All That You Leave Behind: A Memoir(4)

I had a couple of hours to kill before my appointment. I wandered into Sephora, not entirely sure why I had gone in as I didn’t wear much makeup. A saleswoman came up to me. Did I need some help? Before I could stop myself I heard the words tumble out of my mouth: “Yes. I didn’t really grow up with a mom, and so I’ve never really gotten the hang of doing any of this.” My mom, a nearly lifelong addict, had never given up drugs long enough to be a part of my life. I’d never thought to ask my stepmom for help in this department, and she’d never offered.

The saleswoman took pity on me and started with a lesson on how to apply foundation. This temporary maternal substitute guided me toward the high-end stuff as a well-versed, commission-dependent surrogate mom might do, but I didn’t even care. She took a cotton pad and started dabbing a little on my face and rubbing it in. I closed my eyes. I felt a little bit better. I looked in the mirror and saw dark circles under my eyes. “How can I hide these?” I asked.

I got to the checkout counter with a small assortment of potions. The total came to around seventy-five dollars. I fumbled inside my mesh messenger bag for a credit card, already feeling stupid for spending so much on stuff that I would never use.



* * *



—

Looking back, I play this day over and over in my mind: the fact that I chose to squander my free time in a makeup store, in search of a surrogate parent, when my actual parent had asked to spend time with me. The shadow on my dad’s pancreas had rattled me deeply. I wish more than anything that I had known at that time what was to come.





3


    The Night in Question





Sitting in the back of the cab, I was frantic. He had emailed me reminding me not to be late, and of course here I was, ten minutes behind schedule. The cab pulled up to the curb, and as I jumped out I felt the slap of cold air hit my face. The wind had been relentless that winter, and this night was no different. Inside, my dad was mediating a discussion with filmmaker Laura Poitras, journalist Glenn Greenwald, and former government contractor Edward Snowden (by way of Skype). They talked about making Citizenfour, a smart, intense documentary about the National Security Agency leaking scandal that unfolded in 2013, a call to arms regarding privacy in the United States. The panelists were thrilling to watch. I took notes; I always took notes at my dad’s talks, as he expected a full report.

Afterward, we walked outside into the cold, and I waited for him to light a Camel. I noticed when he didn’t, and he told me he’d been off cigarettes for four days, a herculean task for someone who’d been smoking one or two packs a day for some forty-odd years. Recently, he’d had a tough go of it—two bouts of pneumonia had left him running on empty. He’d decided cigarettes were the reason and quit once and for all. I considered asking him to dinner, but he said he was tired. He pulled my boyfriend Jasper in for a bear hug (we don’t do handshakes in my family), and I hugged and kissed him goodbye before he headed back to the Times for his backpack. I felt the wool from his scarf scratching my neck as I leaned in to hold him close.

I walked with Jasper from the theater to a local dumpling shack, where we took refuge from the weather. Jasper was tall and angular with a quick and easy smile, and I realized I liked him, a lot. We chatted about conspiracy theories over scallion pancakes. We’d been dating for a little over a year. He’d been to many of my father’s talks and enjoyed them.

“Did my dad seem okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, of course,” said Jasper. “He was just tired.”

It was Thursday night, and I had work to do at my office in Brooklyn the next day, so I kissed Jasper goodbye and headed into the subway. When I got out, I had two missed calls from Jill. I called her back.

“Listen to me carefully, and do not panic,” she said. “Someone called me from the Times saying that Dad has collapsed. I need for you to get to St. Luke’s Hospital. I’m in New Jersey and heading into the city right now, but you’re closer and can get there first. I called Monie and she will be there to meet you. Do not call your sisters. I want to know what the situation is before I call them.”

She hung up and I looked at the subway, calculating how long it would take to get to the hospital, before realizing that was insane and quickly hailing a cab. After I closed the car door, I sat and obsessed over the lack of descriptors in Jill’s call. What did “collapsed” mean? Was he conscious? Alive? I called my best friend, Yunna. My voice cracked. She sounded startled by the news but told me everything was going to be okay.

“What if it isn’t?” I whispered.

“It has to be,” she said.

I listened to an audiobook on my iPad (his iPad that he gave me), anticipating that I’d need to be in a semi-stable state of mind for whatever came next. I played Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project and tried to stop sobbing. When I paid the fare, my cab driver mumbled, “I’m sorry.” I nodded but had no words.

Monie, a close family friend, was there waiting. As I ran to her, she said loudly to the security officer in the triage area: “This is David Carr’s daughter!” Just hours before, I had heard those words as I tried to find my seat at his event. My whole life it had been my introduction; I hoped to God that I would hear it again.

Dean Baquet, executive editor of The New York Times, walked over to me in the ER reception area. There was nothing to say except the truth: “He’s gone. I’m so, so sorry.” I heard shrieking; Monie was screaming loudly. I was mute. I noticed that Dean was wearing a purple scarf. Jill had not yet arrived.