As I finished leafing through the pages, my thumb rested on the edge of the back cover, so that its inside flap was visible. On cardboard arched from use, Stewart had written a list of things to do. His last line item was written in all caps: GET BETTER.
Chapter 49
Stewart, I looked up what happens in your brain when you’re depressed.
Basically, when you’re really stressed out or have a chemical imbalance, your brain produces too much cortisol—and that wreaks havoc. It slows the production of new neurons and shrinks existing ones. And it can shrink the prefrontal cortex, which is the part of your brain that regulates your emotions and helps you make decisions.
It’s just like you to overproduce something—to go too big.
That’s all to say that I forgive you for yelling at me in high school about Kurt Cobain and my desire for a stable career. (I know now that you were fighting against what he—and you—both eventually succumbed to.) And maybe it’s not your fault that you picked that super ugly floral shirt for prom (about which I enjoyed torturing you for years) because your decision-making skills were impaired. Although, the research on depression doesn’t say anything about bad taste.
I wish you had told me. Not because I could have helped, but because I could have tried. I could have let you off the hook more. I could have appreciated you.
Mostly, though, I want to say: I am impressed by you. You had all this going on and you still managed to be one of the best people in the entire world. What an exceptional person to be.
Chapter 50
I was standing in front of the bodega, around the corner from the Institute of Television Arts. That same sad sack was across the street wearing his hoagie sandwich board.
This time, I had at least tried to dress appropriately for Stewart’s tribute, but no woman has ever been sufficiently warm in a dress and stockings. I shivered, arms crossed.
“You look freezing.”
I turned to find George standing behind me in a suit with a black overcoat, dapper as hell. His hair was still damp from the shower. I felt a fluttering in my stomach and, despite my resolution, an urge to brush the rogue strands from his forehead. He bit his lip, awaiting my reply. Was he nervous?
Last night, after a heart-to-heart with cat Chris Harrison, I’d decided how I would play things with George: I’d be cordial and that’s it. He lived three thousand miles away in LA. I understood now that the truth about Stewart has not been his to share. He barely knew me. Why should he have betrayed Helen, and his professional oath, to tell me anything?
But I took one look at George now and I knew that I was in deeper trouble than I’d let myself believe. It was embarrassing really. The intensity of my attachment was so disproportionate to our single week of knowing each other, however significant this particular chunk of time. This wasn’t The Bachelor! This was real life. And yet, somehow, I’d lost the thread of where Stewart’s loss ended and my affection for this new man began. What I was feeling had to be some kind of . . . what was the word that Gretchen always used? Transference. That’s what this was. Either that or George’s eyes were that amazing.
“That’s because I am,” I finally managed, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Freezing.”
“Should we talk inside the deli?”
I gave him the side-eye. “This, my dear, is a bodega. No respectable New Yorker would call it a deli.”
“Who said I was respectable? Or a New Yorker?”
He opened the door. I led him, out of habit now, to my spot by the beverages in the back. It was basically my new office. I did my best to make my expression impassive and looked up at him. “So what’s up? You said you needed to talk about something Stewart-related.”
“Yes. This meeting was not personally motivated.” He bobbled his head from side to side. “Okay, maybe it was a little personally motivated.”
“It’s okay,” I sighed. “I’m over it. I’m not that mad anymore.”
“Well, good,” he exhaled. “That’s a giant relief. But I still want to apologize. Wren, I wanted to tell you so badly. It was torture to keep it to myself. I felt you deserved to know. Of course I did. But I had promised a grieving mother and we had attorney-client privilege and . . . basically, I convinced myself that, ultimately, how we lost Stu wasn’t as important as just supporting each other because we did.”
I weighed that in my head. “In some ways maybe that’s true; in some ways, maybe not.”
“Also, I didn’t want to make you responsible for keeping that secret from the rest of the group.” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s not a small stress, hiding the truth.”
“I believe it.” I thought about how anxious he’d looked when I met him outside of the Beasleys’ that time. No wonder! I’d been so wrapped up in my own sense of injustice that I’d assumed his discomfort was about my tension with Helen. “Look, I wish you hadn’t lied, but you were also in an impossible position and you don’t owe me anything.” I fiddled with the button on the cuff of my coat. “You have to understand, finding out the truth, especially that way, was like discovering that Stewart was gone all over again. It was shocking.”
George looked at the ground, then back up at me. I could see tears in his eyes. He took my hand; his was much warmer than mine. Electricity shot up my arm like static shock. “Wren. I’m so sorry. Please know that. I hate that I made this worse for you. When I found out, I felt so responsible. I would hate for you to feel that way too.”
Honestly, I would have forgiven George anything in that moment. I didn’t want to be mad; I wanted to kiss him. But I wouldn’t.
The man behind the counter was looking at us warily. I pulled George into the chip aisle and out of view, then turned to face him. “I do know that. I promise. And I know you probably feel extra pressure because of what happened between us the other night, but you don’t owe me—”
“Wait, stop.” He held up his hands as if for a double high-five. “Why do you keep saying I don’t owe you anything? Tell me you’re not about to apologize for the other night.”
“Well, not apologize.” I put a hand on my hip. “I mean, like, you’re welcome, but—”
“Tell me you’re not about to give me some prepared speech about how it was a mistake and I’m off the hook.”
That’s precisely what I was about to do. “Um. I just don’t want you to feel pressure because you live in LA and I get that. I’m not—”
George dragged his hands down his face, then rested a palm on each of my shoulders. “Wren, no. Please. Stop. It wasn’t a mistake. Not for me. I haven’t felt this way about someone in . . . maybe ever. The distance is an issue, but we’ll figure it out. If you feel the same way?”
“Really?” I was taken aback. “You want to figure it out? Like, us?”
“You don’t?”
“No, I do, but I thought I was being irrational. Maybe because of the grief—”
“Well, you are irrational sometimes. And impossible and maddening and challenging and cannot take a joke, but also smart and beautiful and fascinating and grounded and kind and very, very decent. Also, sometimes indecent—at the right moments.”
“I can take a joke. When it’s funny. And well-timed.”
“Of course that’s your one takeaway from everything I just said!”
I felt a surge of happiness about which I felt instant guilt. “But isn’t this so weird? Considering that Stewart just died and that’s how we met and—”
“It is weird,” he nodded. “But I think, so far, we do weird well.”
Are things going to be weird?
I hope so.
Oh, Stewart. How is it that you’ve only been gone a week? Will you live forever in my mind?
“I guess weird is where I live.”
“I like you and your weirdness,” George said, stepping toward me, so that we were only inches apart.
“You’re pretty cool—for a last resort.”
I shoved him. He leaned in and kissed me then, in an inappropriate place at an inappropriate time. I felt my head fall against a Smart Food popcorn bag, like a crinkly pillow, as he pressed me into the shelving behind us. A warmth coursed through me. I was delighted, I was enamored, I was falling backward as the unstable shelves shifted with a squeal.
We righted ourselves, laughing. “We really know how to pick a spot.”
George let me go and began digging in his coat pocket. “Look, I know this is all jumbled and messed up and, my God, it is definitely unorthodox. I’m the lawyer; I was his friend. It’s all confused. But maybe this is a good time to tell you the other reason why we’re here. I mean, aside from my groveling.”
“Oh. This wasn’t just a ploy to get me here?” I pulled the shelving back into place. We were spending so much time in here, we really needed to buy something. That chocolate had been astronomical, but delicious. Or maybe some Popchips? I looked back at George. He was holding out an envelope. “What’s that?”
“It’s a letter. From Stewart.”
I inhaled sharply. “Seriously?”
He nodded.
I stared at the white rectangle stiff in his fingers for a long moment before I reached out my hand to take it. It felt too valuable to have out in the air. I took it and pressed it safe against my chest. “A suicide note?”
“More like a directive.”
“For me?”
George nodded. “For you.”
“Why now and not before?”
“His instructions: apparently, these were inside a larger envelope reserved only for his mother. You know how the sense of drama would have appealed to him.”
“So I would have found out either way then? The truth about what happened?”
“At some point. Yes. I think Helen would have waited as long as she could to tell you, but she would have had to honor his wishes in the end.” George bit his lip. The fluorescents above us flickered. He braced himself, his fingers closing around the sharp edge of a shelf. “But Wren, most likely, everyone is going to find out eventually. In this day and age, stories like this—about celebrities—don’t stay private. Helen is just buying time, trying to gather her strength and take a beat before the secret comes out. Stu was a public figure. For better or worse, we don’t own his story. I need you to prepare yourself for that too.”
I took a moment to digest that, dizzied by the indignity. Of course. Someone would dig up the truth. They would all know: the vultures, the press, the counter guy with the shiny face at Stewart’s corner bagel shop. And they would be giddy with it—a whole other kind of loss to own. The price of fame.
Poor Stewart. My Stewart. Their Stewart.
My hands were shaking. “I can read it now though? The letter?”
“Of course. Just suffice it to say that Stu would have approved . . . of us.”
“You read it?”
“No. No one is meant to read it but you. But I got my own this morning. I didn’t know about it until today when Helen gave it to me. Promise.” He crossed his heart, then leaned over and kissed my cheek, sweetly, and turned to leave.
“Wait! Where are you going?”
“To wait at the Institute. I don’t want to crowd you while you read. I figured you might want privacy.”
“Please don’t leave!” I yelped before I could stop myself. I looked down at my shoes, up at the wall of snacks. Then, I said to the ceiling, “I think I’m scared to read it alone.”
I lowered my gaze to George’s face. He watched me for a minute and then slid an arm around my shoulder. “Okay. Then, I’m not going anywhere.”
He bought us a cashew butter chocolate bar and we sat down at one of the dinky metal tables. My name was written on the outside of the envelope. Just seeing Stewart’s handwriting tugged hard at my heart. I opened the seal.
I had written him so many letters, it was strange to have one go the other way. Like somebody flipped the universe.
Chapter 51
Dear Wren,
I’m going to make this short and sweet because I’ve got somewhere to be. That’s a joke, in case you still have a sense of humor after all this happens.
I’m sure you’re going to be upset as fuck. I’m not feeling too amazing myself, although having finally made this decision is bringing me some relief. So I’ll say two things up front so you know: I love you very much and it’s not your fault. I’m just done. I’ve been battling this thing for a long while and I’m tired. I used to be afraid sometimes of what I might do to myself. Now, my fatigue outweighs my trepidation. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to explain it better. Ask Kate about the details. She’ll be willing to share more than my mother.
I’m doing a few things in preparation and I’m sure you’ll object to all of them: First, by now you know that I’ve asked you to handle some funeral arrangements and such. You may have been surprised, since I hardly think of you as my ideal party planner. It’s mostly a ploy to get you to spend time with my friend, George. Maybe it’s a match made it hell; I don’t know. But you have always reminded me of each other. I think maybe that’s why I never introduced you in life. I was afraid you’d get along better than either of you do with me and leave me all alone. You both need to let loose; you’re both better humans than me; you both really like Aaron Sorkin shows. Either way, the thought of you knowing George makes me feel a little better about leaving you solo—even if you only hangout for a few days.
The other part, about which you’re only learning now, is that I’m leaving you some money—a bunch actually. You can’t object or wave me off because I’m already dead, so just accept it. It’s selfish, in truth. I’m getting the last word in our lifelong argument about your goals and potential.
The money represents two things: stability and freedom. I never appreciated your characterization of me as an overprivileged ass, but I do think there’s truth to it being different to explore the world without worry. (Of course, money can’t buy all peace of mind, as evidenced by my current state.)
This way, for at least a short while, you can live your life as if you don’t have to worry about health insurance and salaries and gainful employment. Anyway, I can’t force you to use it as I would like, but I hope you’ll allow yourself at least an adventure or two—or some time off from being so damn responsible. Maybe consider the idea that there are countless ways of seeing things. What would life look like without fear?
You are one very bright spot in this world, Wren. I hope I was for you too. As much as you can, please love yourself as I have loved you. Please don’t be too disappointed.
Yours Forever,
Stewart
Chapter 52
I read the letter three times, then buried my damp face in George’s soft cashmere coat for a long time. Eventually, it was time to walk to the Institute.
George seemed to understand that I didn’t want to talk. I needed a moment—before bursting into that tribute and facing all those people with my puffy red eyes—to absorb what I’d learned.
Poor Stewart. He fought so hard against this. For his whole life.
How despondent did someone have to be to make a decision like this with so much planning and clarity?
Outside, George and I paused at the bottom of the stairs, those gargoyles leering above us.
I wrung my hands. “I think I’m nervous.”
“Why?”
“I know this sounds silly considering all my complaining, but what happens after this? We say this official goodbye and then what? We’re just meant to resume our lives and grieve on our own? Move on?”
“Yeah. I guess so—unless you’d like to make an annual date with Blair.”
I recoiled.
He laughed. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
Chapter 53
Stewart. I think yo
u rendered a happy ending impossible. I hope you’re happier at least. Or in less pain.
Some days, I think the worst part of your loss for me is the number of years I will have to exist on this planet without your jokes—without my partner in crime.
On other days, I am devastated by what a young Stewart would have thought of this ending: how disappointed you would have been as that third grade kid—champing at the bit to play basketball instead of learn grammar—to know that this is how your life would resolve itself. I keep thinking there must be some way to alter this outcome. But there’s not. Death is as final as things get. There are no do-overs.
I choke on sadness at unexpected moments: doing the laundry, when the wrong song blasts from Alexa’s speakers, walking down the street when I believe, for a moment, I’ve caught a glimpse of you. My eyes deceive me.
You made the world Technicolor. It will always be grayer now.
As my mother says, death is “fundamentally unacceptable.” But you are gone nonetheless.
Chapter 54
At front, a poster was displayed on an easel welcoming guests to “a tribute celebrating the life and work of actor stewart beasley: benefitting the brain aneurysm foundation.” I felt strange about having roped the charity in when that wasn’t Stewart’s real cause of death, but I suppose it benefitted a good cause.
The sign bore the charity’s logo and a picture of Stewart as Drake in that damn kitschy T-shirt. He looked happy and like he was keeping a secret. For a moment, I felt surprised that he wouldn’t be here for this. Then I remembered why and righted myself. When would that understanding become the new normal? I both anticipated and dreaded it.
Inside, a crowd of people had begun to assemble—the early birds. They milled from the lobby into the gallery space, chatting quietly and sipping white wine from clear plastic cups. Many of them were strangers to me; the Institute had invited their members and the public to the event. The gallery exhibition would be up for two months, so that anyone interested could come peruse. Stewart was a celebrity. They would share him with the world.
Competitive Grieving Page 30