Good as Dead(44)

“Oh my God, what happened?” she said, hurrying over to me. Holly was blue-lipped and soaking wet. I didn’t answer, and she didn’t ask again.

“Open the car door!” I ordered, and she hurried over to my side. The car was locked, but the smart key in my pants pocket chirped it unlocked when she pulled on the door handle.

“I’ll go around and grab her feet,” the neighbor said, and in a flash she had the other door open and was easing Holly’s legs across the seat.

We clicked a seat belt around Holly’s torso and slammed the doors closed.

“What else can I do?” she asked as I jumped behind the wheel.

“Find her daughter, Savannah,” I said. “Tell her to meet me at the hospital.”

Then I put the car in gear and floored it.





ANDY


Three months ago

We got ready for bed in silence.

Letting go of that diamond felt like someone had died. Not a human being with skin and bones and blood in her veins, but a complex persona that had been meticulously crafted and shaped for almost forty years.

Libby came from money, and had a specific vision for her life—our life—that included a showpiece home, luxury cars, first-class travel. These were things she’d always known and assumed she would always have. Having money for ski trips and beach houses and fine jewelry was part of her identity. These things shaped not just how other people saw her, but how she saw herself.

It’s not that she was a snob or bought stuff to make her feel superior. She simply had always been surrounded by nice things, so she didn’t recognize herself without them. She came to the marriage with a rich portfolio: family heirlooms to furnish our apartment on the Upper West Side, a brand-new Land Rover for weekend getaways, generous wedding gifts from family friends. My income from the Times was enough to sustain us in the historic, one-bedroom walk-up her dad secured for us at below-market rent, and her network of friends provided enough dinner parties to satisfy our cravings for nightlife. Our future was secure—bright, even.

But I had this crazy dream, and loving me made her passionate for me to pursue it. I knew her to have an adventurous streak, but I also knew she relished the chance to break out of her cocoon, silence her stuffy aunts and “concerned” mother who warned her that marrying a writer was a recipe for heartbreak. And so we left our yuppie-chic New York life for a chance at fame, fortune, and a self-congratulatory “I told you so.”

It may not be very liberated of me, but I wanted to take care of Libby in every way—emotionally, physically, and financially. Part of what made me fall in love with her was that she “just knew” I was destined for greatness. She built me up. She made me feel invincible. Even when things started to go south, she never lost faith. She was like a champion athlete who assumes she can’t lose because she never has. Failure was never part of her lexicon, so it didn’t seem possible to her. And so it became impossible to me.

But today, the impossible became possible. Parting with a cherished family heirloom was like opening the door to failure, pulling out a chair for him, and inviting him to stay. Yesterday’s Libby would never have done that. Today’s Libby was someone else entirely.

I watched Libby as she slid her White + Warren featherweight cashmere sweater over her head. Before folding it and putting it away, she inspected it for pills, removing a couple that had formed under the armpits and flicking them into the trash. Yes, she was accustomed to nice things, but she never took them for granted. You rooted for her to have designer threads because she appreciated and took care of them. And took care of herself to look good in them. I understood the temptation to see her as materialistic or shallow, but the possessions she had accumulated over the years were more than things to her. They were intrinsic to who she was—to who she’d always been. Until that day.

I thought back to our first date in New York. I took her to a falafel house, where everything on the menu was less than four dollars. The three two-top tables and all the seats at the counter were taken, so we ate on a park bench between a crying baby and a homeless man who smelled like soup. I thought I’d never see her again. But two days after our ill-conceived date, I got a card in my mailbox thanking me for the “delicious adventure.” I was stunned. Not that she’d enjoyed the date—the food and conversation were quite good—but by the overt optimism of the gesture. She didn’t have to say I hope to see you again, because the prompt delivery of her handwritten note said it for her. She was grace personified, even while sandwiched between a malodorous nomad and a crying baby.

She had her back to me as she slipped out of her bra and into her satin pajamas. She was no less graceful, but the sheen of optimism she once so effortlessly radiated had been worn away. It sounds hyperbolic, and she would never, ever say it, but part of her died that day.

I only hoped I could bring her back to life.





CHAPTER 24


“I think we should move back to New York,” Libby said when I got back from my impromptu meeting with my agent.

Since the deadline had passed and Jack hadn’t called, I didn’t want to waste even a minute finding a new potential buyer for my script. So I hauled my ass down to Beverly Hills to talk to Laura in person.

Everyone who works at a Hollywood talent agency, from the top dog down to the guy who sorts the mail, wears a suit, so I dressed up a little, in flat-front trousers and a button-down shirt. Agents don’t expect clients to dress as well as they do, but I always felt self-conscious standing among them if I looked like a schlub. They had parking in the building, so I wore my dress shoes, too.