Page 49 of Truth Be Told
“Here you go, Stella,” says one of my coworkers. She passes me a file, and inside is a single sheet of paper which contains nothing more than a phone number and an address.
I weakly smile. The address is for a home in New London, close to Stonington. This looks right. It took most of the workday for someone to fish this information up for me, but it’s exactly what I was looking for. I’m just surprised it didn’t take longer. “Thanks so much. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.”
My coworker nods and then excuses herself, closing the door quietly behind her. I check the clock. It’s almost time for me to get out of here. I tuck the file under my arm, gather the rest of my things, and hurry out.
Cohen’s house is even nicer when the snow has melted. The impeccable landscaping is more apparent, and the true nature of the place can better be observed. Inside, he takes me in his arms, kneading my back for a second while inhaling the scent of my hair.
Gently, I pull away. I have to approach this delicately. “Cohen,” I start, retrieving the manila folder and playing with it.
When his eyes fall on the folder, he stops, as though he’s almost fearful. “What’s that?”
It can’t go this way. I don’t want him to approach this with negativity. I want him to accept this. “What makes you think it’s something so serious?”
“You’re holding a manila folder. Only serious things come in manila folders.”
I tighten my lips and nod. He’s right. “I guess I forgot who I was talking to.”
“Yep. Thatcher Industries is manila folder central.” He stretches out his arm and gestures for me to hand it over. “Let’s have it.”
I sit and he takes hold of it, but I don’t release my grip. “Before I give you this, you have to promise me you’ll hear me out. Okay?”
He pulls harder.
“Not until you promise,” I say again.
“Okay, okay. I promise. Now hand it over before I die from anticipation.”
Hesitantly, I release my hold. The folder slips out of my hand and passes into his.
“Wait,” I say suddenly, slamming my hand on top of the folder. He looks up at me. “Wait. Actually, before you read this, you need to tell me the rest of the story. The whole story. The real one.”
“Is that an obligation?”
“No. It’s not. But I’d like you to.”
He takes a breath, then places the folder next to him on the couch. “The story I told you – the parts in my dream – were based in reality. I did jump into the water to help her, but I didn’t even come close to getting her out.”
I acknowledge him, allowing him to speak even though I know this already.
“What you don’t know,” he goes on, “is that they investigated me for some kind of involvement in her accident.”
“Actually, I knew that.”
“You knew?”
“I saw a newspaper article that briefly mentioned it. But I don’t know any more than that.”
“That’s to be expected. They only released the barest details. Which was good, of course. For me.”
“I imagine that it was,” I say softly. “And your business.”
He nods in sad agreement, then lowers his head. “They never could figure out what exactly happened. Some said she ran into a patch of ice, and that she lost control first. Then there were others who saidIran into a patch of ice. It’s impossible for me to remember. Too much happened all at once, there was too much adrenaline, too much darkness, too much cold from all that damn water.”
I sit back. Empathy warms me. Despite not being able to remember if it was his fault or not, the fact that he fought so hard to save her tells me that in the back of his mind, he might actually know.
I glance at the folder, remembering the nondescript piece of paper it contains. Now, more than ever, I’m thankful for what I did. It’s obvious Cohen is ridden with guilt, not only around being unable to save her, but also potentially causing the accident in the first place. I won’t deny I hope that by him doing this, he finds that closure.
He turns and, seeing me relaxed, can tell I’m not going to push it further. He reluctantly takes the folder, cups its spine in his hand so that it splays open, allowing the information to fall in front of him
