The East River Shows You Everything
We walk for a long time.
We are too stunned to do much else. So we walk the tree-lined streets of Brooklyn Heights, moving slowly
but deliberately away from what we just went through. Neither of us speaks for a while, like it will break
something to say it out loud, like it will make it real.
Then, Sam turns to me. “Do you believe him?” he asks. We have just circled around to the promenade. The
Brooklyn Bridge is not too far in front of us, the East River and Pier 6, downtown Manhattan lit up with its
night-lights.
I think about what I saw in Paul’s eyes, the sorrow there and the regret. That was the last thing he wanted.
All of this is the last thing he wanted.
“I do believe him,” I say. “If that makes it any better.” “Which way is better?” he asks. But then he lets out
a breath. Because it does make it a little better. It makes it better to let our father be in peace now. It makes it a
little better to put the bigger pieces together.
Pieces help. They help to make you whole. They strip away the shock. They strip it away until, slowly but
surely, the shock isn’t your entire story. Even when the thing you truly want—the thing my brother and I both
still want—is the thing we can’t have anymore. Our father standing here with his mysteries intact. Closer, and
farther, at the same time.
“I just miss him,” Sam says. I turn and meet his eyes. “It catches me off guard. How much I miss him.” I
nod. “Me too.” “Will it get easier?”
I think of my mother, who has been gone longer. I think about how being without her feels like being
without my skin. You might only notice it when you touch something. But you’re always touching something.
“Kind of,” I say. “You’re such a liar. But I appreciate it.” I laugh, and he leans against the railing. “Paul
knew, didn’t he?” Sam asks. “I mean, he told us himself that he walked into it with open eyes. But I guess he
just... needed to see it for himself.”
“To see what?” “Where he stood.” That hits me. Because I think Sam is correct. I also don’t think he is just
talking about Paul anymore.
“Maybe he just loved her,” I say. “So he really didn’t want to think about it... what he was up against.”
“Can’t really blame him for that,” he says. “Who wants to think about what they’re up against?”
No one, I want to say. No one wants to think about what we’re up against. And with love, with standing up
and trying to love anyone, we are up against ourselves too. We are up against our heartbreak and our pasts and
our ideas about how things should be. We are up against our most primal pain, like a living-breathing
barricade, blocking the space between where we’ve gotten stuck and where we most want to go.
Sam gets quiet again, looks out at the river. I know him well enough now to know what’s living for him
somewhere in the silence—that beneath our shared grief, he knows what he is up against—how brave he is
going to need to be before he gets to where he wants to go. As if what’s next is going to be one thing and not a
multitude—a multitude that will only reveal itself on the other side of what he’s about to give up. His position
at the company, his engagement, the dream of steady ground. It’s all unsteady, from here on out. Acc epting
that, just maybe, can bring on its own blessing. For him. And for me.
Loyalty doesn’t trump love. That’s how Paul said it, isn’t it? But what a thing, what a rare and precious
thing if you have both. Loyalty and love, swirling together. What have I been doing? Exc ept trying to es cape
what you can’t
es cape. Because when you do have both, you have everything to lose. And, eventually you will lose it. You
will be s eparated. That is the cost of loving anyone. It doesn’t mean you don’t do it. You do it anyway. And
you pray.
“I’m not moving to Brooklyn, am I?” Sam asks. I shake my head. “No. Never.” “Never seems a little
dramatic, but I take the point.” I smile at him. His face is too much like my father’s to be easy for me, at least
yet. But I take him in anyway because I can already feel the ways I can help him to get there—to a place that’s
better.
It’s selfish, really. Because in this moment, in this newfound hope, my own grief starts to lift.
Sam ke eps his eyes on Manhattan while it’s still in front of him. I move closer to him.
“We did the right thing tonight?” he asks. It’s a question and it’s not. But I put my head on my brother’s
shoulder, like that’s something we do. Which is when it occurs to me that maybe it is now.
“We did the only thing,” I say. This is how we agree that it’s time to go home.