I asked whether Caroline knew I'd never heard about Peter. Amy nodded, looking almost ashamed to say it. Her sister had assumed Amy would eventually tell me and had never brought it up out of respect for her privacy. At our wedding, Caroline had nearly included an oblique reference in her speech to having the courage to choose one's own life; then she saw Amy's expression and kept it general. I remembered that toast vividly now, the way Amy had squeezed my hand when her sister spoke about becoming yourself. I had thought she was merely moved by the affection in the words.
"I don't blame Caroline," I said. "It wasn't her secret to tell." Amy watched the candle burn lower. "She told me last year that I should stop waiting for an easy moment. She said the problem wasn't whether you could forgive me, it was whether I could believe I deserved to be known." Amy gave an exhausted smile. "She can be annoyingly perceptive when she's not losing her car keys." I smiled despite myself, and the brief familiarity seemed to help us both breathe.
Then Amy told me about the times she had nearly confessed. Once, during the first summer we were dating, she had started a sentence about the months before we met and lost her nerve when I said how happy I was that our timing had worked out. On our wedding night, she had wanted to tell me during the quiet hour after the reception, but she couldn't bear to place the memory of another wedding between us. During our fifth anniversary trip, she had rehearsed the words while I was asleep and then convinced herself that telling me would be selfish because it would relieve her guilt while causing me confusion. The excuses had changed with the years. Their effect had remained the same.
"I used to imagine that I'd get a letter from Peter or run into him and then I'd have to tell you," she said. "I know that sounds strange, but part of me almost wanted some external reason that would take the choice out of my hands." She looked toward the darkened street. "When he actually contacted me, I still found a way not to do it. That was when I realized how much work I had to do." There was no dramatic revelation hidden in the admission, only the stubborn endurance of a habit she could no longer defend.
I told her I could understand why someone would hide after being shamed. My own family had taught me a related lesson, though the circumstances were different. When I was seventeen, my father had lost his job after a dispute with a supervisor, and he spent months telling us he was merely taking a break. My mother knew the truth but accepted the performance because he couldn't bear to be seen as someone who had failed. By the time he admitted what had happened, the secrecy had made the unemployment harder to face than the loss of the job itself. I hadn't thought about that story in years, but it arrived now as if summoned by Amy's confession.