Competitive Grieving

by Nora Zelevansky

  She wagged her head back and forth, then seemed to land on the answer. I didn’t think she was capable of lying—or even that she cared who knew. “I was having some drinking problems. Like overdoing it. Blacking out sometimes.”

  “And you’re a . . . you were on TV or in movies?”

  “No, no. I can’t act. Or sing. I was just hardcore in the party and club scene for a while. I kind of, I don’t know, people, like, just started to know me. I got an Insta following. Tabloids started to follow me; I dated a couple of musicians. I started a hat line. Whatever.”

  Ah. Famous for nothing. An influencer.

  She seemed so tired. When did she do all that? When she was fourteen? I’d be tired too. “Anyway, the group still exists. I’m not really supposed to talk about it. But it was started by this director who I got to know and, when he saw me out one night and I was, like, shit-faced, he told me to call him if I ever got sober. So I did. And that’s where I met Stu.”

  What a weird world: one in which fame entitles you to a VIP AA meeting. I bet there were people out there faking issues to gain access at this very moment.

  “And you guys hit it off?”

  “Yeah. I mean, at first I thought he was kind of a dick. He kept making snarky comments and stuff. But he was hilarious and then I realized what a sweet guy he was at heart.” She came to life while talking about Stewart; her face brightened. “He was nothing like that character he played on TV—that guy was so obsessed with himself. Stu was the opposite. He made you feel like all your choices were okay, even the bad ones, as long as you did what you could to fight your demons.” She dipped her spoon into her coffee cup and swirled it even though there was barely anything left. The metal spoon clinked against the sides like a wind chime.

  I thought about what she said. She wasn’t describing the Stewart I knew, or I should say, that wasn’t who Stewart was for me. But I could see now how maybe he could have been someone different for someone different. I thought about what Willow said: maybe someone with whom he didn’t “exchange judgment.” Maybe someone with whom he had a pact—literally within a support group—of listening without criticism.

  “Were you guys, like, together? Romantically?” I sounded so old.

  Belle shook her head. “No, it wasn’t like that. I mean, I don’t know. Maybe I would have been open to that once we both felt better. Any girl would have been lucky.”

  Once we both felt better. So Stewart hadn’t felt well. It was true. Everything that Willow suggested; everything that Morgan said; everything that this broken young woman was telling me now. He had struggled and he didn’t feel he could tell me. I had thought I was his closest friend. What was our relationship really? Had I destroyed it that night when I refused to hear him out? Should I have listened no matter what he or I really felt? Did I turn things forever strained between us?

  I think I love you.

  You don’t.

  Or had I destroyed us long before that—as soon as I began to think of him in this one limited sellout way? When I refused to see the part of him that might have helped someone like this girl, just because?

  “And Stewart was there because—?”

  “Because he felt sad sometimes. He had, like, ‘dark days.’ That’s what he called them. He said it was because he felt dark and everything went dark—meaning he couldn’t do anything.”

  “Were there other people like that in the group?”

  She considered the question. “Kind of. I mean, everyone had demons, for sure. But, like I said, a lot of people had addiction or something specific. A couple of women had gotten into drugs after being sexually assaulted. That came up a lot during the whole #MeToo thing. A few of the men were addicted to steroids. You know, like, for action movies. Pain killers. That kind of thing. But you could talk about anything that was upsetting you or that you were struggling with. I mean, like, you still can, but I haven’t been since Stu—” Suddenly, tears gushed from her eyes. She started sobbing. I wasn’t sure what to do.

  I put my hand on her forearm, which rested on the table, and said, “It’s okay, Belle. It’s going to be okay.” Was it though? I had already been vibrating from head to toe when I walked in. Now, with every passing second, a knowledge that I now realized I’d possessed ever since Stewart died was cementing in my head—becoming conscious. My relief about the aneurysm, my search for answers, the death in New York and not LA. The fact that he didn’t call. I knew it like I knew my own name.

  I didn’t want to bail on this girl as she wept under a diner’s fluorescent lights, but I needed to leave. I needed to act. I felt like if I didn’t stand up, I would take off like a rocket into outer space.

  “Belle, are you going to be okay?” I handed her my napkin. She was starting to calm down. She shrugged. Not really. “Do you have someone? Professional? To talk to?”

  She nodded and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. “That’s why I came back to New York. To stay with my parents and see my old therapist. She knows me.”

  Old therapist? Like she’d been around for a while? As far as I could tell, she was doing a bang-up job. Well, it was better than nothing. “Okay. I’m glad you’re talking to someone. Do you know about the tribute tomorrow night?”

  “I’ll be there,” she nodded. “Stu’s mom emailed me the details.”

  Of course she did. Because Helen knew her. Helen knew everything. It was all I could do not to jump out of my skin. “Okay, Belle, I have to go. I’m so sorry to run out on you when you’re feeling so sad.”

  She looked up at me, impassive. “I’m always sad.”

  “I’m really, truly sorry to hear that.”

  I took money out of my wallet—I don’t know how much—and left it on the table. I didn’t have it in me to deal with taking our ticket to the register. Minutes before, my scarf had been a comfort against the cold, but now it felt like it was strangling me, along with the stench of burgers and Greek salads. I needed answers. All of them. Now.

  I left. Outside, the wind was still whipping. It was bitter cold. I hailed a cab. I wasn’t messing with any trains right now. I gave the driver the address—at least I must have, though I barely remembered it later. I was vaguely aware of repeating, “Oh my God,” over and over again. It was like finding out about Stewart’s death for the first time—again.

  I texted George:

  Hey. It’s a long story, but I just had coffee with this girl Belle who was a friend of Stewart’s from this support group in LA. It’s too intense to explain over text, but I finally realized what I’ve been searching to find out this whole time. I’m going to the Beasleys’ to talk to Helen.

  He didn’t respond until my taxi was pulling up to the near corner on Central Park West.

  Wren, wait. What do you mean? Did you call Helen? Don’t go there. Call me first. Let’s talk. We’ll go together.

  No, I’m already here. I’m going up.

  Wren, seriously. Wait for me. Are you okay? I’m leaving now. I’m getting into a cab. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.

  I can’t wait. I’ll call you afterward.

  I stepped out of the taxi; the wind almost knocked me over. The light outside was dimming. The trees in the park looked ominous instead of scenic, like something out of The Wizard of Oz.

  The doorman was that same guy, Bill, but he didn’t look askance at me this time. Maybe he recognized my face.

  That made one of us: When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, someone pale and drawn peered back at me. My hair was a rat’s nest and my scarf was falling half off. My appearance was the embodiment of my inner life. I yanked at one end of my scarf, pulling it off entirely and bunching it in my hands. For once, I didn’t care what Helen thought.

  “I’m here to see the Beasleys.”

  “Name please?”

  “Wren.”

  He picked up the ph
one in his white gloved hand and punched in some numbers. He waited for what felt like an eternity to me—like a hungry kid on Yom Kippur—and then finally, he said, “Good evening. I have Wren here to see you.” He nodded, then hung up. “Fourth floor.”

  My need for the truth had eclipsed my nerves. When the elevator doors opened upstairs, I walked into the apartment without a shred of doubt.

  “Hello, Wren.” I whipped around. Helen was standing at the entrance to the living room, her white hair in its coiffed bob, large diamond studs sparkling in her ears. “I startled you.”

  “No, I was just expecting Madison.”

  “Ah. No, she left early today. She’s been working long hours and I’ll need her tomorrow night at the tribute. I figured she could use a bit of—whatever they call it—‘me time.’ Ted is here. He’s just lying down in the bedroom.”

  I nodded. “I’m sorry to barge in.”

  “It’s all right. I guess you could say I’ve been expecting you.” She gestured toward the stark living room furniture. “Shall we?”

  She sat in a calfskin Le Corbusier chair across from me, as I settled onto the angular couch—no give beneath me. An orchid stood between us on the low coffee table, fragile and haughty.

  “So what can I do for you?”

  I cleared my throat. I hadn’t figured out exactly how to phrase this. “I just had coffee with Belle Rose.”

  “I see. She’s a bit of a mess that girl, but Stewart was fond of her. She’s sweet, I suppose, and he loved an injured bird.”

  “The thing is, since Stewart . . . since he’s been gone, I’ve been on this search. I thought it was about resolving our relationship in my head; I thought that I needed proof that we’d been as close as I believed. There are so many people walking around feeling as if they can’t live without him. I thought I needed confirmation that our friendship was real.”

  Helen regarded me with those sharp blue eyes. “Of course it was, dear. He adored you.” I could feel the Who knows why? hanging in the air. But she surprised me and added, “You were a very dear friend to him, Wren.”

  “Thank you. I loved him.”

  “I know you did.”

  I had to get this out. I had to ask the question, get the real answer, and there was no use in stalling. I looked at the rug, but I soldiered on. “The thing is, it turns out that I wasn’t only searching for proof of our closeness. I also had this feeling, however unconsciously, that I was missing some part of the story—Stewart’s story.” I raised my head and looked her in the eye. I felt I owed us both that directness. “And I was, wasn’t I? Missing something?”

  After a pause, Helen nodded. I knew it was the truth, but the confirmation winded me yet again. I closed my eyes to collect myself. And I waited.

  Finally, she brushed an imaginary hair from her forehead. “Belle doesn’t know, by the way. She knows about the depression. But she doesn’t know how it ended. None of Stewart’s friends know. So I would ask for your discretion.”

  “Of course.” I took a deep breath and readied myself. I thought about all the times I imagined Helen getting the call, finding out that her son was gone. All those scenarios were wrong. It had been much worse than I could have imagined.

  “Stewart battled depression his whole life. Surely you realize now that you saw signs of it—from childhood, when we had to pull him out of school, to later in life. I’m not sure how much he shared with you. My instinct from the beginning was to hide it from the world. I didn’t want him to suffer for other peoples’ perceptions or stigmas. Maybe that was a mistake. Kate certainly thinks so.”

  Right. Kate. This explained why she wouldn’t interact with her mother—the details of which she said I deserved to know—why she wouldn’t deliver a eulogy at the tribute. How could she speak when she couldn’t tell the truth? Poor Kate. Poor everyone. I felt horrible for having judged her.

  “Anyway, Stewart had been having a particularly hard time lately. He had had many very good years, but it started getting difficult again in the last two, especially in the past couple of months. The network very quietly agreed to postpone their shoot schedule while he got himself together. It’s Hollywood. Probably everybody assumed he was addicted to pills or cocaine.” She rolled her eyes.

  “Nothing seemed to be working. In the past, he had tried different combinations of medications, different outpatient programs. Something always made him feel better eventually. But, this time, he couldn’t climb out of the funk. And, you know Stewart, it felt like failing to him.”

  I did know Stewart. I could only imagine his frustration and anger.

  Helen crossed and recrossed her ankles. We were getting to the most difficult part. I was afraid to breathe. “I didn’t know he was in New York to be honest. If I had, I would have made him stay here at the apartment with me. I had already bought a ticket out to LA for the next day; I could tell things were dire. But I guess he flew into the city. He had saved up enough pills over the last months. And, that evening, he took a cab home to that apartment on Crosby and he lay down in the den and—he took them. All.”

  She looked me dead in the face. Like I was the facts. Like she could not look away. Those blue eyes welled. She was silent. I felt like a thousand pounds rested on my chest. Who knew devastation weighed so much? I thought it might crush me. How would I ever get up off that couch? How was Helen living and breathing?

  “That was it. His neighbor came in the next morning and found him. The rest you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” I managed. And I was—for her, for Kate, for me, most of all, for Stewart. I felt like my heart was cracking in two. So much pain, so senseless. “He never told me.”

  “I’m surprised actually. I thought he told you everything. But I’m sure that’s my fault: I trained him to keep it to himself. A WASP to the end, I suppose. The thing is, it always worked for Ted.”

  “Ted?”

  “Oh, yes. Stewart’s father struggles with the same issues. You might have noticed that he sometimes makes himself scarce? He requires a lot of space. To manage the situation.”

  All these years, I thought that Ted Beasley was just a workaholic without much interest in his kids. And perhaps that was true—but with many more layers. People are complicated. And I’d made a lot of assumptions.

  Poor Stewart. Poor sad Stewart. If only I had known.

  “There was nothing anyone could have done,” Helen said, reading my mind. “Of course, I’ve gone over it a million times in my head and will a million more. Stewart had tried everything. He was a grown man—although he will always be that little boy to me. He had considered this . . . resolution . . . for a long time. As you know, he even got some of his papers in order. Of course, he didn’t say it was imminent because George would have been alarmed and tried to stop him, but he made sure he was prepared. You can imagine how shocked George felt when I called to tell him what had happened. He felt responsible.”

  When I called to tell him what had happened. My mouth dropped open. “Sorry. George knows? The truth?”

  “Well, yes. Stewart had left me a letter with certain instructions, the first of which was to call George. I had to tell him the truth. He couldn’t manage the estate issues and help deal with the insurance company without knowing what really happened.”

  George knew the truth. George knew and he didn’t tell me. He let me run around like an idiot playing Nancy Drew. He let me obsess over aneurysms and brain implosions. All this time, I thought we were a team—

  Not them, Wren. They didn’t steal him. It was his own body. His own brain.

  George lied.

  At that moment, as if by clockwork, the elevator door opened and in walked the man himself. Of course, the doorman loved him and would never make him call up. He was frazzled, having run up here to stop me. He hadn’t wanted me to find out this way. His hair was sticking up; his jacket hung open. Was he hoping to
stop me from learning the truth? Or had he wanted to tell me himself before I found out? Too little too late, regardless.

  I watched his eyes dart around the entryway, then land on us in the living room. He made eye contact with me, watched my mouth tighten. Then he parted his lips to explain, but what could he say? Especially with Helen sitting there?

  “Sorry to interrupt. I came . . . I just thought, maybe I could . . . help.”

  I stood. “I was just leaving. I’ve taken up enough of Helen’s time.” I turned to her, a new understanding between us. “Thank you. For being candid.”

  She nodded. I couldn’t blame her for protecting her son. I thought she’d made a giant mistake, encouraging him to keep his pain a secret. But she did her best. That’s all any of us can do. George, on the other hand—I could blame him.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll go too.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’d like to be alone.”

  I crossed to the elevator and pushed the button. He was standing a couple feet away; it might as well have been miles for the detachment I felt. He lowered his voice, “Let me talk to you.”

  I shook my head.

  Helen said, “George. It’s actually good fortune that you’re here. I’ve just received some paperwork that I don’t understand. I could use your expertise.”

  He looked from me to her.

  “Of course,” he said, still staring at me with pleading eyes. “I can help you with that, Helen. I’ll just wait for the elevator with Wren, to see her out, and be right in.”

  Helen nodded and started back toward her office, with a wave.

  “Wren. Are you okay?”

  I refused to look at him. “Never better.”

  He took a step toward me, so he was only a foot away. “Look, I can explain—”

  I snapped my head up and glared at him, “You can explain what, George? That you knew that Stewart killed himself? And lied to my face?”