The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo

by Taylor Jenkins Reid

  “When can I release the book?”

  “I won’t be around much longer,” Evelyn says, sitting down on a stool by the island.

  “Enough with the vagaries, Evelyn. When can I release the book?”

  Evelyn absentmindedly starts folding an errant napkin that is sitting haphazardly on the counter. Then she looks up at me. “It’s no secret that the gene for breast cancer can be inherited,” she says. “Although if there were any justice in the world, the mother would die of it well before the daughter.”

  I look at the finer points of Evelyn’s face. I look at the corners of her lips, the edges of her eyes, the direction of her brows. There is very little emotion in any of them. Her face remains as stoic as if she were reading me the paper.

  “You have breast cancer?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “How far along is it?”

  “Far enough for me to need to hurry up and get this done.”

  I look away when she looks at me. I’m not sure why. It’s not out of anger, really. It’s out of shame. I feel guilty that so much of me does not feel bad for her. And stupid for the part of me that does.

  “I saw my daughter go through this,” Evelyn says. “I know what’s ahead of me. It’s important that I get my affairs in order. In addition to finalizing the last copy of my will and making sure Grace is taken care of, I handed over my most-prized gowns to Christie’s. And this . . . this is the last of it. That letter. And this book. You.”

  “I’m leaving,” I say. “I can’t take any more today.”

  Evelyn starts to say something, and I stop her.

  “No,” I say. “I don’t want to hear anything else from you. Don’t say another goddamn word, OK?”

  I can’t say I’m surprised when she speaks anyway. “I was just going to say that I understand and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” I say, just as I remember that Evelyn and I aren’t done.

  “For the photo shoot,” she says.

  “I’m not sure I’m prepared to come back here.”

  “Well,” Evelyn says, “I very much hope that you do.”

  WHEN I GET HOME, I instinctively throw my bag onto the couch. I am tired, and I am angry, and my eyes feel dry and stiff, as if they have been wrung out like wet laundry.

  I sit down, not bothering to take off my coat or my shoes. I respond to the e-mail my mother has sent containing her flight information for tomorrow. And then I lift my legs and rest my feet on the coffee table. As I do, they hit an envelope resting on the surface.

  It is only then that I realize I even have a coffee table in the first place.

  David brought it back. And on it rests an envelope addressed to me.

  M—

  I should never have taken the table. I don’t need it. It’s silly for it to sit in the storage unit. I was being petty when I left.

  Enclosed is my key to the apartment and the business card of my lawyer.

  I suppose there is not much else to say except that I thank you for doing what I could not.

  —D

  I put the letter down on the table. I put my feet back up. I wrestle myself out of my coat. I kick off my shoes. I lay my head back. I breathe.

  I don’t think I would have ended my marriage without Evelyn Hugo.

  I don’t think I would have stood up to Frankie without Evelyn Hugo.

  I don’t think I would have had the chance to write a surefire bestseller without Evelyn Hugo.

  I don’t think I would understand the true depths of my father’s devotion to me without Evelyn Hugo.

  So I think Evelyn is wrong about at least one thing.

  My hate is not uncomplicated.

  WHEN I GET TO EVELYN’S apartment in the morning, I’m unsure when I even made the actual decision to come.

  I simply woke up and found myself on my way. When I rounded the corner, walking here from the subway, I realized I could never have not come.

  I cannot and will not do anything to compromise my standing at Vivant. I did not fight for writer at large to bunt at the last minute.

  I’m right on time but somehow the last to arrive. Grace opens the door for me and already looks as if a hurricane hit her. Her hair is falling out of her ponytail, and she’s trying harder than usual to keep a smile on her face.

  “They showed up almost forty-five minutes early,” Grace says to me in a whisper. “Evelyn had a makeup person in at the crack of dawn to get her ready before the magazine’s makeup person. She had a lighting consultant come in at eight thirty this morning to guide her on the most flattering light in the house. Turns out it’s the terrace, which I have not been as diligent about cleaning because it’s still cold out every day. Anyway, I’ve been scrubbing the terrace from top to bottom for the past two hours.” Grace jokingly rests her head on my shoulder. “Thank God I’m going on vacation.”

  “Monique!” Frankie says when she sees me in the hallway. “What took you so long?”

  I look at my watch. “It’s eleven-oh-six.” I remember the first day I met Evelyn Hugo. I remember how nervous I was. I remember how larger-than-life she seemed. She is painfully human to me now. But this is all new to Frankie. She hasn’t seen the real Evelyn. She still thinks we’re photographing an icon more than a person.

  I step out onto the terrace and see Evelyn in the midst of lights, reflectors, wires, and cameras. There are people circled around her. She is sitting on a stool. Her gray blond hair is being blown in the air by a wind machine. She is wearing her signature emerald green, this time in a long-sleeved silk gown. Billie Holiday is playing on a speaker somewhere. The sun is shining behind Evelyn. She looks like the very center of the universe.

  She is right at home.

  She smiles for the camera, her brown eyes sparkling in a different way from anything I’ve ever seen in person. She seems at peace somehow, in full display, and I wonder if the real Evelyn isn’t the woman I’ve been talking to for the past two weeks but, instead, the one I see before me right now. Even at almost eighty, she commands a room in a way I’ve never seen before. A star is always and forever a star.

  Evelyn was born to be famous. I think her body helped her. I think her face helped her. But for the first time, watching her in action, moving in front of the camera, I get the sense that she has sold herself short in one way: she could have been born with considerably less physical gifts and probably still made it. She simply has it. That undefinable quality that makes everyone stop and pay attention.

  She spots me as I stand behind one of the lighting guys, and she stops what she’s doing. She waves me over to her.

  “Everyone, everyone,” she says. “We need a few photos of Monique and me. Please.”

  “Oh, Evelyn,” I say. “I don’t want to do that.” I don’t want to even be close to her.

  “Please,” she says. “To remember me by.”

  A couple of people laugh, as if Evelyn is making a joke. Because, of course, no one could forget Evelyn Hugo. But I know she’s serious.

  And so, in my jeans and blazer, I step up next to her. I take off my glasses. I can feel the heat of the lights, the way they glare in my eyes, the way the wind feels on my face.

  “Evelyn, I know this isn’t news to you,” the photographer says, “but boy, does the camera love you.”

  “Oh,” Evelyn says, shrugging. “It never hurts to hear it one more time.”

  Her dress is low-cut, revealing her still-ample cleavage, and it occurs to me that it is the very thing that made her that will be the thing to finally take her down.

  Evelyn catches my eye and smiles. It is a sincere smile, a kind smile. There is something almost nurturing about it, as if she is looking at me to see how I’m doing, as if she cares.

  And then, in an instant, I realize that she does.

  Evelyn Hugo wants to know that I’m OK, that with everything that has happened, I will still be all right.

  In a moment of vulnerability, I find myself putting my arm around her. A s
econd after I do, I realize that I want to pull it back, that I’m not ready to be this close.

  “I love it!” the photographer says. “Just like that.”

  I cannot pull my arm away now. And so I pretend. I pretend, for one picture, that I am not a bundle of nerves. I pretend that I am not furious and confused and heartbroken and torn up and disappointed and shocked and uncomfortable.

  I pretend that I am simply captivated by Evelyn Hugo.

  Because, despite everything, I still am.

  * * *

  AFTER THE PHOTOGRAPHER leaves, after everyone has cleaned up, after Frankie has left the apartment, so happy that she could have sprouted wings and flown herself back to the office, I am preparing to leave.

  Evelyn is upstairs changing her clothes.

  “Grace,” I say as I spot her gathering disposable cups and paper plates in the kitchen. “I wanted to take a moment to say good-bye, since Evelyn and I are done.”

  “Done?” Grace asks.

  I nod. “We finished up the story yesterday. Photo shoot today. Now I get to writing,” I say, even though I haven’t the foggiest idea how I’m going to approach any of this or what, exactly, my next step is.

  “Oh,” Grace says, shrugging. “I must have misunderstood. I thought you were going to be here with Evelyn through my vacation. But honestly, all I could focus on was that I had two tickets to Costa Rica in my hands.”

  “That’s exciting. When do you leave?”

  “On the red-eye later,” Grace says. “Evelyn gave them to me last night. For me and my husband. All expenses paid. A week. We’re staying near Monteverde. All I heard was ‘zip-lining in the cloud forest,’ and I was sold.”

  “You deserve it,” Evelyn says as she appears at the top of the stairs and walks down to meet us. She is in jeans and a T-shirt but has kept her hair and makeup. She looks gorgeous but also plain. Two things that only Evelyn Hugo can be at once.

  “Are you sure you don’t need me here? I thought Monique would be around to keep you company,” Grace says.

  Evelyn shakes her head. “No, you go. You’ve done so much for me lately. You need some time on your own. If something comes up, I can always call downstairs.”

  “I don’t need to—”

  Evelyn cuts her off. “Yes, you do. It’s important that you know how much I appreciate all that you’ve done around here. So let me say thank you this way.”

  Grace smiles demurely. “OK,” she says. “If you insist.”

  “I do. In fact, go home now. You’ve been cleaning all day, and I’m sure you need more time to pack. So go on, get out of here.”

  Surprisingly, Grace doesn’t fight her. She merely says thank you and gathers her things. Everything seems to be happening seamlessly until Evelyn stops her on her way out and gives her a hug.

  Grace seems slightly surprised though pleased.

  “You know I could never have spent these past few years without you, don’t you?” Evelyn says as she pulls away from her.

  Grace blushes. “Thank you.”

  “Have fun in Costa Rica,” Evelyn says. “The time of your life.”

  And once Grace is out the door, I suspect I understand what is going on.

  Evelyn was never going to let the thing that made her be the thing to destroy her. She was never going to let anything, even a part of her body, have that sort of power.

  Evelyn is going to die when she wants to.

  And she wants to die now.

  “Evelyn,” I say. “What are you . . .”

  I can’t bring myself to say it or even suggest it. It sounds so absurd, even the thought of it. Evelyn Hugo taking her own life.

  I imagine myself saying it out loud and then watching Evelyn laugh at me, at how creative my imagination is, at how silly I can be.

  But I also imagine myself saying it and having Evelyn respond with a plain and resigned confirmation.

  And I’m not sure I’m ready to stomach either scenario.

  “Hm?” Evelyn says, looking at me. She does not seem concerned or disturbed or nervous. She looks as if this is any normal day.

  “Nothing,” I say.

  “Thank you for coming today,” she says. “I know you were unsure if you would be able to make it, and I . . . I’m just glad that you did.”

  I hate Evelyn, but I think I like her very much.

  I wish she had never existed, and yet I can’t help but admire her a great deal.

  I’m not sure what to do with that. I’m not sure what any of it means.

  I turn the front doorknob. All I can manage to squeak out is the very heart of what I mean. “Please take care, Evelyn,” I say.

  She reaches out and takes my hand. She squeezes it briefly and then lets go. “You too, Monique. You have an exceptional future ahead of you. You’ll wrangle the very best out of this world. I really do believe that.”

  Evelyn looks at me, and for one split second, I can read her expression. It is subtle, and it is fleeting. But it is there. And I know that my suspicions are right.

  Evelyn Hugo is saying good-bye.

  AS I WALK INTO THE subway tunnel and through the turnstiles, I keep wondering if I should turn back.

  Should I knock on her door?

  Should I call 911?

  Should I stop her?

  I can walk right back up the subway steps. I can put one foot in front of the other and make my way back to Evelyn’s and say “Don’t do this.”

  I am capable of that.

  I just have to decide if I want to do it. If I should do it. If it’s the right thing to do.

  She didn’t pick me just because she felt she owed me. She picked me because of my right-to-die piece.

  She picked me because I showed a unique understanding of the need for dignity in death.

  She picked me because she believes I can see the need for mercy, even when what constitutes mercy is hard to swallow.

  She picked me because she trusts me.

  And I get the feeling she trusts me now.

  My train comes thundering into the station. I need to get on it and meet my mother at the airport.

  The doors open. The crowds flow out. The crowds flow in. A teenage boy with a backpack shoulders me out of the way. I do not set foot in the subway car.

  The train dings. The doors close. The station empties.

  And I stand there. Frozen.

  If you think someone is going to take her own life, don’t you try to stop her?

  Don’t you call the cops? Don’t you break down walls to find her?

  The station starts to fill again, slowly. A mother with her toddler. A man with groceries. Three hipsters in flannel with beards. The crowd starts gathering faster than I can clock them now.

  I need to get on the next train to see my mother and leave Evelyn behind me.

  I need to turn around and go save Evelyn from herself.

  I see the two soft lights on the track that signal the train approaching. I hear the roar.

  My mom can get to my place on her own.

  Evelyn has never needed saving from anyone.

  The train rolls into the station. The doors open. The crowds flow out. And it is only once the doors close that I realize I have stepped inside the train.

  Evelyn trusts me with her story.

  Evelyn trusts me with her death.

  And in my heart, I believe it would be a betrayal to stop her.

  No matter how I may feel about Evelyn, I know she is in her right mind. I know she is OK. I know she has the right to die as she lived, entirely on her own terms, leaving nothing to fate or to chance but instead holding the power of it all in her own hands.

  I grab the cold metal pole in front of me. I sway with the speed of the car. I change trains. I get onto the AirTrain. It is only once I am standing at the arrivals gate and see my mother waving at me that I realize I have been nearly catatonic for an hour.

  There is simply too much.

  My father, David, the book, Evelyn.

 
And the moment my mother is close enough to touch, I put my arms around her and sink into her shoulders. I cry.

  The tears that come out of me feel as if they were decades in the making. It feels as if some old version of me is leaking out, letting go, saying good-bye in the effort of making room for a new me. One that is stronger and somehow both more cynical about people and also more optimistic about my place in the world.

  “Oh, honey,” my mom says, dropping her bag off her shoulder, letting it fall wherever it falls, paying no attention to the people who need to get around us. She holds me tightly, with both arms rubbing my back.

  I feel no pressure to stop crying. I feel no need to explain myself. You don’t have to make yourself OK for a good mother; a good mother makes herself OK for you. And my mother has always been a good mother, a great mother.

  When I am done, I pull away. I wipe my eyes. There are people passing us on the left and the right, businesswomen with briefcases, families with backpacks. Some of them stare. But I’m used to people staring at my mother and me. Even in the melting pot that is New York City, there are still many people who don’t expect a mother and daughter to look as we look.

  “What is it, honey?” my mom asks.

  “I don’t even know where to start,” I say.

  She grabs my hand. “How about I forgo trying to prove to you that I understand the subway system and we hail a cab?”

  I laugh and nod, drying the edges of my eyes.

  By the time we are in the backseat of a stale taxi, clips of the morning news cycle repeating over and over on the console, I have gathered myself enough to breathe easily.

  “So tell me,” she says. “What’s on your mind?”

  Do I tell her what I know?

  Do I tell her that the heartbreaking thing we’ve always believed—that my father died driving drunk—isn’t true? Am I going to exchange that transgression for another? That he was having an affair with a man when his life ended?

  “David and I are officially getting divorced,” I say.

  “I’m so sorry, sweetheart,” she says. “I know that had to be hard.”

  I can’t burden her with what I suspect about Evelyn. I just can’t.