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Yes,I want to say, but imagine howthatwould look?
Then another hand steadies me. “Come on, Kitty. Let’s go.”
It’s my dad, dressed in a gray suit and a dark tie. His strong fingers curl around my forearm. Relief fills me—he’shere.I fall into him in the same way I fell into him at my mom’s funeral, when I could barely stand. At the front row, Dad heads for the middle of thepew, and we all slide in, me in the middle, Dad next to me, and then Willa and the girls.
There’s a pause in the organ music. And then, like music all its own, come the whispers.
She looks like she’s drunk.
She’d have to be to get through all this.
Do you really think she did it?
Of course. I can’t believe she even showed up. It’s monstrous.
Kit Manning-Strasser doesn’t react to petty bullshit,I tell myself, but can’t they wait until they’re somewhere private? And worse, these are girls I socialize with, sit on sports sidelines with. Women who invited Greg and me to Christmas parties, festivals downtown, charity events. Will I ever be invited to those again? Or am I suddenly, irrevocably tainted, persona non grata?
A minister I’ve met only once—yesterday—appears at the podium. The crowd quiets down, and this man begins to talk about someone named Greg Strasser, who bears absolutely no resemblance to the man I married. He opens with a few words about Greg’s big heart, then waxes about Greg’s dedication to his work and family, then brings it home with some words about Greg’s integrity and honor. I nearly burst out laughing. Where has this guy gotten this information from? Yesterday, when we spoke, he asked me to write a few words about Greg’s life. Itriedto think of positive things to say...
Like the memory of Greg the day of Martin’s surgery. Martin and I appeared in the cold pre-op room at 5:00A.M., bleary-eyed and nervous. The moment I saw Greg in the hall, scrubs on, surgical mask around his chin, I’d felt that same perverse buzz again. Greg held my gaze, and I felt like he actually sawintome—saw all my fears, my conflicted emotions, even my faults. And it’s as if he said,It’s okay. I’ll make this better.
But then, hours later, after so much waiting for the results, Greg himself appeared over me in the waiting room, still in medicalscrubs and a hairnet. There was a speck of something that looked like blood on his sleeve. I’d stood quickly, my heart dropping to my knees. I knew what he was going to say before he even opened his mouth. His expression said it all. And then I just sort of...fellinto him.
“I’m so sorry,” Greg whispered in my ear, holding me close. “Kit, I am so,sosorry I couldn’t save him.”
I held Greg much longer than probably appropriate. He didn’t try to pry himself away. He didn’t say he had patients to see or paperwork to fill out. He just...heldme, for what seemed like hours. It was a tiny moment of grace during such a terrible time.
But after that day, I didn’t speak to Greg for months. I was surprised when he reached out to me at work on a bright day in July, asking me out to dinner. “If you’re not ready, I totally understand,” he said.
But I was ready. It’s terrible, but in some ways, I’d felt ready the moment he told me Martin was dead. I hadn’t been alone since before my mom died. I had no skills for navigating life by myself. Perhaps I could have relied on my dad more, but he was so busy with his duties as president... and anyway, I’d never relied on him before. And so I accepted Greg’s offer.
And oh, those first dates we went on! Greg took me to restaurants, and we ordered everything on the menu. We flew in a private plane to New York City and stayed in a penthouse along Central Park West. Greg took me on lavish shopping trips, where we bought presents for the girls, sparkly baubles from Tiffany’s and cute quilted bags from Tory Burch. He invited the girls and me over for dinner at his town house in Shadyside, buttering up Sienna and Aurora, stocking the fridge with stuff they liked to eat. I remember how tickled I felt when Greg and Sienna sat at the table for hours after dinner to talk about which movie was better:The GodfatherorThe Godfather, Part II.He would always have art kits for Aurora, whose whole life was drawing—expensive Winsor & Newton paints,beautiful watercolor boxes, even a wooden easel, set up at his town house window. There were moments when I thought he was only doing this because my husband had been his patient and he had an exaggerated sense of guilt and duty. There was also the awkwardness of how it looked to be dating the surgeon who’d failed to save my husband. My father warned me to be careful, though after he got to know Greg, those warnings waned.
And I hedged the story for Willa entirely, just saying Greg was a cardiologist within the hospital and left it at that. Actually, I started hedging the story with everyone. And after a while, I began to believe Greg genuinely adored all of us. And it felt so...good.Greg tried so hard to make me forget that I’d just lost someone. He helped usallforget. And for a while, it was wonderful.
But I couldn’t tell the minister those things, I guess because it didn’t end up being the truth, when all was said and done. Instead, I’d hurriedly sent him some pictures of a trip we’d taken to Barbados a few months before, over Christmas break. I’d thought the pastor would use them as inspiration for a eulogy, but instead, to my horror, the photos are now playing on a slideshow on a screen behind his head. I see a selfie of me at the airport looking tired but optimistic. Then there’s a blurry shot of Sienna giving a thumbs-up by the gate. Another flip: Aurora’s waiting for our flight with her hat pulled down and her headphones over her ears. Down the pew, Aurora gasps. I shoot her an apologetic look. I didn’t realize they were going to show our entire photo album.
Next on the screen are shots of the girls jumping off cliffs, standing on surfboards, and eating corn on the cob at a fish fry—Greg is in none of them. Why hadn’t I weeded through these photos before sending? Why had anyone left the responsibility to me,period?
As the pastor glosses over Greg’s later years, the Barbados photos devolve into shots of landscapes, flowers, and birds. Empty white beaches. Crisp blue-green water. Colorful tropical butterflies. From an outsider’s perspective, the trip still looks heavenly, but bythat time, we were all tired of one another. In the airport, Greg’s disposition was sour, testy, and critical, which put me on edge—because we were onvacation,damn it, and couldn’t he just enjoy it? He tried to rally at the resort, surprisingly pleased at the accommodations and the quality of the rum punch the bartender whipped up. But the girls were getting on his nerves with their selfies and constant Instagram hashtagging and squealing over the cute boys on the other side of the pool. He snapped at them for the dumbest things. Because of that—or so I figured—they gravitated toward other young people on the property and hung out with us very little. Greg and I ate a lot of dinners alone—silent dinners. I couldn’t think of a thing to say to him, and in that beautiful, tropical oasis where romance should come easy, our silence seemed even more indicative of how much our relationship had fallen apart. By the end, Greg was a grump. Sunburned, tired, snapping at everyone, and spending several hours taking care of work e-mails in the afternoons instead of hanging out with us.
There’s a commotion in the aisle, and Raina Hammond squeezes into our pew. Her hair is perfectly blown out; she wears a black dress far too short for church. She grips Sienna’s hand, and Sienna squeezes back, but Aurora seems to shift closer to Willa, looking disgusted. I run my tongue over my teeth. Maybe she knows Raina is a liar, too.
More songs. A eulogy from a fellow doctor about the time he and Greg spent at medical school, that’s as bland as can be. Then, finally, it’s over. Everyone stands and exhales, and people turn to me. But there’s no way I can talk to anyone right now. I’ve got to get the hell out of here. As soon as the people to my right file out, I hurry toward a side exit, not caring that I’ve left my family behind.
The warm air kisses my skin. I take deep, even breaths, running my fingernails up and down my arms; I’m tempted to break the skin just to feelsomething. Church bells gong. Two kids in Aldrich sweatshirts smoke e-cigarettes in front of off-campus housing. A localnews van circles the block and turns into the church parking lot.Jesus.I hurry to the back of the building.
“Kit.”
I wheel around. Patrick stands with his hands in the pockets of a dark suit. He is alone, and he’s looking at me with a mix of urgency and uncertainty. I stare at him, then at the church, then at him again.
“What areyoudoing here?” I finally splutter.
“I wanted to express my condolences.”
“You came to my husband’sfuneral?”
“You and Lynn work together.” He shrugs. “It would have looked weird if wedidn’tcome.”
