Good as Dead(74)
My days are a whirlwind of prepping and scouting and putting the movie together now. I am as busy as a shovel in a blizzard, but thoughts of Holly still leak through. The nights are the hardest, but whiskey helps, and I have something stronger when the whiskey’s not enough. And when the time comes to shoot the movie, I’ll get to pretend to be someone else for a while, just as Holly did, with borrowed costumes, a new haircut, and a fake backstory to complete the masquerade.
The movie will end, as all fake lives do, and, like Holly, I’ll return to myself. And, like Holly, I will continue to grieve. Yes, Holly’s grief reeks with the permanence of death, but mine carries the stench of shame and regret, which is just as relentless and tastes just as sour.
If loss could be measured, I think Holly and I both got our fair share. Death is worse than divorce, but Holly’s daughter—a willful accomplice—roams free, while my son sits behind prison bars. And my most trusted friend has defected from my home to hers.
Has justice been served? Have we been returned to equilibrium and balance restored? If the dead man could speak, would he say we all got what we deserved?
I look to my tattered heart for the answer.
But like my life, my heart has been ravaged. I peer inside only to find it is barren, broken, as good as dead.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It takes courage to say yes when a friend or family member asks you to read her first book—especially when you know she’s going to ask you all sorts of questions, including the dreaded “Did you like it?” I want to thank my brave early readers, Libby Hudson Lydecker, Selah Victor, Aimee Simtob, Miranda Lewin, Maria Schneider, Wanda Frodis, Lena Rotmensz, Irene Ornovitz, Avital Ornovitz, and Jenny Smith for diving in, and Debra Lewin for being the very first (and encouraging me to keep sharing it). I am indebted to Margaret Howell for daring to scrutinize my verb tenses, and Jonathan Groff for teaching me a new word that I get to pretend I knew all along. Karen Glass and Andy Cohen made introductions that changed my personal narrative, and I owe them each a parade. Victoria Sainsbury-Carter lent her special brand of magic to lure me into the unknown, and Alethea Black was the ever-reliable compass that helped me find my way through. Thank you, Dr. Martin Bennett, for telling me what a doctor actually would say, and literary genius David Walter, for always pushing me to say it better. To all my friends and supporters who offered a heartfelt “You go, girl,” thank you, it helped more than you know. This book is dedicated to my mother, Maila Walter, who let me be a moody artist long after it was hormonally appropriate, and my father, Edward Walter, who, by his example, taught me the value of never giving up.
I hit the jackpot with Lake Union’s Christopher Werner, whose warmth and intelligence kept my creative fire lit, and editor extraordinaire Tiffany Yates Martin, who asked the best questions at every turn. This book would not have taken flight without the skillful piloting of my brilliant agent, Laura Dail, who finds the most sublime destinations and leads me toward them with dexterity and joy. Thank you to all the talented professionals at the Laura Dail Agency and Lake Union Publishing, I am humbled and honored to work alongside you.
Through it all I had the best cheerleaders in my daughters, Sophie and Taya, and husband, Uri, who endured at least a thousand “What would she do nexts?” (and often had the best ideas!). I am so grateful for their loving support and for allowing me to indulge this incredibly rewarding but terribly impractical calling of being a writer. Thank you for putting up with me and keeping me steady, I love you and I’m sorry but I am going to do it again.