself that as much as I regret him, I learned from the mistakes I made. At the very least, I will have lessons to share one day with my son or daughter—a cautionary tale to always follow your heart, but never stop listening to your head, either.

  As we fly west, I feel such a range of emotions. Shame and fear. Relief and hope. In some ways, I feel like a coward, taking the easy way out, running home to the safety net of my parents because I can’t hack it on my own. I even feel disloyal to the city that I came to call home, although I know New York doesn’t need another mediocre reporter.

  In other ways, what I’m doing feels so simple and right. I am seeking a safe haven for my baby. I am preparing for motherhood, the most important job I will ever have.

  I try to imagine what my life will soon be like, living with my parents again. We have agreed that it is only a temporary arrangement, and Scottie has already begun house hunting for us, sending me listings of charming little fixer-uppers. I keep reminding him that we are both broke, and that neither of us knows how to fix anything up, but he insists that we can do it. That we can do anything. Maybe he’s right.

  It helps that I just landed a job with the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel—and on a real news beat, no less. Apparently, my new editor was impressed with my New York City experience, particularly my pieces on 9/11—which feels more than a little ironic.

  At some point, I stop thinking. I just close my eyes and pray for the best, whatever that looks like. Then I sleep the rest of the way home.

  Five months later

  It is Sunday afternoon in mid-May, but one of the first days that has truly felt like spring after the longest winter of my life. The windows of Paul’s old bedroom are open as Scottie, my sister, and I put the finishing touches on the Beatrix Potter–themed nursery with its sage green and buttery yellow color scheme.

  “I don’t know how you stand not knowing the gender,” Jenna says for what has to be the tenth time.

  I laugh and say, “Yeah. It’s almost as suspenseful as not knowing who the father is.”

  “Neither thing makes a bit of difference. Boy, girl. Grant, Matthew. Who cares?” Scottie says, as the doorbell rings.

  A few seconds later, my dad calls up the stairs for me.

  “You expecting someone?” Jenna asks me.

  I shake my head, thinking that that never stops anyone from dropping by. It is something I both love and hate about being home; it is so friendly and laid-back, but you really have no privacy.

  I walk down the stairs as my father points toward our family room and says, “You have a friend here to see you.”

  I nod and round the corner, expecting to see an old high school acquaintance. Instead, I am met with the second-biggest surprise of my life.

  * * *

  —

  Nothing will ever be more shocking than seeing Grant at the cabin and realizing that he was still alive. But in some ways, I am more floored in this moment, the context so jarring. He shouldn’t be in Wisconsin. He shouldn’t be in my parents’ house. He shouldn’t be sitting on our worn plaid sofa. He shouldn’t be anywhere near me.

  I freeze as our eyes lock and he stands. “What are you doing here?” I manage to say.

 
“I came to see you,” he replies.

  “I…I got that part…” I stammer, worried that I might throw up. “But why?”

  “Because I had to see you. I need to talk to you.”

  I shake my head and say, “We have nothing to talk about.”

  “Yes, we do. Please, Cecily,” he says. “Please let me really explain this time.”

  I stare at him for a few impossibly long seconds, then say a reluctant okay. I walk toward him, choosing the chair farthest from his side of the sofa, as we both sit.

  “How did you know I was here?” I ask him.

  “From a byline in the Milwaukee paper…” He swallows, looking so nervous. “I read the story you did on that little girl.”

  I nod and say her name.

  “Have they found her yet?” he asks.

  “No. She’s still missing,” I say.

  The story is heartbreaking, and the thought of her instantly puts Grant’s disappearance—and reappearance—into perspective.

  He nods, murmuring how sad it is, then says, “So that’s how I knew you’d moved back to Wisconsin. And your parents’ address was easy to find.”

  “Okay,” I say, thinking that explains how he found me, but not why. I ask that question next, avoiding his eyes.

  “Because of the baby,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Cecily…I wanted to ask you…whether it could be mine?”

  I cross my arms and tell him I don’t have that answer. “But even if it is yours, I don’t want anything from you. Don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” he says, shaking his head. He swallows, then says, “I hope it’s mine.”

  “Why in the world would you hope for that?”

  “Because,” he says. “I still love you, Cecily.”