After sending the footage to Craig, Matt couldn’t sit still. He considered a walk to the beach but found himself wanting to see Lauren instead. Being around her gave him the sense that he was making progress even if he wasn’t technically working. At least, that’s what he made of the impulse.
“Hey! Matt.”
Matt, just outside of Nora’s, looked around. He spotted Stephanie in a parked car.
“What are you doing? Staking out the joint?” he said.
“For your information, I just dropped off my sister. What are you doing here?”
Stephanie’s hostility at the party the other night had surprised him, but he knew it shouldn’t have. He’d seen it before: an interviewee said something he or she regretted, then felt “tricked” by the filmmaker. Matt had weathered more than one strongly worded legal letter. The thing was, Stephanie hadn’t even made the incriminating statement on camera. What was he supposed to do with her drunken ramblings at a bar? Damned if he knew.
“Having breakfast,” he said.
“Why are you bothering her?”
“I think that’s your own guilt talking,” he said.
“You’re the one who should feel guilty, using my sister for your stupid movie.”
“If she knew the truth, I doubt Lauren would agree that I am the one who should feel bad.”
Stephanie’s lower lip trembled.
“If you tell her, I’ll deny it.”
Matt barely heard her. His mind kept going over and over the same question: Why had Rory betrayed Lauren?
Matt had footage of all the coaches and teammates and military guys extolling his virtues. He had Lauren, acknowledging his injuries and the difficulties in their marriage toward the end. But there was a missing piece along the way, a breach between the man and the myth.
He needed Stephanie back on camera.
“I don’t want to tell her, Stephanie. I have no interest in upsetting your sister or causing problems between the two of you. But if you’re worried about her finding out—and someday she might, because the truth has a way of coming to the surface—then I suggest you take this opportunity to own it.”
“How?”
“I’m offering you the chance to tell your side of the story. On the record.” He waited, watching her mull it over. “I think you know I’m not the enemy here. And I don’t think you’re the bad guy either, Stephanie.”
He could see her grappling with the idea of confessing. He’d witnessed it many times over the course of his career. People needed to talk. The need for absolution was a strong and universal impulse.
When Stephanie looked back at him, she had tears in her eyes.
“The guilt is killing me,” she said. “And I have no idea what to do about it.”
The house was empty when Lauren returned after work. Her mother’s car was gone from the driveway. Lately, her mother had been spending a lot of time baking, but the kitchen showed no sign of activity even from earlier in the day. The deck was empty, the pool quiet. Would she have a rare night of the house all to herself? For once, she actually didn’t want to be alone.
She dialed her mother’s cell.
“How’s it going there, sweetheart?” Beth said.
“Fine—I just got home from work. Are you here for dinner tonight?”
“Didn’t your sister tell you? I went to Philly with Ethan for an overnight trip. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
When she hung up, she immediately tried Stephanie’s phone, but it went straight to voice mail.
She walked upstairs, paced around her bedroom, then called Matt. Again, voice mail.
“Matt, it’s Lauren,” she said. “I’ve been thinking a lot about what I said last night, and I just don’t want your portrayal of Rory to be so mired in the negative. I don’t believe that’s who he was. The end doesn’t define the beginning. You know what I mean? Call me when you can.”
The house was completely silent.
Lauren opened her closet.
The boxes from the attic were still taking up the entire bottom. She dragged them out, the one she’d already opened with her high-school keepsakes and another marked 2010–2011. She remembered packing this one, basically dumping an entire dresser drawer into it: cards from her wedding, Ethan’s blue birth announcement (Stephanie Adelman is proud to announce the birth of her son, Ethan Jake Adelman, 7 lbs., 8 oz., April 6, 2011), her wedding album (which she would not open under any circumstances), a few editions of the Los Angeles Times that mentioned Rory in the sports section, a scented candle from their honeymoon hotel in Negril, two shot glasses from Jamaica, and there, at the very bottom, a hotel-room key card that read OJAI VALLEY INN AND SPA.
She reached for it, clutched the small piece of plastic to her chest. I held this on one of the happiest days of my life, she thought.
Lauren placed the key card back in the box. And then she changed her mind about the wedding album—sort of. She wouldn’t look through it, but she would hand it over to Matt. Maybe there was something in there he’d find useful. After all, Rory was more than a hockey player and then a soldier. For a time, a brief time, he had been a husband.
They’d married on the roof deck of the Franklin Institute, framed by a panoramic view of the Philadelphia skyline at sunset. The reception took place in the planetarium, under the stars.
Lauren walked down the aisle on her father’s arm; she wore a simple A-line dress that she’d picked out with her mother at a bridal shop in Center City. Rory stood at the altar flanked by his groom’s party: his brother, Dean Wade, and two friends from Harvard. Her bridal party consisted of friends from Lower Merion, her roommate from Georgetown, and Emerson’s wife. She felt Stephanie’s absence acutely and regretted their argument that day at the airport.
But all of that paled next to what truly marred that nearly perfect summer night: the secret she held deep and sharp in her gut. In six weeks, Rory would be leaving for basic training in Georgia. As he was a Ranger, his enlistment would be three years, and he could choose among a few places to be stationed. They’d decided on Fort Lewis, outside of Seattle.
And then, for a brief and shining moment, as she stood with Rory on the scenic roof deck, a warm summer breeze rustling her waterfall veil, the confrontation with Emerson didn’t matter. Stephanie’s absence didn’t matter. Rory’s enlistment did not matter. Hand in hand with Rory, both of them turned toward the nondenominational minister they had chosen, everything that had happened in the past nine years leading to that moment unfolded in her mind, a storybook montage. It was a miracle that they were standing there together, a beautiful miracle. Rory’s dark eyes locked on hers as they exchanged their vows. She felt safe and sure, and everything else fell away.
Lauren rummaged through her desk for a pair of scissors. The next box, labeled LM, was wrapped in layers and layers of blue tape.
Underneath a thick layer of maroon and white clothing, she found the Philadelphia Inquirer article that Matt wanted to see. She stared at the grainy black-and-white photo of seventeen-year-old Rory standing in a face-off on the ice at the Havertown Skatium. She put it aside.
Next, a beat-up hockey puck saved from a game, the significance of which was long forgotten.
A midnight-blue velvet jewelry pouch. Inside, she’d tucked his dog tags, knowing she should keep them but not knowing when she would ever want to look at them again.
And then her fingers found a white sealed envelope scrunched in the corner. Lauren’s hand covered her mouth.
Strange, how the mind worked. How it could obsess or obfuscate. How strange that it was possible to be the unreliable narrator of your own life. She shouldn’t be surprised that she had forgotten about the letter. But she was.
She hadn’t set eyes on it in four years.
In the days following Rory’s death, she had been surrounded by friends and family, consumed with logistics and arrangements. The night of his memorial was the first time she’d been alone in the house, alone with his things. All she had left of him.
Two in the morning, and she was still wearing her black dress. She went to Rory’s bureau and opened the middle drawer. It was filled with carefully folded T-shirts. She opened the top drawer, where his socks were all paired together. He’d always had a better organizational sense than she did. And he was neater than she was—the opposite of how it usually was between husbands and wives. She teased him about this.
In all of their months of separation, she’d never thought to move his belongings. Even in her darkest moments, she had not imagined that he would never return to the house.
She gathered a bunch of socks in her hands. They had to go—everything had to go. She couldn’t live amid his clothes, his photographs, his furniture. But she couldn’t part with them either. She would box it all up like she had the first half of their lives together, packed in the basement.
Next, his closet. She pressed her face to one of his sweatshirts, which somehow still smelled like him. She sat on the floor, trying to breathe.
So many sneakers, a pair of hiking boots. And then, a sliver of white caught her eye, peeking out from underneath a pair of Adidas pushed way in the back. On her knees, she reached for the envelope, saw her name written in Rory’s familiar, precise lettering.
Lauren sank back on her heels. She knew what it was. She’d heard about them from other military wives. He’d left her a just-in-case letter.
She dropped it like it was on fire. It wafted to her feet.
When had he written it? Before his first tour? It had to have been then. There was no way he’d written it before the second. Either way, it didn’t matter. The letter must not be read—not ever.
Once she read the letter, he would be gone forever.
Lauren took the envelope, ran back down to the basement, and shoved it into one of the many cardboard boxes they’d never unpacked. Then she taped it and taped it and taped it closed, as if the box were never to be opened again.
And now she’d opened it.
Lauren’s phone rang. Matt.
“Hello?” she said, trying to sound normal.
“Hey, it’s Matt. Sorry I missed your call but I was working. What’s up?”
“Nothing. It was nothing.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
She hesitated, trying to normalize her voice.
“Yes. I was just going through some old things.”
“Where are you? Are you by yourself?”
“Yeah, I’m at home,” she said, sobbing.
“I’ll be right over.”