Chapter One and Two

PART I
Chapter One

Swirling toward the heavens, Ellie looked down at her own lifeless form, at her husband Mark, his arm thrown across her, head lying upon her breast and sobbing.
“Oh, shit, this was so not supposed to happen. I was so sure. I’m so sorry, my love. If it’s any consolation, I’ll be around.”

It was yesterday, October third, just some sixteen hours ago, that his wife Ellie died, and life as he knew it ceased.
Now, in the shadowy pre-dawn, in the first moments before waking, Mark reached over to touch her. It was what he did every morning. His hand found the cold sheet. He stretched a bit further. More sheet. Then nothing. He twitched into wakefulness. The numbers glowed red on the bedside clock: 5:12.
Fully awake, he bolted from the bed sure he was going to vomit. He fell to his knees in front of the toilet and gagged, and then eased himself down on the edge of the tub.
Last evening, high on adrenaline, his mind had been clear and precise, and he'd known what to do. He'd signed the medical papers for the funeral home and the coroner, the release papers for the baby, and some others he couldn't recall. As the warmth left her body, the adrenaline rush left his, leaving numbness in its wake.
In the kitchen, he leaned into the counter, gripped the tile, and stared through the rivulets of rain coursing down the windowpane into the barren yard. The sparse grass had turned yellow, but the snow was still weeks out, and the sky was dull gray. His life was as bleak as this landscape.
Down the hall, his children slept--the newborn baby girl and Sam, who waits for his Mommy to come home. And himself, for those same sixteen hours forty-one minutes now, a widower, a man half mad with grief anesthetized by what's been dealt him. He tried to pull out what to do next.
Okay, get the baby bottle. Yeah. Plan the funeral. How do I even begin to do that? Things I must do: Go to the mortuary to get her things. I want to see her. No, no time for tears. Don't think. Just fix the fucking bottle.
Powdered formula mixed with distilled water in a bottle too small for his fingers. Don’t drop it. Shake the bottle. Check for lumps. One thing at a time. One foot, then the other. Clumsy and inept, he put the bottle in a pan of water and turned on the burner, struggling to remember how his mother had done it the night before. Ellie had nursed Sam until he was over two. This baby would never know her mother's milk. It occurred to him that he'd fixed the bottle but the baby was still asleep. He stared into the bubbling water.
The soft knock at the back door startled him. Bundled in mink, Pamela stood there, wet and shivering. Her eyes were red and swollen, like his, like everyone's. She gave him a fierce hug, then leaned back, and looked at him. She brushed the limp strands of chestnut hair from his forehead.
“I'm here to help. What’s first?”
Sliding the mink coat from her narrow shoulders, she tossed it aside and pushed up the sleeves of her elegant gray dress.
Ready for action, that was Pamela. For all her privilege Mark had to admit Pamela was inordinately benevolent and openhanded, unlike his in-laws, who came from similar upper-class backgrounds. Since her divorce, Pamela had, for several years, lived in the upscale Pelham Manor neighborhood when Mark, Ellie, and baby Sam moved in four years earlier. Her six-year old son Ethan, who Sam idolized, attended school in New York City, where his father lived. He spent the rest of the time with Pamela.
She and Ellie had become instant ‘sisters’ the day Pamela and her Peruvian maid Sella showed up with dinner ten minutes after the movers had left. And it hadn’t been pizza and soft drinks but a four-course meal on lovely bone china, crystal glasses, embossed linen tablecloth and napkins, a basket of fruit, a good French wine, and a small canvas bag filled with books and toys for Sam. While his wife and the new neighbor so easily connected, Mark just as quickly became unsettled. Throughout his and Ellie's entire relationship, money had been a thorny subject. They’d argued often and loudly over what they could and could not afford, and they’d just recently come to an edgy truce.
This dismal morning, the roar of the pelting rain nearly drowned out the tiny cries of infant Sara. Pamela’s face brightened.
“Let me change her and bring her out. Can you get the bottle?”
Pamela, his wife’s good friend, loved the baby already. Mark sighed heavily and turned back to the stove. The bottle was too hot now. He cursed and set the first bottle aside to fix a second one.
And so the day began…the morning after.
Jake and Betty Fletcher, Mark's parents, had arrived three days earlier from Huntington, West Virginia, for the birth and now awakened to face the morning, the magnitude of events threatening to smother them.
In the guest room, Betty groused about the ornate bed and ran her hand over the cool silk and velvet coverlet tossed at the foot of the bed. She thought it too beautiful to use. Neither she nor Jake felt comfortable in the opulence of this house—Ellie's house, her own son’s house--with its marble, crystal, and gold. Beside her, Jake stared helplessly at the blades of the droning ceiling fan.
“I need you to step up and help,” Betty said through a yawn.
Betty, now a stout woman with tight brown curls and a still pretty face, had married Jake Fletcher at age eighteen on a Friday afternoon at the courthouse, just two days after he returned from college. He’d looked into her deep brown eyes, and, just shy of his nineteenth birthday, professed to love her, cherish her, for as long as they both shall live.
Still ruggedly handsome, Jake Fletcher hadn't changed much in the last forty-five years. His solid body remained lean, his dark hair still full. A no-nonsense guy, with long forgotten dreams of becoming an architect, he’d attended a trade school and used his math skills in a surveyor program. Eighteen months later he’d married Betty Landis and brought her home to his parents’ house, the one in which he was born, in the small West Virginia town of Huntington.
“I hear the baby,” Betty yawned. She slipped on her worn robe, and hurried to the kitchen, eyes hot from lack of sleep. She’d been up with Sara four or five times since midnight. Her robe gathered close to her against the chill, she checked the thermostat in the hall. Light from the kitchen streamed into the hall, and she heard Mark at the stove.
“You should try to sleep a little, Mark. I heard the baby.”
“Pamela came a few minutes ago. She’s in with her.” Mark stared vacantly at the bottle on the stove.
“Pamela’s a good friend, honey, and she’ll be a good friend to the babies. Is that bottle ready?”
“What? Yes, yes, here. I--”
“I’ll take it to her. She’ll want to feed Sara.”
“Mom,” Mark turned to her, his dark eyes hollow. “I don’t know what to do.”
She gathered him up in an embrace.
“Here, hand me that. I looked in on Sam. Poor little guy is sleeping hard.” Betty's voice trailed off. She dripped a little milk on the inside of her wrist, and turned toward the sound of Pamela’s voice.
From the doorway, Betty watched Pamela cuddle the infant in the fold of her tanned neck, her face nearly as smooth as Sara’s. Whose intrinsic scent would Sara come to know, she wondered. Pamela’s maybe, her own?
“Here’s her bottle, dear, if you’d like to feed her.”
“Oh yes, it’s something I can do. I feel so helpless.” “Come here, you sweet tiny creature. Look what I have,” she cooed. “I forgot to tell Mark that Sella's preparing food. Did anyone sleep last night?”
Betty shook her head and watched Pamela settle in the slider, cradling Sara. She secretly admired Pamela’s natural assurance, her flair and confidence, so much like Ellie’s. Secretly because these same qualities at times also appalled and repulsed her. Exhaustion overwhelmed her.
“Call me when you need me, dear. I’m going to rest for a time.”
Betty opened the door quietly in case Jake slept. She found him fully dressed and hunched in a chair, staring blankly out the oval window toward Long Island Sound. Rain streaked down the pane, allowing only a bit of watery half-light into the room.
“We have to move here,” she said, as a matter of fact.
“I know.”
Seven words said in even fewer seconds to reorder sixty-three years of living in one town, mostly in one house.
It was close to seven. Betty sat heavily on the bed. Jake hadn’t moved.
For Betty, the days and nights blurred together. With round-the-clock care of a newborn baby and a fearful, grieving four-year old, she was near exhaustion. Jake was little help; he, like Mark, merely distracted Sammy. Yesterday morning, she’d overheard Sammy ask Jake, “When will you and Grammy die, Grampy?” Jake’s response had been, “Let’s go see if Sesame Street is on TV.”
Later she took Sammy aside.
“Sweet boy, are you worried that Grampy and I won’t be here to take care of you? Even if we should die someday, I promise there will always be someone to care for you and love you. Daddy, Aunt Hannie, Uncle Bryce, Nana and Pop. You’re part of a family, and we all love you.” Her words had seemed to allay his fears.
For Mark, too, the days and nights blurred, like he he’d stumbled into someone else's dream.
Darkness. Night. Rocking, back and forth, to and fro. Walls undulate as pain washed over him.
Morning. An infant cries. Sunlight through the shutters. Quiet now. Head and heart throbbing.
Night again. Darkness. He tried to focus. What day was it? What time? Cold. Rain. Memories in broken pieces.
“Mark, honey,” his mother called and tapped on the door before she turned the knob. “Please get up and eat something. Sammy needs you, son.” She sat on the bed and rubbed his shoulders.
In the bathroom Mark stared in the mirror at his three-day stubble and matted, unwashed hair. He looked withered and old.
“You look like shit,” he said aloud to his reflection. In the shower, he let the warm water beat on the back of his neck and knotted muscles of his upper body, his arms limp at his sides.
………..
On this bitter October morning, the steady rain continued to batter the New York village of Pelham and much of the eastern seaboard. Behind the house between Long Island Sound and beyond, a murky brown pond had formed under the bare maples, threatening the crocus and iris that burst with vivid blue and purple blooms in spring. The Fletcher and Morgan families, with some close friends, came together to face the unthinkable reality of their endings, their lost ballast hollowing them out surely as if there had been an explosion.
Just two days after Ellie’s death, they gathered in Mark’s family room to discuss funeral arrangements. Claire and Bradford Morgan, heartbroken over the loss of their daughter, sat huddled on the couch with Bryce, Ellie’s brother. Red-haired and freckled Hannah, Ellie’s life-long friend, stood in the doorway unable to control her tears. Mark’s parents sat in the Queen Anne chairs just across from the Morgan’s. Mark and David, Mark’s friend and college roommate, slumped shoulder-to-shoulder on the loveseat.
Bradford began by insisting Ellie be buried in her hometown of Portland, Maine, his animosity towards his son-in-law evident in his tone of voice. Mark told him and Claire it was his decision, Ellie was clear about what she wanted, and he intended to honor her wishes: to be cremated and kept close to her home and family. The service would be held in the chapel at the funeral home.
“She has a friend who is her...uh, her spiritual guide, she called her. Ellie believed that the spirit lives on. Now I can only hope she was right. I'm...uh, anyway, the woman's name is Lauren Teague, but she goes by an unusual name, uh, Samadhi I think. I'm sorry. This is difficult. She'd be the one I'd ask to conduct the...the service,” Mark stammered.
Hannah whispered, “And lots of flowers for Ellie. She loved flowers.”
As the family dispersed, Bryce pulled Mark into the office and shut the door.
Bryce Carlton Morgan followed in his father's footsteps, attending Harvard before going on to the London School of Economics before he joined his father's firm, Morgan Financial. Bright and gregarious, he stood up to the full measure of his 6-foot-4-inch height in business acumen, enabling him to amass fortunes for his upscale clients. Blond and blue-eyed, he resembled his maternal lineage, patrician and handsome.
“Ellie came to see me when she was very pregnant to make financial plans before the baby arrived. She assured me everything would be fine, but she felt compelled to control her finances from beyond the grave. There are some details about Ellie’s estate you should know, Mark, if you don't already. My sister has a separate trust that covers her investments and distribution in the event of her death,” Bryce said carefully.
Mark studied Bryce and frowned, “She has what? She and I have a trust covering our property and other assets, with provisions for Sam, in case something happened to both of us. I know nothing about a separate personal trust.” He narrowed his eyes.
“I was afraid of that. In addition to your trust, Ellie has substantial assets held in a personal trust for her children and some specific charities endowed through a charitable trust,” Bryce said evenly. “Earlier this year, she'd asked me to sell the Soho loft and add the proceeds to her trust. She told me she was satisfied her assets were held as she'd intended. She said she wanted you to have clear title to your house and a $200,000 stipend, and you are the beneficiary of her life insurance policy.”
Mark was perplexed. “I’m to inherit my own house? How does that work?”
“Ellie paid off the mortgage years ago,” Bryce said reluctantly.
“You may read the trust, and I'll explain anything that I can. Maybe you could come to the office after the funeral and things settle. I'm sorry, but I need to sit down.”
Mark was alarmed to see the color drain from Bryce's face and squatted next to him.
“May I get you some water?” Mark watched him bury his gray face in his hands.
“No, no, thanks. I'm sorry. I’ve been working so hard at being strong for Mom and Dad, for everyone. I feel like I'm imploding. No one seems to realize I've just lost my only sister. Just let me sit for a minute.”
The two men sat in silence for a few moments.
"I'm okay now.” His voice steadied. “Mark, there's one more thing," he said and pulled an envelope from his pocket. “Ellie gave me this to read at her funeral. Let me know what you think.”
Mark looked bewildered. “What is this?”
“Read it and you'll understand.”
Bryce pulled himself slowly to his feet, clutched Mark in a fierce hug, turned and was gone.
Mark fingered the white envelope and tossed it unopened into a desk drawer. He came out of the office and found Pamela in the hallway.
“I’ll walk with you to get the kids. I need to get out of here and get some air,” he said, grabbing an umbrella and silently cursing the interminable downpours that plagued the region for most of this bleak October. “I'm grateful to Sella for watching Sam and Sara while we did this odious chore. And thanks for showing up.”
“I'm humbled that you asked. And, yes, Sella is quite special, isn't she. She's like family, and she loved Ellie too, you know.” She ducked under the yellow and black striped umbrella.
“I’m thinking about a live-in nanny, Pamela. I'm clueless about babies and sad four-year olds.”
“Mark, you know I’m here to help in any way. You aren't returning to work for a while.”
“I know, but I need help 24/7.”
“I know of a Swedish au pair, who’s working for the Grissom’s. Do you know them? Charlie's mother is coming to live with them and care for the kids. I could ask her, if you’d like. I'm happy to interview her and tell you what I think.”
Mark nodded. “Perfect. If she seems right, hire her for me, would you? At whatever terms you think fair. We can work out details later. There’re so many pieces of my life to which I need to find ballast; this would be one area contained. “
The rain had eased for a moment as Mark walked back home, carrying Sara and watching Sam kick stones and dodge puddles. His son was so quiet these days, reflective almost, except at night when he cried for his mother.
“Ethan’s grandpa died, but he was old. Mommy wasn’t,” Sam said.
“Most people live a long life, but some don’t,” Mark answered, not sure what else to offer.
The next morning, Claire, Bradford, Bryce, Hannah, and Mark went to the funeral home to make the arrangements. The funeral director was appropriately delicate. How many people would be expected? Unusual spelling of her name, he said, and asked if it was correct, plus other questions Mark neither heard nor had any interest in. Bryce and Hannah did most of the talking, as the rest of them sat in a mute haze. Odd smells, Mark thought, and cold here. Like death.

Sitting at his desk the morning of the funeral, Mark labored to complete Ellie's obituary for the New York and Maine newspapers before the funeral, yet another in a string of repugnant chores to be ticked off.
What do I want people to know that's appropriate here? How do I write the details of her life so years from now her children will read it and be proud—proud of her and of themselves for being part of her? And what about for Sara?
The funeral would be in a few hours. A few lines; he thought it would be easy. He began, wadded up and tossed, began again, wadded up and tossed again, until a pile of crumpled attempts lay strewn at his feet.
Run. Run from all of this. That's what kept creeping into his consciousness. Chuck it all and move, who cares where, uproot the kids, start over where no one knows him. Run away from all this. Being somewhere else would make this easier. The inclination was fleeting.
Somehow Mark finished writing Ellie’s obituary, and as the black eastern sky slowly lightened to gray, he sealed the envelopes and tossed them on his desk. He made his way to the open den window and squinted into the sun. After four days, the rain finally eased. Another morning, another day waking up weary after a troubled sleep. The pills David had given him helped, but fatigue weighed him down.
In his bedroom, he dropped in a chair, holding his head against a murderous headache brought on by the screaming in his brain. There his father found him a short time later and helped him dress. Though no words were exchanged, Mark was aware of his father’s soothing, tender touch.
His father wasn't a demonstrative man, his emotions always tightly in check. Yet, Mark never doubted his father's love.

Chapter Two

Mark stood in the foyer of the Pelham Chapel to greet mourners and family from distant places. His in-laws arrived in their stretch limousine. Claire stepped from the limo, the grieving movie star: black hat with long dark veil covering her blonde hair, impeccable black suit with hose and shoes to match. She never misses a beat, Mark thought, uncharitably.
Slim and elegant, Claire stood to the full height of her 5-foot-11-inch frame; her dark blue eyes mirrored Ellie's. She was devastated by the loss of her only daughter, Mark admitted, and he recognized that as far as he was concerned she had to walk a tightrope between cool civility and Bradford. It couldn't have been easy for her.
Bradford's thick hair, now iron gray, gave him the distinguished appearance of many socially adept men. His olive skin now fell in soft jowls slightly below his jawbone, the only sign of aging that truly vexed him.
Stoically, Bradford put a proprietal arm on his wife's shoulder. Claire averted her eyes, but Mark could read their minds: he's killed our daughter. He greeted them politely. It was all he could do.
Bryce followed several steps behind and embraced Mark. Sheila, his wife, walked a few paces back.
She took Mark's hand. “I'm so sorry about Ellie.”
Mark didn’t respond but only nodded--a gesture he practiced a lot that day. It was the first time he and Sheila had spoken since Ellie's death.
Bryce pulled Mark aside. “Did you read the letter I gave you the other day? I plan to read it today.”
“No, I never got to it,” Mark shrugged.
The flowers in the chapel were profuse and lovely, but with so many in a small space Mark found the smell cloying. He sighed and watched the endless line of mourners slowly file into the chapel. Pamela held the baby in the first row, with his parents, her parents, Hannah, and David. Behind them were Hannah's boyfriend Tim Cage and her parents Juliet and Stuart McManus, who'd come from Cape Elizabeth. Sam stayed close to his father's side and was relatively well behaved considering the strange circumstances in which he found himself. At four, Sam didn't understand that his mommy wasn’t coming back. She was visiting heaven and would soon be home. Mark let his eyes close.
He shouldn’t have been surprised at the throngs who poured in. Everyone loved Ellie.
His colleagues and friends Reed Steppins, Austin Tabor, Taylor Shebaleen, plus a dozen or so other lawyers from his NYC firm were there. The three senior partners Martin Thatcher, Archibald (Arch) Woods, Solomon (Solly) Zaccone and their wives, a dozen or so secretaries, his assistant Naomi Kellogg and her husband Lee, several teachers from Sam’s preschool where Ellie had volunteered. And Rex and Hilde Montgomery and his staff, staff from Columbia Medical Center and the Homeless Shelter, and countless friends, neighbors, and relatives he'd met over the years but whose names he couldn't recall. They'd have to forgive him.
People streamed in until all seats were filled. The overflow lined up against the back walls and spilled into the side aisles. With each passing minute, Mark’s anxiety escalated, and he paced. His armpits felt damp under his clothes.
“Okay, okay, we're all here,” he muttered. “Everyone is here; everyone in the whole goddamned world is here. By all means, let the thing begin. Where are all these people coming from and how did they know?” His own words tasted bitter on his tongue.
He would hold together. He always did. He was numb, mercifully so.
The music stopped and the crowd quieted. Mark turned to take his seat with his family at the front of the church when he noticed a tattered, shabbily dressed old man hovering in the doorway. He teetered a little, using the doorjamb to steady himself. A beggar or homeless, maybe both, and a bit drunk. An old shopping cart filled with belongings was parked just outside. Probably his.
“May I help you to a chair?” Mark touched the man's bony upper arm, only to have it pulled roughly away.
“Let me be. She was kind. She liked me. I wanted to say goodbye, that's all. I'm going,” he rasped.
“No, please, stay. I'll find you a chair.” Mark looked around and hastily grabbed a folding chair from the foyer. “Please, sit here. She would want you to be here.”
The old man took the offered seat and sat straight-backed, clutching his grimy hat.
Mark had no idea who he was or how he knew Ellie. She'd never mentioned him, certainly.
“Will you be okay? Do you want me to stay with you? Ellie was my wife.”
“No, just leave me in peace. Please.”
Puzzled, Mark walked quickly to the front row seats to join his family. After the service he'd ask him how he knew Ellie.
“Where’s mommy, Daddy?” Sam asked. “Is mommy coming?”
For Mark, the service was a blur. He tried to focus on the words, but they dissolved into nothingness. The eulogies droned on for another hour. Bryce’s eulogy was a particularly sweet tribute to his lost sister.
“In closing, I’d like to share with you a letter that Ellie wrote shortly before she died,” Bryce said.
Dear Family and Friends:
My brother, Bryce, was instructed by me to read you this letter in the event of my death. So, that means I'm gone. And to that I say crap. I don't say that to be flippant; though it's certainly my style, it's not my intention. It's just that so much of what I had looked forward to in my life is no more, and watching these words manifest on paper stuns me. So forgive me some reflection. Make no mistake, even as I write this letter, I firmly believe that I will emerge from this latest wrinkle healthy and forever changed, and the letter will be round-filed. Perhaps it has taken this--the consequence of my flawed judgment--to bring this headstrong girl to the brink of adulthood. Relax. I've not transformed into a philosopher. I'm still me, but with just a hint of introspection as I write.
It is my deepest regret to have left every one of you, but especially my beautiful Sam and my baby, and to have left you to endure the pain of loss, something I was lucky enough never to have suffered.
First, let me say how much I loved you, Mark, and our dear little Sam and the baby, who I am certain, is my sweet Sara. My family. You are all my heart. Words pale as I try to express how much your love has meant to me. You helped me grow, kept me grounded, and, while you sometimes had to smile through gritted teeth, you always supported my wild ventures. Well, mostly. Thank you for deeming me worthy to share your life. I am literally eternally grateful. I'm smiling at the profundity of that statement, as it falls from my pen. Forgive me.
Sam, my darling son, always know Mommy loves you forever and watches over you. You are my joy, and your Daddy's and my love manifest.
My sweet baby, I never got to see your face, but you have all my love. I carry your essence with me and you carry mine.
Mom and Dad, you gave me the perfect childhood. I never doubted I was loved, never wanted for anything, and you spoiled me unconscionably, leaving Mark the arduous task of straightening me out. Stay close to your grandchildren. I love you both. Thank you both for loving me and for providing the trappings of my charmed life.
Bryce, thank you for handling all the estate stuff. I trust you will explain it to Mark in a loving manner. I feel so lucky that you are my brother. And you are lucky to have Mark as a dear friend. I love you, Bryce, and Sheila, too. Be a great aunt and uncle to my babies.
Betty and Jake, I've come to love you both over the years. I know we didn't approve of each other at first, but you were unfailingly kind, generous with your time, always wise and genuine, and never a cross word escaped your lips. I think I wound my way into your hearts at least a little, and Sam bonded us. Thank you for the gift of your son. He will need you so much now. Visit often and be visible Grammy and Grampy.
Hannah, I include you in this letter to my family because you are truly my sister. I love you, and I know you will grieve for me, but don't for long. You must be strong and remain close to my children and help Mark. He'll need friends, and it will take a community to support him. You're such a positive influence. No wonder Sammy is madly in love with his Aunt Hannie. I'm not sure I ever thanked you.
Mark, your job is always to remind them what a great mommy they had and to remember two things: first, that I love you and, second, that I love you forever. Never doubt that. Make sure my children know that I'll love them forever, too. You’re the consummate daddy. I couldn't have hand picked a better one. Be good, because I’ll be around. Love, Ellie
Her father and several others then spoke, their voices muffled as they choked back tears. Mark had listened to most of Hannah and Bryce's eulogies, but the rest faded to nonsensical blather. Distracted, his reverie took him back to when he and Ellie met...

Mark and Jerry hunched stiffly on the hard white couch in this trendy Soho loft, trying to look cool and feeling like muddy boots on white carpet. Jerry knew Hannah from the library where they both worked. Hannah had gone to the kitchen for beer. As Mark looked around, the front door burst open and in strode a willowy, slender dream, her long shiny dark hair swinging as she walked. She carried multiple shopping bags, and fixed him with eyes the most startling shade of blue, like sapphires. He was dazzled and the first to look away, eyes fixed on his scruffy tennis shoes. The earth wobbled on its axis, and the bolt of lightning that shot through him was a mere a glimpse of what lay ahead.
Raising an eyebrow ever so slightly, she said, “Ah, and who would you two be?”
Stunned, trying to match her supercilious tone, Mark shot back, “I would be…who are you?”
Jerry jumped to his feet, but stood mute.
“Well, I live here and you don’t, so how about you go first,” she said.
Her look suggested she'd spotted a cockroach she was fully prepared to crush. Mark told her his name, and she grinned, showing a set of perfect white teeth.
“I've been shopping all day, as you can see, Mark Fletcher and you there with no name. I got lots of cool stuff. I've had a fabulous day.”
Good for you, he thought, bewitched by the poshy lilt of her voice. He was vaguely familiar with the names on her bags. She was one rich, cocky brat. A lethal combination, but he was a tiny bit impressed. She had that expensive air, something that usually turned him off, but instead he was drawn to this braggart well-heeled girl. Everything about her--her name, her chic clothes, her confident manner--screamed 'I belong!'
And that was the beginning.
The following week, he waited for her outside one of her classes. She stopped mid-stride, turned her head sharply, and scrutinized his face.
“Don't I know you? Hey, you're the guy who was at my loft last week, right? What are you doing here?”
It was a stretch, but he tried to sound hip and suave. “Yes and yes, and waiting for you,” he clipped out, thinking he sounded debonair, in control.
“Mmm, charming. You headed home? By the way, where is home?”
Jerry, David, and Mark lived in a dive some 18 subway stops on 125th Street in Harlem, nowhere near her Soho loft, but it was just a subway ride.
“Yes, I am, and home's not far from your loft,” he lied.
“Cool. Carry my books. You remember where my loft is, yes?” Her laugh bubbled up, shimmering around him like quicksilver.
What a pretentious snob she was and so far out of his league, somewhere into the next galaxy, but he was smitten. Lord God was he ever!
Over the next few weeks, they met often to talk, or he’d wait for her outside on the steps of Tisch Hall. Sometimes they went for coffee in one of the little nooks sprinkled liberally around the NYU perimeters. It killed him to spend over three bucks on coffee at the trendy Soho coffee spot she particularly liked, though she often treated. Sometimes, they sat on the secluded steps of Carter Hall and shared life stories, their love lives...well, her love lives, since his were scant. They talked for hours, and despite her upper class roots they found they shared many common values. They were compatible about most things--politics, religion, family--everything, that is, except money and the issues surrounding its acquisition and use. The crux of it: she had loads of it. He had none. She spent it with abandon and frugality branded him. They both knew it so to avoid trouble they simply avoided the subject. Easy.
At first, he’d been afraid that she would look at him and then more afraid she wouldn't. Sometimes, when they talked, she stared through him, and he knew she hadn’t really seen or heard him. Besides, she had that secure, easy look, like a girl with a boyfriend, and it scared the hell out of him.
Every day he asked himself what could she possibly see in him. Who was he but some poor schlub with talent and prospects, sure, but prospects that wouldn't come about for years? Her dream was to become some kind of artist, for god sake, and she wasn’t sure herself what kind, but certainly not the starving variety. She could buy a Greenwich gallery with her pocket change. And why would he want to date a crazy artist type? What was he thinking?
He talked to himself endlessly during those painful first months. She terrified him, undermined his self-confidence, so why in hell had he hung on to the insane notion that he even stood a chance? He’d driven David and Jerry crazy, too. They’d said so, frequently.
“What's the point, David? She's way out of my league. She's rich, and I mean obscenely rich, and I can't compete with that. She eats weird things, like caviar and mutton croquettes. Jerry, what do you think? Should I ask her out? David, I feel lousy that I can't give her anything she can't easily get for herself. In fact, I'm so poor I can't give her anything. Period. Is that a reason not to date her?” Mark had nagged them unmercifully. “Give me a good reason to ask her out or to not ask her out. Please.”
Jerry offered his input half-heartedly, “Well, she’s dating someone else. Isn't that enough reason?”
David intoned, “Oh, and something else you've forgotten, asshole, so are you. Remember Sue?”
“Pot calls kettle black, Casanova,” Mark threw back.
Jerry threw his hands up in pure frustration. “Look, you've got a constant hard-on, so either ask the snooty chick out or not. You're making us nuts here. Follow your crank if you must, but quit the yammering already.” He popped open a beer and flopped on the sofa.
They'd endured his verbal onslaught for weeks, and they were done. Brick walls were there for a reason. During that time, he tried to get closer to Sue, but he discovered that Ellie had spoiled him for anyone else. He hadn’t felt at home anywhere she wasn't. What a fucking mess he’d made for himself, and at that point they hadn't even been on one date!
After a few more weeks of knocking his heart around, Mark found the temerity and invited Ellie and Dean, the guy she'd been dating, to a party at Sue’s on that Saturday night. She’d said maybe. He crossed his fingers and agonized about it all week.
If she shows she'll be coming with a date, he’d kept reminding himself, which had only served to ignite his desire for her. Man, he’d been horny…and slightly crazy.
The night of the party, Ellie and Dean arrived and immediately began dancing. Mark hung off to the side and watched her preen her feathers and scrutinized his competition. Good looking, with a manner that said outgoing, extroverted, self-assured, moneyed. Dean possessed a casual understated look that screamed style and class. Hell, even the car keys that dangled from his belt loop added something.
Mark knew asking them to the party had been a huge mistake. When the music stopped Ellie pulled Dean over to Mark, flashed a smile that weakened his knees, and introduced him to the stud.
“Mark, meet my friend Dean.” She said it casually
She said friend, not boyfriend.
Emboldened, Mark asked her to dance right then. He pulled her close. She smelled delicious, like sweet flowers.
Soaring on a new burst of nerve, he whispered, “Ditch him and come back.”
She stiffened and looked up at him with disapproval. “What? Not on your life. It's rude and ungracious. Not my style.”
“I'd make it worth your while,” Mark declared, having no clue as to what he was alluding.
She shook her head firmly.
Brazenly he pulled her closer and implored, “Please, please. You won't be sorry.”
“I'm already sorry. Sorry that I came to your fucking party. You know, I like you. We're friends, sure, but you’re outrageous. Answer me, why would I do that?”
“Nothing is beyond a desperate man.”
“Yeah, like you’ve been desperate a minute in your life.”
“Just do it, please,” he begged.
“I’ll be back in twenty minutes.” She’d pushed away from him, shot him a look he couldn’t decipher, and dissolved into the crowd. She wouldn't return. He was certain of that.
An hour and a half later, she returned alone. Mark was in the den watching TV with friends when he saw her leaning in the doorway, arms folded across her chest, obviously furious. He felt himself flush with a heady mix of surprise, terror, and pleasure.
He jumped up, abandoning Sue, and took Ellie's arm. That might have been a hallucination, a distinct possibility in those mad, delirious days.
Would he call what he felt for Ellie love at first sight: that visceral attraction that supersedes all other instincts, any tendency to caution or faculty? Perhaps, but more correctly, love sought him without him looking for or even wanting it. He loved, still loved, the sound of her voice, the toss of her head. He was certain he loved everything she was and would become. He’d known from 11:37 p.m. that night forward they would always be together. It had been, for him, a watershed moment. After that night, they’d rarely been apart again. Until now...
Sitting rigid in the chapel, Mark shook his head to dislodge the bittersweet memories.
“Hey, pay attention. This is my funeral, for fuck sake,” she criticized. “One chance to hear all the prattle is all you get. I'll be around.”
What the fuck? Rattled, Mark swiveled his head, looking for the source. It was her voice, her inflection. It was Ellie. Then silence.
Sam began to fidget. “Daddy, I gotta pee.”
“What?” he snapped, sure his imagination was playing tricks.
Following the service, Mark looked around for the old man, but both he and the shopping cart were gone. Outside he found Hannah and Tim bent over an open newspaper. They looked up, a peculiar expression on their faces.
Hannah remarked, “I'm shocked at your obit. This isn't right. This doesn't sound like—”
“What obit? I only finished it this morning. It's sitting on my desk to be mailed.”
Hannah and Tim exchanged looks. She thrust the paper at him, pointing to the obituary.
Services will be held at Pelham Funeral Chapel on October 8 for Ellinor Claire Morgan, who passed away following the birth of her daughter at Columbia University Medical Center Hospital in New York City. She was 34. Ms. Morgan was born in Portland, Maine, and raised in Cape Elizabeth before moving to Pelham, New York, four years ago. A graduate of NYU, she was an accomplished artist. Son Sam, daughter Sara, parents Claire and Bradford Morgan, brother Bryce, sister-in-law Sheila, Hannah McManus, and Mark Fletcher survive Ms. Morgan.
“Sonofabitch! Claire and Bradford.” With trembling hands, Mark stuffed the paper in his pocket.
“Sam is riding with us back to the house, Mark,” his mother called from the parking lot.
“Mark's coming with us,” Tim answered and waved.
“How could they do this?” Hannah was livid. “They've effectively eliminated you from her life. What kind of BS is this? I’ll talk with them, if you’re okay with that.”
“No, I’ll do it,” Mark said.
The obligatory reception followed. How he hated these drawn out affairs. He'd speak to his in-laws about the obituary, but this wasn't the place. It's done, no printing a retraction. So that’s how so many knew, he surmised.
Before long every room was overflowing with people, some bringing food. They gathered in groups, chatting in somber tones, but soon he noticed smiles and even some tentative, albeit uncomfortable, laughter. He assumed they were talking about Ellie; she always made people laugh.
The house was overheated, stuffy, and the overpowering mix of food smells--casseroles, desserts, stale coffee--turned his stomach. He had no idea how this was pulled together, but the whir of activity made him dizzy.
Just get the fuck out of my house, all of you. Leave me alone. My head feels like it's going to explode.
He glared at the people, heard pieces of maudlin discourse, mere bavardage he thought, and watched it all as if through a dirty window. Eventually, people mumbled condolences and drifted off, and the room was empty. He couldn’t wait until the reception was over. When most of the people had cleared out, he sat mute.
Pamela slipped onto the arm of his chair and whispered, “I met with Sigrid yesterday and she wants the au pair job, so I told her I would set up an interview with you, but it's just a formality. She's packing her bags and can leave as soon as tomorrow. Mark, are you alright?” Alarmed, she looked closer.
Mark looked up. “I'm fine, and no interview is necessary. She can move in as soon as my folks leave--tomorrow or the next day. Bring her over, would you?”
“Of course, let me know when. I need to help in the kitchen.”
“Daddy, is Mommy coming home? We’re having her party,” Sam said from the doorway. “She didn't come at her party, Daddy.”
Sam was anxious, but clambered up in Mark's lap and allowed himself to be rocked. Mark could only manage, “She won’t be coming home, Sammy. She died, remember?”
Later that evening, with the kids asleep, Mark sat with his parents in the living room. He thought he'd been drinking wine, but somehow a scotch was in his hand. The alcohol had done its job. He was sedated, feeling little pain.
His mother spoke first, “Mark, dear, your father and I have been talking about the future.”
“There’s no future. It's over, now it’s just a matter of getting through,” Mark said.
“Sweetheart, please don't say that. Two precious children need to be raised. We, your father and I, have decided to sell the house in West Virginia and move here to help with the children.”
“Don't be absurd. You guys have lived in that town and that house all your lives. I don't need you to do that. I appreciate the offer, I do, but I'll figure this out.” He struggled to clear his head. “I'll figure...” He stopped mid-thought. “I'll figure...something. I've forgotten what I was going to say.” His tongue was thick. “I think I might be a little drunk, Mom.”
Jake raised his head. “Son, it's done. No discussion. Your mother and I were never happy so far away from you and the grandkids. This is something we want to do. We're retired and have no reason to stay in Huntington. Our ties are here, so like it or not, we're coming.”
“It’s a lovely gesture, but I've already hired a nanny to care for the kids, so for you to dismantle your lives is unnecessary. I don't want to feel guilty and I will if you do this.”
“You've done what? You’ve hired a nanny? What an outrageous expense. Mark, this is something we want to do. We miss you and the children.” She shook her head.
Mark sat forward. “Mom, I can afford this. I don't want you disrupting your lives.”
“Hire whoever you want, son, but we're moving. You and the children are our family and you're here,” Jake stated flatly.
His father never said much, but Mark knew, even after several scotches, that once Jake made a declaration, it was cast.
Betty leaned in and patted Mark's knee. “We'll be able to help with the kids, and your nanny will need days off now and then. What's her name?”
“Sigrid something. Pamela found her.”
Mark pulled the crumpled New York Times page from his pocket and pushed it at his father. “You probably should read this.”
Jake read the obituary and handed it to Betty.
“Mark, who wrote this? Never mind,” Jake said.
“It reads like you're one of her friends, instead of her husband. They used her maiden name. No mention that you are the children's father. What kind of crazy nonsense is this?” Betty threw the paper down. “It's unconscionable!”
Jake left the room without comment.
Mark stood a bit unsteadily and slowly trudged to his bedroom, oblivious of his mother still seated on the couch.
He flipped on the light and frowned at the book on the nightstand, upside down and open to whatever page she was last reading, as she'd left it--her habit and his aggravation. It breaks down the spine of a book when you do that, he'd felt compelled to remind her time and again, and brought her bookmarks she never used. In their bathroom, he stared at the small fancy soaps she loved in the delicate shell soap dish by her sink. He threw on his pajama bottoms and stared at the empty side of their bed.
She'll come bounding from the bathroom any minute, warm from her shower.
A moan escaped his lips, and he sagged onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
After tossing for hours that brisk night, Mark got up and roamed the house. Immediately he felt suffocated by the silence. He threw on some clothes, poured more scotch, and went outside. Walking along the edge of Shore Road towards the park, he tried to remember what day it was. Thursday, maybe? Monday? In the darkness, he eased down on a bench and listened to the rhythmic slapping of the water and low cooing of the eiders and scoters nestled in the rushes.
The bare whiff of a breeze was like a voice, her voice, whispering to him indistinctly. As he swallowed the last of the amber liquid, he felt the welcome numbness that alcohol induced. It was near dawn before he got up to trudge the few blocks home.
“May I walk a ways with you, honey?” she asked from somewhere close by. “I know you're suffering, and I want you to know that I never imagined this...well, maybe once. But leaving you as I did surprised me as much as it did you. I told you that the night it happened, but you didn’t hear.”
“Ellie, Sweetheart, is it really you?” he cried.
“Shhh, you'll wake the neighbors. You're drunk, my sweet husband.”
“Shhh,” he whispered, trying to find his mouth with his finger. “You missed your party. Sammy looked for you. Yesiree, I'm big fucking drunk, Ellie. How do I love that baby when she took you away, huh, Ellie? How'm I gonna do that?”
“She didn't do it, Mark. Sara's an innocent. And you know what to do. I'll be around.”
“Ellie? Don't go. Stay with me, Ellie,” he begged into the darkness. “Don’t go. I don’t know what to do.”