The Lies That Bind

by Emily Giffin

  “Well,” I say quietly. “Let’s just pray that this baby isn’t his.”

  “Believe me,” Matthew replies. “That’s what I’m doing.”

  I nod, feeling so sad I can’t stand it.

  “I just need time,” he says. “I need time to process all of this. And if the baby’s not mine—I will need time to process how I feel about that as well.”

  With a sickening wave of déjà vu, I tell him, once again, that I understand. And that it’s probably best if I go.

  * * *

  —

  It takes me a whole subway ride and walk back to my apartment—and another thirty minutes standing at the kitchen counter and eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich—before I realize that the feeling I had when I left Matthew’s apartment wasn’t déjà vu at all. It’s a memory of the night we broke up the first time. The similarities are startling, right down to where we were sitting at the table, all the same emotions swirling around us. Fear and sadness and guilt and insecurity and uncertainty and rejection.

  I walked out the night of our breakup—not because I wanted to, but because I felt I had no other choice. Matthew wasn’t able to say he could see a future with me, not for sure. And here we are with the same theme unfolding. He’s not ready to marry me—and there’s nothing I can do about it but wait and see.

  Of course there’s one huge difference now, I think, as I undress and step into the shower. I put my hand on my bump and realize that nothing else matters that much anymore. I’ve come a long way from that girl who went down to have a beer at a bar in the middle of the night because she was so desperately sad over a breakup and had to get away from her phone.

  I’m still desperately sad, of course, but not only because of a guy this time. It’s mostly because my child might not have a father—not in any meaningful way.

  I let the hot water run over my face, wondering if I would take it all back if I could. If I had it to do over, would I have stayed home that night—or would I still have walked down and had that beer at the bar? Would I have let Grant come home with me? If I hadn’t done those things, what would my life look like now? Would Matthew and I still, eventually, have gotten back together? Would I be pregnant? Would I be happy—or at least happier than I am now?

  Suddenly, all I want is a do-over. And not just a do-over of that night, or even the night of September 10, or my friendship with Amy, or my drive up to the cabin today, but a do-over of ever coming to New York City. I suddenly wish I had just opted for a simpler life.

  And then it hits me. That although I can’t go back in time, I can go back in a sense. I can go home to Wisconsin. I can live in an apartment that is bigger than a bread box, and that actually has a wall between my bed and sofa, and that is located in a town that isn’t a target for terrorists. Most important, I can be near my family and Scottie—the people who love me unconditionally, despite all my flaws and mistakes. We may not get do-overs in life, but we can always have fresh starts and new beginnings.

  I get out of the shower, dry off, and put on cozy flannel pajamas. All the while, my mind is spinning with logistics. My lease is up soon anyway—and none of my furniture is really worth much—so I could literally just leave it all on the curb, fly home with a few bags, and start over. I could move in with my parents, right into my old bedroom—or with Scottie. Either way, I’d have help with the baby.

  In the back of my mind, I know it’s a rash plan at the end of the most exhausting, emotionally draining day of my life. I also realize that I might feel different tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep and another conversation with Matthew. But for now, I climb into bed and drift into a deep slumber, dreaming of home.

  The next morning I wake up and immediately reach for the phone to call Matthew. I want to hear his voice. I want to tell him again how sorry I am. How much I love him. But something tells me not to. Not quite yet, anyway.

  Instead I get up, eat a bowl of cereal, take my prenatal vitamin, and go for a long walk by the East River. It’s a chilly, gray day—and even colder by the water—but I keep going, heading south, wandering all the way down into Battery Park. It’s the first time I’ve been this far downtown since 9/11, and I can’t stop staring at the hole in the skyline where the towers once stood. It’s all still so impossible to believe. I stop and sit on a bench, watching a pair of seagulls circle in the bleak distance as I think of all those people who lost their lives on that day. I close my eyes and say a prayer for their souls—and for all of those who grieve for them.

  I think of Grant, of course, still digesting the fact that he’s alive, wondering when and how Amy will find out. If she already has. Maybe she suspected this, along with his criminal activity—but I can’t help wondering how she will deal with it all. Maybe she will forgive him for everything, and the two of them will take all that cash and run away to some exotic island together, disappearing forever. I doubt that, though. More likely, after digesting the initial shock, she will shrug inside and move on with her life. I don’t pretend to understand either of them, let alone their marriage, but it seems to me that they couldn’t have shared anything very deep or meaningful. That nothing can be real when marred with so many lies.

  I think of Matthew, and the secrets I kept from him, wondering at what point they would have destroyed us. If they already have. Either way, I know he’s right. As much as I hated hearing it last night, I know that we can’t get married anytime soon. Neither of us is ready for that step, given all we’ve been through, given everything. I also know that the only date I need to be worried about right now is my due date.

  A cold, damp wind blows across the river, taking my breath away. I shiver, then stand and head home—which won’t be home for much longer. I feel myself start to panic about where I’m going to live. Although I know Matthew would let me live with him in the short term, I don’t feel right about doing it amid so much uncertainty. It crosses my mind to call my landlord, see if he’ll still let me renew my lease or at least extend it a few months—but staying in New York also feels wrong, and so overwhelming. There’s just no way I’ll be able to raise a baby alone in the city on my salary. In the light of day, Wisconsin still feels like the best, if not only, option. I decide that, at the very least, I need to book a trip home this week to talk to my family about everything.

  By the time I get back to my apartment, I’m a complete mess, and even more distraught when I check my answering machine and see that Matthew hasn’t called. I take off my coat and gloves, throwing them down on a kitchen chair, before washing my hands and putting the kettle on. Meanwhile, I tell myself to calm down. I remind myself that plenty of women do this motherhood thing alone. I recently read that J. K. Rowling wrote her first Harry Potter book as a struggling single mother. So it can be done, and I will find a way if that’s what’s in the cards for me. I make a cup of tea, add lemon and honey, then sit down at my desk with fresh determination.

  No matter what, even if Matthew and I end up working things out, I can’t stay here if it means languishing in a job I hate. I need to find professional fulfillment and real stability for my child’s sake and my own. With this in mind, I refocus, spending the rest of the morning and afternoon revising my résumé and perusing job listings online.

  I check reporting jobs in Milwaukee at first, but then expand my search to include any and all positions for which I’m even vaguely qualified, regardless of geography, finding openings in Chicago, St. Louis, Washington, D.C., and Columbus, Ohio. Although I’m soothed by the idea of moving back home, I don’t want to rule anything out. I don’t want to be ruled by fear—whether of failure or of the unknown.

  I remember who I was four years ago, when I came to New York, determined to retain the best of that bright, hopeful, hardworking girl, while jettisoning some of the blind idealism. Things didn’t turn out as I planned—not even close—but that doesn’t mean I have to start settling.

 
With that in mind, I pull the wedding binder Amy made out of my briefcase. It takes me a few seconds, but I finally open it. As I flip through the pages, I’m filled with so many mixed emotions. It’s sad letting go of long-held dreams, but it’s also a relief to realize that they no longer seem so important to me. Maybe one day all of that will still happen. But if it doesn’t, that’s okay, too.

  I’m going to be a mother—and that is so much more important than anything else. I close the binder and walk to my kitchen wastebasket, but decide that disposing of the notebook there doesn’t feel final or symbolic enough. So I walk out to the hallway and toss it down the trash chute, listening to the echoing thud as it falls into the basement bin.

  When I return to my kitchen, the phone is ringing. I screen the call, then listen to Scottie leave a long message about very little. Later that day, I also screen calls from Jasmine and my mother. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to them—it’s just that I’m not ready to share everything that’s happened. I don’t want their advice, even if it’s solid. I just want to figure things out on my own, for once.

  Later that night, as I’m getting ready for bed, I still haven’t heard from Matthew. So I sit down at my computer to write him a letter. The words come more easily than I thought they would, and afterward, I read them, picturing his face as he reads them, too.

  Dear Matthew,

  I’m so sorry, again, for not being honest with you from the beginning. I don’t blame you for being hurt and angry with me, and I agree that we should put our wedding plans on hold. There’s just too much uncertainty right now.

  But regardless of what happens down the road, I want you to know that I will always love and respect you. I respect that you are true to yourself and never feel pressured to do things on anyone else’s timetable. I respect that you always try to do the right thing. I respect your honesty and integrity. For these reasons—and so many others—I hope and pray that my child gets to have you as his or her father.

  But even if the baby does turn out to be yours biologically, and we end up marrying, I need to know for sure that we are together for the right reasons. Because you truly want to be with me, and I truly want to be with you.

  By the same token, it seems to me that if we’re meant to be together, we should be together even if the baby isn’t yours. I wish we both wanted to run down to City Hall and say I do and I will, forever and no matter what. Instead it all feels so fragile. Perhaps romantic love is always this tenuous. Maybe it always comes with conditions. They say in “sickness and in health” and “for richer or for poorer,” but that’s the easy stuff. I mean, only a really weak relationship would fall apart if someone got sick or met with financial ruin, right? But what do we do when we’re hurt or betrayed or lied to? What then? Do we throw in the towel? Or do we stay and fight?

  I need to know how resilient we are. What we’re made of. How true and deep our love is. I want to be sure that it’s really about two people who are in love and want to be together.

  I’ve decided to go home for Thanksgiving after all. I really need to talk to my family, in person. I’ll call you when I return. I hope we can clear this hurdle together.

  I love you,

  Cecily

  I book an absurdly expensive flight home for the next day, deciding that my mental health is worth it. Then I send an email to my family and Scottie, explaining that I had a change of heart about Thanksgiving and will be coming home after all. I also ask if I can talk to them all tomorrow night about something important, promising that it isn’t anything bad or health-related, about either me or the baby.

  The following evening, I am sitting at my parents’ dining room table with my entire family, Scottie included. My flight got in on the late side, so everyone has already eaten dinner, but my mom made a kringle for dessert—a Wisconsin tradition and family favorite.

  “Okay,” I finally say as I poke at the edges of the pastry with my fork. “I have a lot to share, so just hear me out—”

  “In other words,” Scottie cuts in with a laugh, “please hold your questions until the end of the press conference.”

  “Wait a sec,” my sister says, looking at him. “Do you know what she’s going to tell us?”

  “Um…sort of,” he waffles.

  “Yes,” I say, correcting him, deciding I’m done with dancing around the truth. “Scottie does know most of what I’m about to say. And I’m sorry I haven’t been completely honest with the rest of you. But that’s why I’m here now.”

  I look around the table, making eye contact with everyone, one at a time, before clearing my throat, taking a deep breath, and sharing my story. I am as thorough as possible, beginning with my move to New York and all my twentysomething wishes. I talk about my love-hate relationships with both journalism and New York City. I talk about meeting Matthew and our early days together. How it turned into a deep, caring relationship over the course of several years. How we both fell in love. I talk about the frustration of being ready to commit and knowing that Matthew wasn’t there yet—the uneasiness of wondering if he ever would be ready. How that led to my painful decision to break up with him. I tell them about the most unexpected night—the night I met Grant—how stunned I was by our instant connection, and that it was different from anything I’d ever felt before. I tell them about our weekend in the Adirondacks, and his brother’s health, and my trip to London with Scottie, and seeing Grant upon his return.

  I then cover 9/11, telling them the parts of the day they never knew about. The wondering and waiting and calling Grant and checking my phone and finding the flyer in the park with his face. I tell them about the slow, sickening realization that he was not only dead, but also married. I tell them about my unlikely friendship with Amy and her equally unlikely connection to Matthew’s family. I tell them how lost and confused and heartbroken I felt. How Matthew eased that pain when we reconnected, first as friends, then quickly as more. How in the aftermath of such instability in my heart and the world, he made me feel safe again. Like there was something I could hold on to and believe in. How I came to believe that that is what love is all about. Not passion—but trust and fidelity and faith.

  I can see the relief on everyone’s face, and so wish the story could end there. But I continue, admitting that I couldn’t quite shake Grant from my heart or mind.

  “It just didn’t add up,” I say. “I mean, I know this situation isn’t unique….People lie and cheat all the time…but our connection felt so real. He seemed like such a good person. I just kept thinking that maybe there was something I was missing.”

  My eyes dart around the table as everyone stares at me, nodding, waiting. Even Scottie looks riveted as I tell them about going to the cabin and finding Grant and learning that he was not only an adulterer, but also a criminal.

  I end with my recent, gut-wrenching conversations with Matthew, how we’ve agreed to put the wedding on hold.

  My brother is the first to speak—which both surprises and comforts me, especially when I see how fiery he is. “Fuck that,” he says. “He’s canceling the wedding?”

  “Paul. Language,” my mom says under her breath, but I can tell she doesn’t really mind that he’s just cussed at the table.

  “I’m with Paul,” my sister says. “Why is he putting the wedding on hold?”

  I choose my words carefully. “He said it first, but I agreed with him….We agreed to put it on hold. But yes, he was very angry at first…that I hid these things from him. I can’t blame him for that….”

  “Well, he’s going to need to get over it,” my mom says. “You’re having a baby together.”

  I take a breath, gather my strength, and say, “Well, see, that’s the thing….He also wants to wait until…we know for sure who the father is,” I say. “You know, biologically speaking…since the timing…was close,” I finish, my face on fire and sweat rolling down my
sides.

  I hear my mother let out a little gasp, then say, “You don’t know who the father is?”

  I lift my eyes and look at her. “No, Mom. I’m not one hundred percent sure. I’m sorry.”

  I brace myself for an emotional reaction, or at least grave disappointment, but her voice is calm and reassuring. “Oh, honey. It’s okay….You don’t have to be sorry. We love you, and we love this baby. That’s all that matters right now.”

  My eyes fill with tears. “Thank you,” I say, thinking that I didn’t know how much I needed to hear her say that.

  As my mom starts to cry, too, my dad stands and walks around the table to me, reaching for my hand. I give it to him, and he pulls me to my feet, wrapping his arms around me. “I love you, CeeCee,” he whispers into my ear.

  I try to answer—tell him I love him, too—but I’m too choked up. So instead I just hug him back as hard as I can. Over the next few seconds, everyone else stands, too, and we’re all taking part in an awkward, totally cheesy, but completely wonderful group hug.

  My brother is the last to join, throwing his long arms around as many of us as he can. “Whoever the father is—this kid you’re carrying has the world’s coolest uncle.”

  “And don’t forget the world’s coolest grandfather,” my dad says with a loud sniff.

  “And the world’s coolest godfather,” Scottie says, his voice muffled against my shoulder.

  We all start laughing as we peel apart, then sit back down and finish our kringle.

  * * *

  —

  The rest of the week is very peaceful. I help my mother cook Thanksgiving dinner. My sister and I take my niece to the park. Scottie and I watch eighties movies under blankets at his place. My dad and I go on long walks around the frozen duck pond near our house. It’s exactly what I need to clear my mind, and I just keep telling myself that everything is going to work out, somehow.