I leave his office as frustrated as ever, though grateful that at least there doesn’t appear to be something seriously wrong on the physical front. Lucky me: the problem’s all in my head, not in my brain.
Ten minutes later, the Uber I’ve scheduled pulls up in front of the building, and I hop in, bound for Millerstown, New Jersey.
Hugh had been taken aback this morning when I’d announced my plans for the day over breakfast.
“You’re going to Jersey?”
“Uh-huh. Roger and I are having lunch at his house since we had so little time to talk the other day.”
I was whitewashing the reason for the excursion, but, yet again, it didn’t feel like the moment to tell him about the possible reopening of the investigation—and my past deception. Though I’d looked for opportunities later last night, Hugh had kept his nose close to the grindstone and crawled into bed hours after me, staying entirely on his side. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was avoiding physical contact with me.
The driver encounters only a few snarls of traffic leaving the city, and before long we’re barreling west on I-78. I text Hugh an update on the appointment, then call the facility recommended by the neurologist and schedule an MRI on Friday. With that out of the way, I open my laptop and begin drafting my next personal finance column. I’m now a full week behind schedule, but the topic—applying for a mortgage—is one I’m comfortable with, and passionate about. Despite the 2008 financial disaster, people still don’t seem to grasp that the mortgage their bank approves for them isn’t necessarily one they can afford, and I feel obligated to keep shouting that through a megaphone.
For an hour or so, the work does a decent job of distracting me, though my thoughts are eventually dragged back to the interview ahead. I glance out the window to see that the bleak, industrial stretches of New Jersey have now given way to farmland, with distant silver silos gleaming in the sun.
The plan, which Roger and I worked out this morning, is for me to stop by his house for lunch, and then he’ll drive me to the police station and wait until I’m finished. He apparently lobbied to sit in but was told family members are never allowed unless the subject is underage. Though I wondered at moments whether I should have postponed the interview until I found an attorney to bring along, I’ve finally decided it’s okay that I didn’t. It might signal that I have a cause for concern.
By noon, we’ve reached Millerstown. We turn down a narrow, paved road near the river and bump along past modest houses nestled in trees until we reach my brother’s gorgeous home, set high on an embankment. It’s part stone, part clapboard, with a widow’s walk perched on top.
“Welcome!” Roger calls out as I unfold myself from the Uber and step out onto the driveway at the rear of the house.
The trees, I notice, haven’t changed colors here, either, though there’s an autumnal scent to the air—a mix of woodsmoke, sour apples, and the sweet scent of decaying leaves.
We hug tightly.
“So happy see you, Button,” he says.
“It’s good to be here. Thanks for all your help on this.”
He swings open the large wooden door and gestures for me to enter first. Though it’s called a manor house, his home isn’t ridiculously big—only five large rooms on the ground floor and four bedrooms and an office above. But it has what they call great bones, and Roger has exquisitely renovated and decorated every inch. As usual, the river beckons me to the front of the house. Because of the sunny sky, I’m expecting a serene vista, but the water looks high and vexed today, and it’s moving fast.
“Where’s Marion?” I ask as Roger comes up behind me.
“She ended up having to drive to Princeton to meet a friend whose husband just announced he wants a divorce. But she sends her apologies.”
I can’t help but wonder if she’s manufactured a reason to be absent.
“No problem.” I sweep my gaze across the pale blue living room with the red patterned sofa and armchairs, impressive antique wooden side tables, and gold-framed landscape paintings. “I love your place and everything you’ve done to it, but do you ever miss Boston—you know, the hustle and bustle?”
“At times I do miss the action a little, but I’m glad I’m closer to Dad. And Boston reminds me too much of those tough years with Kaitlin.”
Perhaps my situation isn’t so unique from the one my brother found himself in back then: a marriage struggling because of issues related to the idea of becoming parents.
“By the way, did I tell you Kaitlin and her new husband adopted a child?”
“No, but I saw that on Facebook,” I tell him. I don’t add that she and I correspond by email sometimes. Though it wouldn’t bother him that we’re in touch, I’m sure he senses I’m not a fan of Marion’s and I don’t want to add any fuel to the fire.
“Well, I’m happy for her. It’s what she longed for.”
“Do you still have that longing sometimes, Rog?”
“A twinge now and then, yes. And I have to admit, I was lonely that first year in this house. But Marion and I have a pretty full life. . . . You ready for lunch?”
As we step into the kitchen, I see that Roger has laid out a veritable picnic on the long wooden table: fresh bread, cheeses, olives, salami, hummus, a glazed bowl piled with clementines.
“Oh my god,” I exclaim. “I thought you said light lunch.”
“Marion was going to make us a salad—you know what a health nut she is. But when she ended up having to head to Princeton, I decided to go a little wild.”
Though I don’t have much appetite, I manage to eat a few olives, half a clementine, and a couple of wedges of cheese on bread. I bring Roger up to speed about hiring Mulroney, and the blood test results, before turning the conversation to our father.
“Do you sense he suspects that anything’s going on with me?” I ask.
“Not from what I can tell. With his heart situation, he doesn’t seem as sharp as he used to be—though I’m hoping that will change when his strength is back in full force.”
“I’m relieved that he hasn’t noticed anything, because it’d be so stressful for him, and he might even try to come back early. . . . I wanted to ask you something else: How do you think he would feel if he knew about me lying to everyone years ago?”
“He’d understand, of course.”
“And do you, Roger?” I can’t forget how subdued he sounded when I broke the news to him on Sunday.
“Of course. It caught me by surprise when you told me, but there’s nothing for you to apologize about. You were only a kid.”
I look off into the middle distance.
“I hope you’re not ruminating too much about this, Ally,” he says.
“It’s hard not to. But I’ll feel better once this interview is in the rearview mirror.”
I notice that a slice of bread smeared with goat cheese is lying untouched on his plate. Maybe he’s more concerned than he’s letting on.
“Do you think I should have brought a lawyer?” I ask. “I was afraid it might imply I had reason to worry.”
“The same thing crossed my mind. But I came to the conclusion you did. Let’s see how they respond today and then we can reevaluate if necessary.”