“Maybe,” I say with a little shrug. Then, hoping to change the subject, I ask how we got from his marriage to me.
“I think it’s all related,” he says, without missing a beat.
I force a laugh and try to sidetrack him. “What? How do I have anything to do with your marriage?”
“You don’t,” he says, my decoy not working. “I’m talking about your family…what Daniel’s death did to your family. To all of us.”
I know what he’s getting at, and I desperately don’t want him to go there. He does anyway, staring into my eyes in a way that I can’t escape. “Can we please talk about that night, Josie?” he asks.
My throat feels too tight to reply, so I just shake my head.
“It’s been almost fifteen years…and we’ve never talked about it….Doesn’t that seem strange to you?”
“Not really,” I manage to say, averting my eyes. “I mean…what’s the point?” My voice cracks, then trails off.
“Josie,” he says. “I think we both know the point. And I think it needs to happen. Now.”
My heart starts to pound in my ears as I try one last time to make it all go away, just as I’ve been doing since the night I first suspected the truth, the night Will found me in bed with Gabe. “Do we have to?” I whimper.
“Yes,” he says. “We do. I mean, Josie, shit….We were together the night Daniel died—and yet we’ve never talked about—”
“We weren’t together,” I cut him off, bracing myself, praying that maybe, just maybe, I’m actually wrong about my hunch. “We were just…at the same bar. Lots of people were there….”
“I know. Lots of people who had absolutely nothing to do with Daniel…” he says, holding his bottle cap between his finger and the counter. He flicks it hard, and we both watch it spin, then stop, before making eye contact again.
“Josie,” he says, the color draining from his face. “I have to tell you something.”
“No,” I say, my heart pounding in my chest, my instinct to flee kicking into high gear. I take a few steps backward, actually looking around the room for my best exit, but Nolan darts around the counter, putting his hands on my shoulders, holding me in place.
“I have to,” he says again, more forcefully.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I say, my vision blurring.
“I don’t think you do,” he says, still holding on to me.
“Yes. I do,” I say, shaking free, fighting back panicked tears. “He wasn’t getting a burger that night, was he?”
Nolan stares at me a beat, then shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “He wasn’t.”
“He was coming to get me…wasn’t he?”
The tortured look on Nolan’s face confirms my worst fear, even before he nods and says yes.
“Fuck,” I say, trembling. “I knew it…I knew it was my fault. Fuck.”
“No, Josie,” Nolan says. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Of course it was my fault,” I say, choking back a sob. “He was coming to get me.”
“But don’t you see, Josie?” He stares at me.
“See what?”
“Don’t you see that I was the one who called him….I was the one who told him to get in his car and come get you. So see? It was my fault. Not yours.”
“But if I hadn’t been drunk—”
“But I wasn’t drunk, Josie. Don’t you get that? I wasn’t drunk at all. All I had to do was drive you home….I was talking to some girl. Some stupid girl I wanted to sleep with…I didn’t want my fun interrupted. So I called Daniel to come get you…and then I left the bar….I didn’t even wait for him to get there. I didn’t know he never got there. Not until the next morning when Meredith told me.” His face crumples, and he begins to break down and cry in a way that I have never seen a grown man cry. Not even my father when Daniel died.
My flight instinct grows stronger, and this time I manage to break free to the family room. I sink into the sofa, burying my face in my hands. Nolan’s footsteps are behind me. I can see him in my peripheral vision and feel his weight on the cushion next to me, his arm enveloping me.
“Josie,” he says. There is so much pain in his voice. “Please look at me, Josie.”
I do. For his sake.
“I’m sorry,” he says, tears streaming down his face. “I’m so fucking sorry, Josie.”
“I’m sorry, too,” I say, refusing to let him shift the blame from me. “He always told me not to drink so much….He always warned me about being like Dad….”
“Yes. But he told me, just the day before, that I should stop chasing stupid girls and try to find someone I really cared about…like Sophie….”
“Well, neither one of us listened to him, did we?” I say.
“But if only I had taken you home myself….It was my fault.”
We continue like that for some time, making disjointed, parallel confessions. I was having sex with some girl when he died….I was wasted when he died….I didn’t know until the next morning….You knew before I did.
At some point, when there is nothing left to say, he reaches for my hand. I give it to him. It should be awkward, sitting there holding my sister’s husband’s hand, but it’s not. It’s actually the opposite. He feels like my brother. Not Daniel, but another brother. We sit in silence for a long time before I finally ask the question burning a hole in my heart. “Does Meredith know?”
I look at him, holding my breath, waiting for the answer, thinking that a yes would explain so much of her animosity toward me. Yet I can’t imagine her holding this back for so many years—not when she throws far smaller things in my face.
Sure enough, Nolan says, “No, she doesn’t know any of this. Nobody knows….Everyone thinks he was going to get a burger.” His voice shakes, but he continues. “The next day, when your parents asked me to call Daniel’s friends, I took his phone….I knew his pass code…4265….”
“Why was that his pass code?” I ask. It is beside the point, but I still want to know.
“It spells Hank. For Hank Aaron.”
“Oh,” I say, thinking of the baseball card that he used to keep in his wallet. How my parents had tucked it into the breast pocket of his jacket right before they closed the coffin. I swallow, willing myself not to throw up.
“So, anyway, I knew his pass code,” Nolan continues. “And got on his phone and checked his call log….I prayed that he’d called someone else after we talked…maybe Sophie before she got on her flight….But no.” He shakes his head, then takes a deep breath, trying to keep it together. “The last two calls were with me.”
“Two calls?” I say.
“Yes,” he says. “The first was fifty-two seconds. When I asked him to come get you.”
“And then you called back?” I ask softly.
“No. Then he called me about fifteen minutes later…to tell me he was leaving the house. On his way.”
“Do you remember that call?”
“Of course I do,” he says. “It was the last time I ever heard his voice. It was the last time anyone ever heard his voice….”
“How long did you talk that time?” I ask, sure that he knows the answer.
“Fourteen seconds. Fourteen fucking seconds. You know why it was only fourteen seconds?”
“Because he was driving?” I ask, thinking of how responsible Daniel always was about driving. About everything.
“No.” He shakes his head. “Because I was in a hurry to go….That girl I was talking to was on her way outside…and I didn’t want her to leave without me….”
“Was she gone?” I ask.
“Almost,” he says. “But I caught her on the way out the door….I went back to her apartment…and I had sex with her….And now?”
I squeeze his hand, giving him the strength to continue. “Now I can’t even remember her goddamn name….”
chapter twenty-four
MEREDITH
On Sunday morning, I awaken to the sound of distant church chi
mes and a sharp chill in Ellen’s simple whitewashed bedroom. Shivering, I pull the goose-down comforter up to my chin, rolling over to face the window. The curtains are drawn, but sheer enough for me to make out the silhouette of a ginkgo tree, its twisted, bare branches bending toward the windowpanes.
I wonder what time it is, but can’t tell by the flat northern light. It could be as early as seven, as late as nine. I decide it doesn’t matter, a realization that is more disorienting than liberating. So I reach for my phone, shocked to see that it is a few minutes past ten, about the latest I have slept since Harper was born, at least when neither of us is ill. The mere thought of her sets off a fresh quake of homesickness. No matter how surly she is in the morning, I am always happy to see her face first thing, her cheeks flushed, her hair a tangled mop. I close my eyes and can almost smell the odd maple-syrupy scent of her skin after a long sleep.
Suddenly desperate to hear her voice, I call Nolan. He doesn’t answer, just as he didn’t answer last night or yesterday afternoon, my only update coming from Josie when she texted me a photo of Harper embracing Rabby, along with the caption Reunited and it feels so good! My heart flooded with relief as I texted her back immediately, virtually begging for the details, adding extra exclamation points and question marks. But three hours passed before she wrote back a glib reply: Found at Legoland. All’s well that ends well. Enjoy your vacation.
I call Nolan again, listening to the futile sound of ringing, followed by his chipper outgoing message. This time I leave a message. I calmly ask him to please call me back as soon as he can, doing my best to keep agitation out of my voice. I know I have little standing to be angry, yet I am anyway. Yes, I am the one on a boondoggle in Manhattan, but it all unfolded at his prodding. His virtual insistence. And now he is punishing me. Cutting me off. Making a point. This is what your life will be like without me, without us. I tell myself to get up, seize the day, and embrace my soul-searching sabbatical.
So after a quick shower, I change into my city uniform—jeans with a black sweater, a black leather jacket, and black boots. I put on oversize sunglasses, throw my hair into a utilitarian ponytail, and sail down four flights, out the heavy front door of the brownstone, into the crisp fall day. It is windier than I expected, more unpleasant than invigorating, but I tell myself I will warm up. I just need to keep moving.
For the next five hours, I aimlessly wander the city on foot and by subway, from the Village up to Chelsea and the far reaches of the Upper West Side, then across the park, down Fifth Avenue, and the whole way into SoHo. Along the way, I duck into coffee shops and browse boutiques, stopping whenever and wherever my fancy strikes. I sit on random benches, people watching. I speak only when necessary, to order a sandwich, ask a clerk a question, thank the man who slid down to make room for me on the subway. Otherwise, my inner monologue and urban solitude are uninterrupted, my life examined from every angle.
I think a lot about the past, particularly the years I lived here, feeling as disconnected from those memories and friends as I do from my college years and acting. I have no desire to get in touch with anyone I used to know, even to meet up for a drink, and I can’t help but wonder what this says about me. I like to think of myself as merely introverted, but is it something stronger? Am I a pathological loner? An outright loser? If so, no wonder my marriage feels empty, like something’s always missing. No wonder I can’t get along with my sister. Maybe our turbulence is more my fault than hers. I think of how happy she looked the other night at her birthday dinner, how fun always follows her, how fiercely loyal her friends are to her, especially Gabe. I tell myself that I have Ellen, but deep down I know it’s not the same, perhaps because Ellen has Andy, and that he is her best friend, the person to whom she is the most loyal.
By dusk, I am freezing, and my heels are beginning to blister, and all I want to do is go home and take a bath. But I stop at a Duane Reade on the outskirts of Chinatown, buy a Diet Snapple and a box of Band-Aids, then head back outside to hail a cab.
“Where to?” the driver asks as I slide into the taxi, which reeks of artificial evergreen.
“I don’t know yet,” I tell him. “Could you just drive, please?”
He nods, indifferent as long as his meter is ticking, while I study the bridge of his nose, forehead, and eyes in the rearview mirror, trying to determine his ethnicity based on his features and last name—Abrama. He could be Mexican, Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, Israeli, the possibilities as endless as my potential destinations.
“Where are you from?” I finally ask, caving to the curiosity.
He raises his chin, answering proudly. “I’m Calabrese,” he says in the way people from home tell you they are third- or fourth-generation Atlantan.
“Oh. Beautiful,” I say, though I’ve never been to that part of Italy. “That’s the toe of the boot, right?” I ask him, reminding myself of my sister and how she always chats with strangers.
Mr. Abrama nods again, unimpressed by my command of world geography.
A few minutes pass before he asks, “Did you decide?”
“Decide what?” I say, thinking of Nolan.
“Where you want to go?”
I clear my throat, then say, “Yes. Could you please take me to Times Square?”
—
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I pay my fare and am deposited one block away from the pulsing neon heart of the city. I head directly for the TKTS booth under the red steps, suddenly craving a live performance. I’m in the mood for low-key and talky, not slinky or razzle-dazzle, but it is nearly seven o’clock, so I take what I can get, ending up with a ticket to Chicago, a show I’ve seen twice before and don’t particularly love. Still, as I make my way to the Ambassador Theatre and settle into my balcony seat, waiting for the curtains to part, I feel something come alive inside me.
By intermission, I feel like a new person—or maybe just my old self. I check my phone in the theater lobby and see that I finally have a missed call from Nolan. I press myself into a reasonably quiet corner and call him back.
“Hi,” he says, his voice barely audible. “Where are you?”
“At a show,” I say.
“With who?”
“I’m alone.”
“Oh…Are you having fun?”
“I wouldn’t call it ‘fun’…but it’s nice….How are you? How is Harper?”
“We’re fine,” he says. “We got Rabby back.”
“I heard,” I say. “Josie told me.”
“Oh. Right,” he says.
“Can I talk to Harper?” I ask, though the second warning to return to our seats has just been issued.
“She’s asleep,” he says. “She has school tomorrow. I’m taking off for her Halloween parade.”
“Oh. That’s great….So, what else is going on?” I say as the lobby empties.
“Well…Josie and I went to the cemetery yesterday. With Harper. We took flowers.”
“Josie went?” I ask, more than a little shocked.
“Yeah.”
“Wow. I take it that was your idea?”
“Yeah,” he says. “It was…but she went…and we had a really good talk.”
“About Daniel?”
“Yes,” he says.
I shake my head, thinking of how many times I’ve tried to get my sister to go to the cemetery or have a substantive conversation about our brother. Never to any avail. Resentment builds inside me—toward both my husband and my sister. “Well, thanks for the call. I need to go…intermission’s over,” I say, thinking of how he, annoyingly, always calls it halftime.
“No problem,” Nolan quickly says. “Enjoy the show.”
chapter twenty-five
JOSIE
For several days following my conversation with Nolan, I try to delude myself, a skill I’ve honed over the years. I keep telling myself that my actions were just one piece of a giant, tragic puzzle, and that a hundred little things had to happen for Daniel to die. A thousand. If you back up far enough, tens of
thousands.
Take, for example, Scott Donahue, the driver of the Denali that hit Daniel. I have never laid eyes on the man, but somehow I know his part of the story. I know that on the night of the accident, he was headed to Walgreens to buy cough medicine for his three-year-old son. So right there alone, I can see that Mr. Donahue and his wife had to meet, marry, and conceive that particular child, who would then get sick that very week in December (perhaps picking up a virus at one of those bouncy venues that Meredith despises); that the Donahues had to be out of children’s cough medicine (maybe they both forgot to pick it up earlier that day); and that Mr. Donahue had to go out precisely when he did (perhaps he stalled a few minutes to watch news coverage of the shoe bomber, the big story that broke that day). And on and on and on.
Yet no matter how I slice it, or what other factors may have been at play on that fateful night (and in the weeks, months, and years leading up to it), the inescapable, bottom-line, stone-cold truth remains: Daniel would be alive today had I not gotten drunk—no, wasted—on the night of December 22, 2001.
Obviously, there is nothing I can do about the past except live with it, but my agonizing dilemma becomes what to do moving forward. Do I make a joint decision with Nolan to tell Meredith what really happened that night? Do I confess to Meredith on my own, regardless of what he decides? Do I tell my family the truth simply because they deserve to know every detail of Daniel’s final hours—or will telling them only burden them with more heartache? I think about the repercussions of a confession and worry that my father might blame himself for my excessive drinking. I can certainly see my mother feeling that way. I can also see her lamenting that she hadn’t been stricter during my teenaged years. Most of all, I know beyond a doubt that a confession will only further poison my relationship with Meredith, perhaps end it altogether, and that it might also be the death knell for her marriage. I know my sister, and I just can’t imagine her forgiving either one of us for keeping such an enormous secret.