The Good Liar

That they’d be better off without her.

Kate had pulled the picture from the pouch of the sweatshirt she still hadn’t changed out of. A great weight was tugging at her chest. Trying to pull her back to what she’d fled. But she was on a path she couldn’t turn back from. She did her best to push those feelings down. To concentrate on the television screen and its inferior picture quality. It worked after a while. When she returned from the quick shower she took under a lukewarm spray, she’d developed a morbid curiosity about whether her own funeral would rate a televised appearance.

She’d watched three before a familiar church appeared. Gray stone, a high steeple, a few brilliant maples surrounding it. It was the church she spent every Sunday in, bored, because that’s what they did on Sundays. It’s what they’d always done on Sundays. From time immemorial. That’s what her husband always said, anyway. And then he’d laugh because everything was funny to him, even the mundane things, and JJ would shush him because JJ was the serious one of the bunch.

Kate felt sick at the thought of Em and JJ being in church without her. Even if this funeral wasn’t hers, this was where it would take place. And they’d probably be attending other funerals there, too. The dead they knew who worked in the building. Tom Grayson and Margo, his assistant. Or were they too young for that? Kate didn’t know. Another thing to add to her list of motherhood failures. A long, long list.

Tom was dead. Kate had trouble absorbing that information. Because there was something about Tom. He’d seemed invincible, somehow. But as she watched the screen, she didn’t have any choice but to accept it. There was Cecily, dressed in black, holding Cassie’s and Henry’s hands as they left a limousine and climbed the steps together.

And that’s when she’d felt it for the first time. That wrench in her works. Watching a scene from her own life on a crappy television. There but not. Knowing she could never go back, no matter what happened.

“Did you hear what I said?” Andrea asked.

“Huh?”

Andrea looked exasperated. “The boys were asking for milk.”

“Oh, sorry. Daydreaming.”

Andrea frowned. Once again, Kate could read the thoughts in her head. Something was off. Kate was becoming . . . unreliable.

Kate took the milk from the fridge and filled the boys’ cups. Because Andrea was watching, she added milk to the food diary next to the fridge, where she still had to record how often they pooped and peed each day as if they were babies.

“Wow,” Andrea said. She was back to flicking through her iPad, her manicured fingers clicking against the glass.

“What’s that?”

“Cecily lost both her husband and her best friend in the tragedy.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Yeah. And here’s something funny. Her best friend’s name was Kaitlyn. Just like you.”





Interview Transcript



TJ: When did you start speaking to Ted Borenstein?

FM: Is that a problem?

TJ: Do you remember the agreement we signed before we started filming?

FM: The thing that was a zillion pages?

TJ: That’s right. Lawyers. But, ah, as I explained to you at the time, it means you agreed to speak to me exclusively.

FM: I know I can’t do another film or anything, but this is just a magazine profile. I mean, it might be a profile. I haven’t decided yet.

TJ: What do you mean?

FM: I’ve talked to the guy—Ted—but it’s been off the record, you know? So he can’t use anything I say. That’s how it works, isn’t it? I have to give the go-ahead?

TJ: That’s technically true, but . . . What sorts of things has he been asking you about?

FM: Sort of the same stuff you’ve been asking.

TJ: Has he mentioned anyone else he’s been talking to?

FM: No . . . I mean, he’s talking to Mr. Ring of course, Joshua, and he asked me one time for my sister’s phone number, but neither of them has anything to do with this.

TJ: Are you still in touch with your sister?

FM: Not . . . not so much.

TJ: Have you spoken to her since you reconnected with your mother?

FM: Not really.

TJ: Does that mean no?

FM: Why are you cross-examining me?

TJ: I didn’t think I was.

FM: “Does that mean no?” That’s so totally from The Good Wife or whatever. You sound like a lawyer, not a filmmaker.

TJ: [Laughter] My parents would be so happy to hear that.

FM: They didn’t want you to be a filmmaker?

TJ: Nope.

FM: But you’ve had so much success.

TJ: That’s kind of you to say.

FM: But it’s true! I mean, you get to do something amazing. Like that documentary you did about The Tragically Hip . . . And now with Gord Downie dying and everything . . .

TJ: You know The Hip?

FM: Yeah.

TJ: Do you have some connection to Canada?

FM: Well, Kaitlyn’s from there originally.

TJ: True, but . . . When did you learn that?

FM: She told me.

TJ: So you didn’t know before you met her?

FM: No.

TJ: So that’s not why you know about The Hip . . .

FM: There you go again.

TJ: Pardon?

FM: You’re doing that lawyer thingy again. I’m telling you. Just show this tape to your parents, and they’ll be super proud of you.

TJ: Maybe I will. But you never answered my question.

FM: The Hip? My sister got into them in her first year of college. She was playing them when she was home for Christmas. Over and over . . . It grew on me. How did you know about them?

TJ: There were some Canadians in my film school class. And then later, a friend of a friend introduced me.

FM: It must’ve been cool to be out on the road with them.

TJ: It was. So your sister, Sherrie, introduced you to the band?

FM: Yes.

TJ: But you haven’t been speaking?

FM: Not for a while.

TJ: Why not?

FM: I don’t want to talk about it.

TJ: How come?

FM: None of your business. Besides, like I told Ted, it’s not what this film’s about, is it?





Chapter 21

Order Up

Cecily

Though I made a confession of sorts, I didn’t tell the kids everything. Cassie and Henry didn’t need to know that their father cheated on me or how I found out. Telling them that we’d had some serious problems before he died was enough. And if I’m being honest—ha!—I’ve told so many lies about that time it’s affected my memory.

Did I actually, for instance, spend the whole trip to New York with Tom and not mention the texts? Sit silently through the flight, where he took my hand in his and smiled into my eyes and sighed as if he was letting go of a great weight? Say nothing about it during our late dinner at Nobu, ordering ridiculously expensive sushi we couldn’t afford and drinking sake until we were both giggling as we hadn’t in years? Did I let him lace his fingers through mine on the walk to our hotel and agree when he suggested we take a detour through Central Park?

I think I did, but there was a riot in my mind that night. I searched for the words again and again to bring it up and couldn’t get them past the lump in my throat. I caught him looking at me closely time and again, wondering, perhaps, whether I was going to say something. Convincing himself that I must’ve missed it, that he must’ve managed to escape detection. And when I asked him why he was staring at me, he simply said, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. My wife. My amazing wife.”

We were full of sushi and sake, and the lace on the dress I was wearing was itchy. Tom, on the other hand, looked completely comfortable in a checked chambray shirt and a newer pair of khakis he’d picked out, uncharacteristically, for himself. It was a nice night, though, to be in Central Park, a soft spring night, where the smells of the city were hidden by the scent of new grass and perennials.

“You’re drunk,” I said.

“That may be. Yes, I think that’s true.”

“You’re talking funny.”

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