Page 104 of The Liar's Reckoning

But we both know that won’t ever be possible.

32

GRAHAM

Mourning is supposed to be quiet. Quiet and gray.

But that’s not what it feels like in our apartment. It’s spring with full force. Blossoms on trees, and a sunny sky. The apartment is vivid with cheerful light for the first time since we moved in.

My mother has music or the television on constantly. Her cook and her housekeeper are here, dusting, baking, bustling in general. Avery is on the couch most of the time, my mother tucked in with her beneath one large blanket, while they watch cooking shows and reality shows, drinking tea and slurping soup.

I have no appetite, nor a clue what to do with myself when everything’s so handily being done for me. After three days of this, I’ve started doing push-ups in my bedroom until my arms give out, and I lie on the floor, blinking back the image of the tiny, lifeless pink thing I held and accidentally memorized—my son if only for a few heartbeats.

Or is it supposed to be forever?

They’d asked if he had a name. I remember thinking what kind of question is that? We hadn’t even known it was a boy until the doctor said as much. Aname?

Avery named him. Michael James Lawther. My mother selected the funeral home. The service was this morning. Tiny, only family. No friends of Avery’s came, and something about the clandestine nature of the minuscule service felt shameful. I didn’t cry this morning. I haven’t cried since I saw Silas in that hospital room where it felt like every tear I’d stored up for the rest of my life came out.

Avery is frequently teary-eyed and sometimes disappears into her room for half hours at a time. I assume she’s showering or crying. Maybe both. In those moments, my mother realizes I’m there and tries to tend to me, but I change the subject. I miss my sister, and I wish she were here. I’ve tried to call but haven’t heard back.

My father has come and gone a few times when he’s in the neighborhood. He and I will share a drink and some silence in my office, and he’ll quietly pat my back and go on about his day.

My text thread with Silas is nonsensical. Mostly where we are at any given time. He’s at the gym. I’m in my office. He’s got a bed to himself at his apartment. I’m drinking coffee in the kitchen. He reminds me to hydrate and eat. I promise I will. I sometimes even follow through. I ask him if my biceps look bigger and send a mirror selfie with my face out of the frame. He says yes and my shoulder looks good, too. I tell him I can see my abs. He tells me to eat a very large bagel. He asks me what kind of soup I like.

Absent from all our frequent exchanges is any mention of meeting up. I don’t know if that’s him or me—or whether we’re both waiting for the other to say can you get away? I can. I want to. I need to.

As excessive as the noise seems in the apartment, I dread the moment it goes silent. Every day, the silence becomes more inevitable. That moment when Avery and I will be forced to deal with each other. With what’s happened. With where we go from here.

Though I returned to New York sooner than expected, Ihaven’t missed much in Washington. A confirmation hearing that was going to go through whether I was there or not. A few meetings regarding a bipartisan piece of legislation, which my aide attended and sent detailed emails of. My responses are long-winded and rambling. Researched to death because what else am I going to do with these empty, idle hands.

To my surprise, it’s Silas who breaks first, five days in.Let me know if you’re able to get away,he texts.I have some things for you.

Since my mother and her staff are all still here, though Avery is doing physically well, I tell them I’m going out without specifying. Avery gives me a knowing look laced with disapproval and judgment, but my mother nods amiably.

Avery’s look stays with me on the ride to Chelsea and resentment builds in my chest. Did I deserve that? I decide I do. But it’s not as if we’ve had a single moment to comfort each other. And what would that look like if we did? Or once we do?

Just because she’s not ready to spread the news to her friends, which I don’t fault her for, I have someone with very broad shoulders to cry on.

The weight of loss is persistent, but it’s found a home in the bottom of my heart, where I expect it might survive forever. There’s guilt I wrestle with—that the loss isn’t heavier—that I hadn’t let myself really imagine our baby as a person until I held him in my hands. That I’d been happy about the pregnancy but hadn’t thought too far into the future and allowed myself to be excited and start planning for it. And there’s guilt about being relieved that I hadn’t done all that, too. If I had, the loss would have been unbearable. If he’d looked any more like a real baby it might have killed me.

And I hate myself for all these thoughts. I hate myself for every thought.

Silas opens the door for me and gives me a cautious look.

“I hate myself,” I tell him.

He takes my hand and pulls me inside. He’s wearing a simpleblack t-shirt that hugs his torso and soft, worn jeans that hang a bit loose. His tan is deeper than last time, I think. I assume he’s been in the sun, running in the park, breathing fresh air. Living.

“I don’t hate you,” he tells me once we’re closed inside another sun-filled apartment, but this one is quiet, something smells good in the kitchen, and Silas is here. And that makes all the difference.

“You would if you knew the kinds of thoughts I’ve been having.”

“I doubt it,” he says. “But if you wanna try me, I’m all ears.”

“I don’t need your ears.”

“What do y?—”

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