I'm Fine and Neither Are You(22)

“Mrs. Kar? I didn’t get what you just said.”

“Never mind. I’ll bring them food.”

“Awesome! We eat at eleven thirty.”

Of course they did. “I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I told Brittany. Then I hung up and stared into the vanity mirror. I looked like I hadn’t slept in a week, which was about how I felt. Lunches to make and deliver. Toilet paper to buy. A car that needed to be retrieved from whatever far-flung lot it had been towed to. It didn’t matter if none of it mattered. It had to be dealt with all the same.



While email may have been pointless, I was still a creature of habit. After spending much of the day crying, pacing, and mindlessly cleaning my house, I took a peek at my inbox.

It was an exercise in futility. Every message was a blur; whatever information I was able to glean flew out of my head as soon as I clicked on the next message.

The last email I opened was from Russ. He said he was sorry and wanted to see how I was doing. Nicer than usual—but then again, tragedy had a way of bringing out people’s better angels, and I knew it wouldn’t last. He wanted to let me know that he had nailed the presentation, but that George Blatner had requested a follow-up on a few particular items of business, and we would have to work together on a second proposal when I returned. I shouldn’t worry about Yolanda, he assured me; he had placated her for the time being, and she was flying to Hong Kong with a team of researchers to meet with the Asian Pacific alumni board to discuss an upcoming genome project that required non-grant funding. I was about to attempt to respond when my phone began vibrating its way across the dining room table.

It was Matt. I took a deep breath and picked up.

“Hi,” he said.

I paused, unsure what to say next. “Um, hi. How’s Cecily?”

“Not well. I told her this morning. She hasn’t left my side since, though she finally exhausted herself crying and is napping in our bed.”

My eyes immediately filled with tears. “Can I help?”

“Yes, but not yet.” He sniffed, or maybe it was a sigh or a small sneeze. “I’m calling to let you know we’re going to have the funeral on Monday night at Barron’s on Plymouth Road. Jenny will be cremated, so it’s just a memorial service. Our families are flying in today and tomorrow . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Is it okay for me to begin telling people?”

“I don’t know . . . yes. I guess people have to know. They’ll find out.” I could tell he was really talking to himself.

“Matt? I don’t know what to say. About how Jenny died, I mean.”

He didn’t respond right away, and I wondered if I had crossed a line. Then he said, “I suppose you should probably keep it to the bare minimum.”

And what was that? “Um.”

“Tell them she accidentally overdosed on a prescription medication.”

“You’re . . .” I stopped and tried to compose myself. “You’re positive? Did they run a toxicology report?”

“The full report takes weeks to come back, but I was told it was ‘fairly clear.’” He laughed bitterly. “That’s actually what the coroner said. He sees it all the time, he said. Jenny hadn’t taken enough for it to be suicide, and there was no note or anything like that. Given her history . . .”

What history? I wanted to ask. But I said nothing.

He continued, “They said sometimes all it takes is one or two pills too many.”

And then you’re gone.

“She stopped breathing. That’s how it happened,” he added quietly. Then, louder: “It was an accident. It’s important for people to know that. She didn’t try to kill herself. She never wanted to die.”

My stomach turned again, and though I hadn’t eaten more than half a protein bar all day, I closed my laptop so I didn’t throw up all over the keyboard. “No, of course not,” I whispered.

“Thank you for understanding.”

“Absolutely.” I paused. “I had no idea she was even taking painkillers.”

“I’m sure that part wasn’t an accident,” he said.

I felt stupid. As his comment implied, if Jenny had wanted me to know, she would have told me. But why had she wanted to keep me in the dark? I wouldn’t have judged her. I wouldn’t have spread it around town. I wouldn’t have even told Sanjay, if that was what she had wanted.

“Penelope, about the other night.”

“Yes?”

“No one else needs to know Jenny and I were having trouble or that she had a problem.”

I was so numb, a needle to my skin would have barely made me flinch. “Right,” I said.

“So, please,” Matt continued, “if you and Sanjay could stick to saying it was a prescription error, it would mean a lot to me.”

“Right,” I said again.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he added something that ended all discussion on the matter. “You understand that Cecily is my number-one priority. I don’t want her to hear bad things about her mother before she’s old enough to know the truth.”

“Absolutely,” I said. My voice sounded like a computerized message, or maybe a recording of someone who had lost the ability to emote. “I understand.”