Free Lies of the Heart by Michelle Boyajian Page A

relieved to see them almost instinctively walk in the opposite direction from her, toward a long bench by the elevators. Sure enough, there’s Patricia Kuhlman, the acting director of the Warwick Center, a tall, older woman who has always intimidated Katie by her stern and officious manner. She converses with Veronica, the receptionist, their heads bent close together. And there is Daniel Quinlin again, this time with his arm around little Carly, and Jan Evers and Billy Zahn, and a few others Katie knows from both the work and recreation programs. Trailing behind them is Judith, the heavyset woman from the cafeteria, her bangs flapping on her forehead as she lets out short puffs of air.
    The last time Katie saw so many of them together was at Nick’s funeral in May. Watching them now, she replays their stubborn solidarity that day, the way they determinedly went through the receiving line as a group—some touching the top of her hand or arm briefly, some going in for quick, boxy hugs—all murmuring how sorry they were for her loss. That entire day Katie had waited vainly for one of them to pull her aside, to acknowledge the obvious complexity of her grief. Nick packing up and leaving their home, and then, before he could come back to resume their life together, leaving the world forever. Their entire future decided in a split second by Jerry. Did any of them even try to imagine how unfinished it all felt to Katie? All the unanswered questions and fears and every complicated little moment and gesture between Nick and her in the month they were separated adding up to exactly nothing now that he was gone for good? She had wanted someone, anyone, to ask her what it was like to stand in that receiving line, beside Nick’s impossibly polite mother: Nick’s wife, yet not his wife precisely for the past month—never his wife again. The anger and confusion that came with feeling like an impostor at her own husband’s funeral as she accepted their condolences next to a woman who acknowledged her presence with only a stiff smile.
    A couple of them did make an effort afterward—a card from Dottie Halverson, the cheerful and motherly nurse who lived only a few streets away from Katie; an apologetic, stilted phone call from Eddie Rodriguez, the athletic director at the recreation center. But now, as they slowly gather around the bench near the elevators, they transform from her friends once again, become that same dark, amorphous mass from the funeral, and Katie’s glad. It’s easier this way, easier not to want them near—easier to think of them instead as “those people.”
    Dana is just emerging from the bathroom when Carly’s insistent voice rings out in the hallway.
    “I can too if I want,” she says.
    “Uh-oh,” Dana says, stepping beside Katie.
    They watch Carly disentangle herself from underneath Daniel’s arm and push past the group, face unyielding. She stamps toward them, her pink dress hiked up high.
    “Remember, she doesn’t know any better,” Dana whispers in Katie’s ear.
    Carly stops in front of Katie, lets the folds of her dress go. Plants both hands on her hips.
    “Katie,” Carly says in a huff, a statement. She stands in front of Katie, breathing hard, her small face fixed in an irritated glare, her hair sticking out at a dozen curling angles.
    “Hi, Carly,” Dana says, shifting into Carly’s line of sight. “Remember me?”
    Carly doesn’t even acknowledge her.
    “Hey there, Car,” Katie says softly, but that’s all Carly is really waiting for, all she needs. With a small whimper, the girl throws herself at Katie, her chubby arms circling Katie’s waist.
    “It’s okay,” Katie says, holding her close.
    Carly rubs her face into Katie’s shirt, and then the sobs come out, choking and long. Katie feels the wet tears through her shirt, strokes Carly’s hair and plants noisy kisses on top of her head.
    “Missing you, lady,” Carly manages some minutes later.
    “Me, too,