Aspect Ratio
“I thought we were meeting at the brownstone tomorrow,” Morgan says.
I’m standing in the doorway of her and Sam’s loft. She is photo shoot ready in a sheer minidress, full
makeup, clad once again in her blue boots.
“I’m just looking for Sam,” I say. “Is he here?” “We’re actually on our way out the door.” This is when
Sam walks up behind her, puts an arm around her waist. He is also dressed to the nines in a dark blue suit, a
vest beneath it. Everything about him looks rested and put together. It makes me even angrier that he didn’t
return my calls. All five of them.
“Why are you so sweaty?” he says. “I ran here,” I say. “From Flatbush?” I cross my arms over my chest
and glare at him, Morgan looking back and forth between us.
“Morgan, would you mind giving us a minute alone, please?” I say. He kisses her on the cheek, softly.
Kindly. “I’ll be ready in five, babe,” he says. Morgan heads inside, and Sam turns back toward me. “What’s
going on with you?” I say. “What’s going on with you?” “Why didn’t you call me back all day?” He points in
Morgan’s direction. “I’ve been busy,” he says. “And we are about to head out for a fundraiser—”
I ignore this. I ignore him. “We need to go back to Windbreak,” I say. “What are you talking about?”
“There’s nothing at Dad’s apartment. There are a few family photographs, sure, but there’s really nothing
personal. The scrapbooks, the photographs, all the things that made him him, s eparate from us, s eparate from
the families, that was at Windbreak. He k ept everything that mattered to him at Windbreak.”
“We were there.” “Then we missed it.” “You’re worse than me.” “We need to go back.” “Not happening.”
“I also went out to Midwood,” I say. “And you know what’s crazy?” “That you went out to Midwood?”
“There were more things that felt like our father there, in the house he hasn’t lived in since he was a teenager,
than an apartment he lived in until a month ago. How does that make any sense?”
“It doesn’t,” Sam says. “He didn’t even like growing up in Midwood.” “There’s one way it adds up.”
“What’s that?” “We are missing the thread. The thread that starts all the way back there and ends on the cliff
that night.”
“You sound crazy,” he says. “And that’s not enough of a reason—” “How is this for a reason? The forensic
pathologist got in touch with me. She thinks you could be right. She is suspicious too. More than just
suspicious.”
“Nora.” “Sam, whatever it was, whatever part of his history he couldn’t seem to leave behind, that holds
the key to the rest of this. I’m sure of it. It’s what’s behind whatever happened to him that night.”
He starts fidgeting, sliding from foot to foot, looking into his apartment in the direction of where Morgan
went.
“Look, I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” “Not okay. Do you hear what I’m telling you?” He shakes his head.
“You don’t get it. I was wrong. You were right. I’ve been trying to figure out who Dad was. Or maybe I just
haven’t been able to acc ept
that I didn’t get to know him the way I wanted to when he was still alive. But nothing happened on the cliff
that night.”
“You believe that?” “I believe I got carried away.” “Carried away with what?” I ask. “All of it...” He
pauses, like it hurts him, like I’m hurting him, to make him say this part. To make him look at this thing he
suddenly wants to pretend doesn’t exist.
“I couldn’t sle ep last night,” he says. “Yesterday got me all messed up. All that shit you were saying to me
in the car. I’m on a path, you know? This is pulling my life apart.”
“Oh, now it’s my fault?” “No, it’s mine. But I need this to stop.” “Why? So you can marry someone you
barely know? Work a job that doesn’t inspire you the way playing ball did? Get drunk at some fancy party
tonight that you’ll pretend you don’t hate?”
“Who are you to say what I’ll hate?” “Someone who’s been listening to you.” This is when he starts to
close the door. I catch it with my hand, hold it open. “No. No way. You’re the one who dragged me into this
and now you’re just going to bail?”
“You’re surprised by that? Isn’t this the part where you tell me you’re not surprised?”
I look at him and I can see it—what’s going on with him, what he is desperate to shut down. He doesn’t
want to know what he is starting to know about himself. Because he doesn’t want to do the uncomfortable
work that comes when you acc ept something needs to change. The uncomfortable work that comes with
knowing that change means showing up for yourself in a new way.
But I refuse to simply judge him for that. Because I look at him and I see something else too. I see that he
expects my judgment. Why wouldn’t he? All these years that we’ve been k ept at a distance from each other
and I’ve done nothing to reach out to him—to reach out for him—he’s been playing the role
too. He’s been playing the role that’s more comfortable to him. The role of someone who doesn’t care. So,
I try something else.
“Look, let’s do this differently, okay? Let’s just decide that starting now we are going to do this differently.
For each other. And for Dad.”
He looks at me, and his eyes soften. And I think I’ve reached him. I think I’ve reached my brother. But he
shakes his head, turning away.
“This is all I can do,” he says. Then he shuts the door, leaving me in the hallway, all by myself.