Chapter Six #3
“Hamilton, a small ski town about four hours from here,” Diana says. “Whatever this is, it must have happened there or at college.”
Lakshmi takes a pad and pen from the basket in the center of the table and, on a clean sheet of paper, writes North Carolina or Vermont? She draws a line down the center, making two columns. “Write down what you know and who you could talk to from that time.”
Diana takes the pen and pad from Lakshmi. Under “North Carolina,” she writes the name of Tom’s law partner and roommate during college and law school, Jonathan Hobart.
Under the V in “Vermont,” Diana lists Tom’s family: his cousin, Chris, and Tom’s aunt and uncle, Teresa and Brian.
“Remind me where they live?” Lakshmi asks, reading over Diana’s shoulder.
“They also live in Hamilton,” Diana says. “You’ve met them, right? Chris used to visit every year, while Teresa and Brian came down a few times. Tom brought me to visit them in Hamilton once, before the kids were born.”
“Only once in all these years?” Lakshmi again tugs at her braid.
They only went that one time because Tom said going home was too painful.
To him, Hamilton was all about grief. His father, Gary, passed away when Tom was nine, the same age Phoebe is now.
Tom’s mother, Martha, died when he was in law school.
Diana is no longer sure whether his reluctance to return home was because of the loss of his parents—or this secret from his past. Had he lied to her about that, too?
What Do I Know? Diana taps her pen against the table, as a list begins. She tries to break down the letter as if it’s a problem at work, a project she is paid to fix. She scribbles across the bottom of the page:
He committed a crime.
People died.
“Does murder have a statute of limitations?”
Lakshmi puts down her wineglass. “While it’s wise to explore all of the options, Tom didn’t kill anyone.”
“You can’t be sure he didn’t. It’s possible. He could have done it, Lax. He could have hurt someone, accidentally or deliberately. Or—”
“Diana.”
All it takes is for Lakshmi to say her name, each syllable filled with compassion, and Diana bursts into tears. She is exhausted by her emotions, by everything, really, but the crying brings release, too, as if a rainstorm has arrived to wash away the humidity of a stifling summer afternoon.
Slowly, Diana’s weeping is replaced by a rattling wheeze and then hiccups. “Sorry,” she says, wiping her face with the tissue Lakshmi hands her.
“No apologies. This is upsetting,” Lakshmi says gently. She pushes the pad to Diana. “Let’s come up with a plan. Who on this list can shed light on Tom at eighteen years old?”
From the tone of Tom’s letter, it’s clear someone has the information she needs—and they’re not the sort she should trust. But maybe there are other people who have part of the story, who can help her piece this together.
“Jonathan would have insight into their freshman year of college when they were both eighteen. Chris would be able to fill in the time before Tom left Hamilton. Maybe Uncle Brian and Aunt Teresa could help, too.”
“Anyone else?”
Diana covers the page with random squiggles and lines as she considers Lakshmi’s question. “There’s no one else. Except for me, and I have zilch.” She throws down the pen, and it rolls across the table. “This is all too much.”
“Tell me about finding the letter. Maybe there’s a clue there.”
Diana opens up about Phoebe finding the time capsule, her own concerns about the look back into the past, the joy at seeing glimpses of their life together, and Duncan’s grief. “I thought life was getting better and then this”—she points to the letter—“comes along.”
“Finding a letter like this would throw anyone.”
“Even Celine?”
Lakshmi laughs, a full-belly chuckle that makes Diana smile. “You still have your sense of humor. That’s a good sign. And, yes, even Celine.”
Diana picks up the letter, looking at the last paragraph: When you speak of me to Duncan and Phoebe, tell them their father was imperfect, but he loved them, and you, more than anything.
“The idea he had secrets . . . It’s terrifying. How could I be with a person who hid something like this? What does this say about me that I was so unaware?”
“Don’t let yourself go there, Diana. None of this is your fault.”
“That’s debatable, though I appreciate your vote of confidence,” Diana says, sighing. “Lax, I’ve hit my limit. This is all I can handle tonight.”
Lakshmi squeezes Diana’s shoulder. “We’re not done. I’m with you all the way. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
Diana packs up and walks across the darkened yard to her home.
After flipping Duncan’s basketball gear from the washer to the dryer, she checks in on the kids.
Both are fast asleep. She pauses on the landing between their bedrooms, in front of the wall of family photos.
In the center is a photo she and Tom took during their visit to Hamilton; they pose with Chris, Aunt Teresa, and Uncle Brian in a hastily taken snapshot before departing.
Their parents’ and grandparents’ wedding portraits are here, along with a photo from their own wedding.
A dozen pictures of Phoebe and Duncan over the years cluster on either side.
Diana walks by those photos every day; she even occasionally dusts them.
Yet they exist in the background, like a curtain behind actors on a stage, hiding the ladders and paint cans from the audience, disguising what is real from the story the audience is being told.
It’s as if her whole life with Tom is on this wall. A life she thought she understood.
But what is her marriage, her love for this man, if he kept such a secret from her?