At Any Cost (20 page)

Years ago, Tom's parents retired to Florida, but Bethany's parents, the Cabrerras, remained in their rambling old house in Red Bank, New Jersey, where they had a wide circle of friends and family. When Tom called to tell them he would be in town, they invited him to dinner, as he knew they would.

Badsea Drive: the first time Bethany had turned the corner into the cul-de-sac, to introduce him to her family, he had been so anxious—just flat out scared. He had never bothered to meet a woman's parents before, but Bethany was special. Bethany was the One. The beautiful white Colonial with the red door and black shutters, and towering trees in the front yard, was the place most important to her, and he could immediately see why. It was a place that simply felt simply like home: warm, welcoming, infused with family history.

During that first raucous dinner with her family, he had discovered that Bethany was right: there was absolutely no reason to worry. They welcomed him warmly, laughing with him like he had been part of the family forever. After her mother's homemade peach cobbler, Bethany had taken him outside to the pristine snowfield that was the backyard. They had built a snow gremlin, complete with branches for arms and a rock for a nose. Her father had joined them outside, and together they stood staring at a large tree. It was covered in snow. It was bare, except for one tiny green fruit on a low limb, which Tom believed was a fig. The fig was covered with snow, but it still managed to hang there, enduring the wind and the snow. “Some things last,” Bethany's father had said. “That is comforting.”

As Tom turned off the ignition in the driveway, another wave of nostalgia pulled him under. He had always felt comfortable here and remained so even after Bethany's death. At least, it had been comfortable before he met and became involved with Fallon Hughes. Now he was not sure what he felt about anything, which was part of why he had come. He wanted clarity. Part of that, he admitted only very reluctantly, was that he wanted to feel his bond to Bethany, to test it and see if it was as strong as ever.

Taking a big breath to steady himself, Tom knocked at the front door. Inside the house, he could hear one of Bethany's nieces yelling, “Mommmmmmm-eeeee!” Other small children's voices faded in and out like bad radio reception.

The white sheers over the windows fluttered as Mrs. Cabrerra peeked out from the side of the door, and a moment later, the door swung open. “Tom,” she breathed and enveloped him in an embrace. She smelled like crushed tomatoes and basil and felt like home. As he held her, he asked, “Are you making pasta, Mary?”

“Lasagna,” she answered, pulling back. She was in her early fifties, but when she smiled like that, she looked like a girl in her mid-twenties. Joy transformed her, made her eyes sparkle and her face glow. “Come in out of the cold,” she said and closed the door.

The house was exactly the same. Warm with a fire roaring in the fireplace, the yells of kids, the smell of cooking. The only thing foreign was he.

Bethany's brothers, Brian and Sean, had come with their wives and children. Her sister, ten months older than Bethany, had brought her husband and new baby. She was sitting at the bar, eating green Provencal olives and talking to her father. When she caught sight of him, a lovely, wide, warm smile spread over her features. Tom felt the old, cellular-level grief wash over him. Grief and confusion—a feeling of displacement, like he'd gone back in time. Carolyn and Bethany looked so much alike: they had the same beautiful olive complexions, bright brown eyes, and winsome smiles that felt like benedictions.

Carolyn slid off the bar stool and hugged him. He shut his eyes for just a moment, smelling her hair, enjoying her female form against him. It felt so much like holding Bethany that he wanted to say her name aloud, wanted to kiss her and tell her he loved her and missed her so much that sometimes he felt his heart was being ripped out of his chest.

The moment passed. He said hello to his brothers-in-law, and his father-in-law, and made the obligatory cooing noises at Carolyn's new baby, Bethany-Anne. Carolyn gently placed the baby in Tom's arms, and Bethany-Anne looked up at him with that drunken-sailor, cross-eyed expression that was at once adorable and silly. Unaccustomed to being around very small babies, he was not prepared for the protective affection that washed over him. The baby weighed less than ten pounds, practically light as air in his arms, staring up at him as if he were God. Gently, Tom touched her silky brown hair and then felt her smooth cheeks with the back of his knuckles. He tickled her soft, oval feet and kissed her starfish hands. He could see Bethany somewhere, indistinct, but very much alive in the niece that she would never know. Before becoming too emotional, he gently placed the baby back in her mother's arms.

Mary Cabrerra was a proper Italian wife. While the lasagna finished baking, she had set out a beautiful antipasto buffet on the bar with selections of sliced meats, olives, artichokes, hearts of palm, and four different cheeses. Carolyn offered red wine from a carafe but Tom declined; alcohol sometimes made him nostalgic and melancholy, and the last thing he wanted to do was spend the whole evening brooding over Bethany. Instead, he took a bottle of spring water from the fridge. Shutting the door, he recognized a photo among the Monmouth County emergency numbers, a Chinese menu, and magnets. All the siblings were smiling at the photographer—natural, happy smiles, not the stiff smile eked from a photographer demanding a good shot. With an ecstatic smile and fire-bright eyes, Bethany was connecting directly with the photographer, who happened to be Tom Bishop. Between home and heaven. The stamp on the bottom right corner was barely visible: 15 June 2001.

Paleontology. Artifacts everywhere. Mementoes still had the ability to surprise him, knock him momentarily off center. If only he had been able to save her. If only he had been useful on that day. But he had not been able to protect his own wife. He was punished for it every day.

Tom stayed through dinner and dessert, until the children were getting cranky. Mary Cabrerra walked him to the door and embraced him. He held on to her, loving her enough for both himself and Bethany. When he pulled back, he saw that she was no longer trying to hide her emotions; big, luminous tears wet her eyes.

“Will we see you again before you leave?” she asked.

Tom tried to discipline his voice, to sound casual. “Sure. I'll stop by before I leave town.”

Mary Cabrerra smiled wanly. “Good. We miss you around here.”

And then the cathode burst of love and ache in his chest, which he could no longer disguise. Bubbles of emotion deluged forth as tears came to his eyes. “I miss Bethany,” he said, as much to her as to himself. It sounded good to his own ears. It sounded honest.

“Me too,” Mary said and wiped her eyes. “She was very special.”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he asked. Even he wasn't sure what he meant. There were so many things happening all at once. He felt like a conquered country, adjusting its borders and trying to rewrite the laws in a language he didn't understand. Mary Cabrerra was not only a mother, she was Bethany's mother, and even if she could not know every aspect of Tom and Bethany's marriage, she understood that his loss was equal to hers.

“You just live,” Mary replied calmly, “the best you can.”

At first blush, it sounded like the myriad platitudes he'd heard after Bethany's death. Casserole Brigades would come round, bringing their “God has a reason for this” and “time heals all wounds” bromides as if they were nuggets of divine wisdom when, in fact, they were worth less than the gum on his shoe. But when Mary spoke, it sounded true. Like it was something she had discovered herself, through years of hard work: that every person must create the journey for his own redemption. He could be nothing but grateful that she would share it with him.

Tom hugged her again and promised to call more often. Then he drove away in his Jeep.

Forty minutes later, the smudgy skyline of New York City came into view. His eyes scanned the southern tip of the island; there was nothing for his gaze to snag. Still so strange, the buildings evaporated like white morning mist, as if they'd been a collective delusion. Ducking into the Lincoln Tunnel, he emerged into the city, which was like driving into a photograph.

His old apartment was in a beautiful historic building in the center of Chelsea, seen with the random immediacy of a snapshot. Those huge, vaulted windows that Bethany had so loved remained bare. The new owner must also like the exposed, urban feel, the way the sun poured in during summer, leaving great slashing sun marks on the pale blonde floors. The effect had reminded him of other sunlit apartments: Paris and Istanbul, where he and Bethany had honeymooned. Everything self-referencing, a never-ending echo chamber of Bethany. Bethany's city garden, right outside the bedroom doors, a patio full of flowers—particularly her orchids. Difficult to grow, she'd enjoyed the feeling of accomplishment when they bloomed. Tom had teased her for taking credit for an act of nature. She had liked to sit out there in a glade of sun and read, sometimes with a glass of mother vodka. In those awful days right after her death, Tom had tried to find the peace that Bethany had so obviously experienced out there. After a while, he stopped trying to relax, knowing it was futile, though the vodka remained.

He had almost begun to believe that love is the guilt you feel for not being enough for the people you cared about. Guilt was the only emotion he knew during those dark days—love and guilt were all mixed up, relying on each other for definition. And he was guilty. Even more guilty for reaching a point where he could not bear to think about Bethany anymore: trying to outwit the poison air, the memories, and that grinding saw of sorrow. Had to get rid of it, had to drive out of the blackout, escape.

As soon as it was offered, Tom accepted the transfer to protection that would send him south to Washington, D.C. Technically it was a promotion but it felt like retreat. He had plenty of money; his lifelong habit of savings, plus the settlement from the September 11 Victim Compensation Fund allowed him to leave immediately and worry about selling his apartment later.

He fled the city like a refugee, leaving his friends baffled and surprised when he called them, weeks later, from his condo in D.C.—the condo that had no memory. Blank slate, fresh start.

The W Hotel at Union Square: $429 per night for an indeterminate number of nights. The room cool and sleek as a doctor's office. Tall windows of the fourteenth- floor room faced south, toward All That Is Missing. Tom pulled the cinematic draperies closed, undressed, and slept for fifteen hours.

Where are you?

Fallon blinked back sleep and squinted at her alarm clock; the numbers blurred in indecipherable red squiggles. “What time is it?” she mumbled.

“Ten,” Gwen said with a touch of petulance in her voice. “You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago.”

Oh no. The room was slowly coming into focus. Panic gripped as she realized what was happening. It was Saturday. The wedding and inaugural gown summit that they'd planned weeks ago. “I overslept, sweetie. I'll be there in ten minutes.”

“Hurry! Make them use the lights and sirens if you have to!”

Fallon bolted out of bed, yanked on jeans, brown leather boots, and a white button-up shirt. Mentally berating herself for her tardiness, she brushed her teeth, swiped on deodorant, and grabbed her purse. Tugging on a knee-length black car coat as she ran out the door, she realized she wasn't even fully awake yet and her hair was a disaster.

Jason Slaney, standing post at her door, looked startled.

“Hi,” Fallon said breathlessly. “I'm in such a rush.”

Jason Slaney radioed down to the limos as they hurried down the hallway to the elevator. Fallon fluffed her hair and wondered if she was dressed appropriately for a wedding shop. She suspected jeans were not appropriate. Too late to worry about it now.

She slid her shades on and flung herself onto the backseat of the limo, barely noticing Kevin White slam the door behind her. It was a very short drive to Virginia Street and the Vera Wang boutique at the Watergate complex, but every second seemed to take forever.

Gwen was browsing shoes and handbags, still dressed in her street clothes, when Fallon arrived. “Big night?” she asked archly.

“I'm so sorry,” Fallon said, hugging her friend. “You haven't started yet, have you?”

Gwen, pacified now that Fallon was here, replied, “No. We were waiting for you. You are late, but you're here, at last.”

“Well, scoot. Get your gown on!” Fallon replied brightly. She was feeling defensive, and every movement seemed exaggerated to compensate for her lateness. Her over-effusive blather, exaggerated grin, and frantic eyes were certain giveaways of her guilt. Fallon urged herself to calm down. Gwen would forgive her for being late, but a ruined day would be much harder to overlook.

She sat on a huge white brocade salon chair and waited while Gwen and the attendant went into the changing room. A few moments later, Gwen emerged in a silky strapless gown of the palest, most luscious cream color that Fallon had ever seen. Fallon stood up, her hand to her mouth, as tears spontaneously sprang to her eyes. “Oh my God,” she whispered.

“Do you like it?” Gwen asked.

Fallon wanted to answer but she could only stare. Her friend was beautiful. And there was more than that: she was not only beautiful, she was
getting married
. The reality of it had never been as vivid as it was that moment, and a mosaic of memory and emotion kaleidoscoped through her: images of them playing on the kindergarten carpet together, the awkward middle school years, the emotional high school years, college … and now Gwennie was becoming a wife.

“Say something. You're scaring me,” Gwen said and looked down at the length of her body encased in the finest bridal silk.

“You are absolutely breathtaking,” Fallon said and stepped closer to touch the fabric at Gwen's hip. “You are gorgeous. The gown is gorgeous.”

Gwen twirled in the multiple-aspect mirrors, checking out her backside. “It's not bad, but the waist is still a little big. Late nights at the hospital have kept me skinny.”

“You look beautiful,” Fallon said. Her heart was so full of emotion she could barely utter the words.

The attendant went to find a pedestal for Gwen to step on, and while they waited, Fallon used the moment to collect herself as she casually browsed the racks of gowns. Beautiful laces, flowing silks, gorgeous patterns. Fallon selected one that she liked and looked at the beading. Turning to the mirror, she held the gown to her body and inhaled deeply. She had a flash of an image, wearing a dress like this one, walking down an aisle on her father's arm to Tom Bishop. Impossible now, of course, but oh what a sweet dream. Crystalline tears appeared in her eyes. Funny, she thought she was all cried out.

“Are you getting married too?” the attendant asked from behind her.

Fallon spun around, startled and embarrassed at being caught in her private moment. “No,” she said, a little too emphatically. “No, I'm just ….”

The attendant, an older lady with a brusque manner but a kind smile when she cared to crack it, gave her a friendly look. “Happens all the time.”

Gwen stepped up on the pedestal and the attendant straightened out the dress, fussing with the hem.

Fallon picked up a veil and placed it on her head, the beautiful gauzy material flowing over her shoulders and hips, trailing behind her. “How do I look?”

Gwen smiled. “Gorgeous.”

In the mirror she caught a glimpse of Kevin White and Jason Slaney standing in the corner, and she blushed deeply. Undoubtedly they would tell Tom she was acting like a ditz in the bridal boutique. How embarrassing. Fallon quickly put the veil down and turned her attention to Gwen, who was watching the whole thing in the mirror. The second their eyes met, they started laughing until they cried, until the seamstress told Gwen to shut up or she'd get poked with a needle.