“Maybe she was on drugs,” Marilyn had said. Her mother-in-law-to-be was always preaching about the danger of drugs, which Riley had come to accept as part of her teacher’s quiver. Not that she’d talk about drugs with her second-graders (Riley hoped not!), but it fell onto her list of potential hazards, things wrong with the world.
Now Tom shifts on the couch and wraps his arms around Riley. “What are the odds that we’d be there for the whole thing? I mean, it’s pretty incredible when you think about it. We were sitting at the table closest to the window, too.”
“Do you think it’s a sign?” Riley traces little circles on his forearm with her finger. “You know, like we’re not supposed to get married?”
He tilts his head so that their eyes are level. “If anything, I think it’s a sign that we should get married as soon as possible.”
“Ha, right.” She rolls her eyes.
But he’s still staring at her. “No, I mean it, Ry. Seriously.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Do you mean we should elope to Vegas or something?”
“Maybe?” He shrugs. “Though, I don’t know that we even have to go that far. I hear a justice of the peace can tie the knot just as easily—and a lot more quickly.”
Riley can’t believe what she’s hearing. The news has switched over to a story about a train derailing on the Green Line, but she can’t focus on it at the moment because she thinks her fiancé might be suggesting that they get married within the month, maybe even next week. That they might be able to stop thinking about wedding invitations and eight-piece bands and meal tastings and all the other headaches that come with a guest list of two hundred.
“Are you serious?” She’s gauging his expression, trying to judge if he’s kidding or not. “Your mother would kill us if we did that.” She cringes when she hears herself. “Sorry, bad choice of words.”
Tom shrugs again. “So what? My mom isn’t getting married. We are. We should be able to marry however we want. Besides, I don’t think she’s going to care as much about a huge wedding after this afternoon. We can cross the Seafarer off the list, that’s for sure.”
Riley tries to fight back her grin because it’s not funny. A woman has died today, and as a result, she has felt like crap all afternoon. But, yes, she agrees that the Seafarer, and preferably all the other fancy places where Marilyn might feel comfortable but Riley wouldn’t, should drop off the list. “Don’t tease me like this, because if you’re kidding, I might have to scream. You realize that you’re pretty much describing my dream wedding? Beautiful wildflower bouquets with a few friends and family. No fuss.”
He nods. “Mine, too.”
“But my dad!” Riley slaps a hand over her mouth. “My dad has to be there. He’d be so upset if he weren’t there to walk me down the aisle, even if it’s at a courthouse.”
“Not a problem,” Tom says. “With all the money we’d save on the wedding, we ought to be able to afford a plane ticket out from Michigan. How does sometime next week sound?”
He speed-walks into the study and comes back with his laptop before opening up a link to a travel website. Her hands are shaking. “You’re really serious about this.”
“Never been more serious in my life. The longer we sat there at the hotel, the more I realized that our wedding was turning into the wedding my mom always wanted but never got. And then, when that lady jumped, it seemed like the universe was shouting at us to get the hell out of there. I’m fairly certain that’s not where we’re supposed to get married.” He pauses, and Riley waits for whatever’s coming next. “And I’ve been sitting in the study, trying to work today, but all I can think about is what we saw and how sad it makes me, but also how I’m kind of glad we were there because it makes me realize that I don’t care about all this wedding stuff. I never did. All I want to do is marry you as soon as possible and enjoy every minute we have together.”
Riley is speechless for a moment. He gets it, she thinks. He really gets it. And here she’d been thinking she’d lost her fiancé to his mother’s niggling requests. For a second she considers how it might feel not to have the big wedding they’ve started to plan—will she be disappointed? But no, not even a flicker of regret rises in her at the thought. Instead, it’s more of a buoyant sensation, as if she might be able to actually breathe again.
Her lips graze Tom’s before she grins and says, “Yeah, I think I could get behind that.”
TWENTY-NINE
Earlier that day
Jason has got to get out of here. There’s no time to waste. What was he thinking? He’s stuffing his clothes into his black duffel bag, but his hands are trembling. He goes into the bathroom to grab his dopp kit, his toothbrush, the tiny tube of Crest that he and Gwen were sharing. Quickly he wipes the counter down and tosses the tissue in the toilet and flushes. His eyes scour the bathroom for anything else that’s his but there’s nothing.
Back in the main room, he races around to organize a few magazines on the table. He’s about to toss the empty cups and leftover trays from room service last night (he’d ordered a late-night snack after he got back from dropping Claire off at her room) but then thinks better of it. That’s what maid service is for. The bed’s still unmade, and he ruffles through the sheets to make sure there’s no stray underwear or a T-shirt left behind. Then he checks under the bed. Only some random Kleenexes. Gwen’s stuff is still all over the place—discarded clothes that she’d rejected for one reason or another for the cruise last night—but there’s not much he can do about that now.
His heart careens around in his chest, like a train that might torpedo off the tracks any minute. He looks around again for any last items, locates his wallet on the bedside table and slides it into his back pocket. He’s not thinking clearly, he knows that, and struggles to slow his thoughts down long enough so he doesn’t screw things up even worse. But the only thing that comes to mind is his own voice saying Dude, you have got to get out of here.
What was supposed to be an incredible birthday getaway has turned into the worst possible nightmare. But he can’t dwell on that now. Where will he go? Who will take him in? Maybe his sister, Ruthie, in Manhattan? Can he catch a ride on a bus? He recalls seeing a bus station over on Atlantic Avenue. Maybe he can hightail it over there, buy himself a ticket. He rakes his fingers through his hair. What else? What else is he forgetting?
Then it hits him. A note. He should leave a note for Gwen. Something apologetic. Something that says he loves her and always will and he’s an idiot and he’s going somewhere far, far away. That he hopes she’ll forgive him. That he can’t believe she has put up with him for as long as she has. When he pauses to think of what he’s done—the memory of him grabbing her so hard and shoving her like he meant to hurt her—he has to race to the toilet and vomit. He wipes the seat down, flushes again.
On the bureau where the TV sits there’s a pad of paper and a pencil. Jason grabs the pencil and begins to write. Dear Gwen, Words can’t begin to describe how very sorry I am... He’s written almost two pages by the time he’s finished. They’re small note-sized pages, but still, he’s surprised he has this much to say. If the note is going to serve its purpose, though, it has to end on an upbeat, a nod toward the future. It can’t just be about how sorry he is. That’s not good enough.
He chews the tip of the pencil and thinks. He knows precious seconds are ticking by. Finally he writes I really hope that one day you’ll consider taking me back. That we’ll look back on this day as a turning point, when we realized we needed to take a break from each other, but that it was all for the best. I love you, Gwen. Always will, Yours, J.
He slides it under the table lamp next to the bed, someplace visible where it won’t be missed. Then he quietly pulls the heavy door shut behind him and heads for the stairs that will carry him down ten flights. It’s not until he’s sitting in the last seat in the back of the bus to New York that he realize
s he’s forgotten his phone back in the room.
THIRTY
As soon as they reach his office, Jean-Paul shuts the door and pulls Marie into a fierce hug. “Let me hold you a minute,” he says. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve needed this.” Isabella squawks to be let out of her stroller, but Marie ignores her for the moment and squeezes Jean-Paul back. Hard. When they finally pull apart, he drops onto the couch, pulls off his glasses and rubs his eyes, trying to organize all the thoughts swirling around in his mind. Marie, meanwhile, stoops down to push one of several buttons on the baby’s stroller that light up with a song. “Mary Had a Little Lamb” begins to play, and Isabella startles for a second, then resumes crying. Marie shrugs and fishes the pacifier out of her pocket before plopping it into the baby’s mouth.
That there is so much life in front of him when only a few hours before he was confronted by death seems like such a giant disconnect that Jean-Paul can only shake his head at Isabella, now sucking away on her binky. “How wonderful,” he says, “that she’s so easily soothed.”
Marie glances at him as if he might have lost his mind. “You know this is short-lived, yes? Soon she’ll be screaming again.”
“But she’s here. You’re here. All the people I love most in the world.” He understands he’s rambling, that his stream of consciousness makes no sense, but given the last several hours he has endured, it makes perfect sense to him. “She’s so full of life,” he says and almost laughs.
“Yes, she is. Full of life,” Marie says. “And she won’t let you forget it.”
She sits down next to him and begins to rub his back in tiny circles, like she used to do when they were first married. Is it possible, he wonders, that he’s in shock? That he hasn’t had a moment to realize it till now? “That poor, poor woman,” he moans.
Marie shushes him, says, “Don’t worry. The police will figure out what happened. Your job is to keep the hotel running.”
Jean-Paul nods, but a thick cloud of exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him. “That’s assuming I still have a job.”
Her eyes widen. “Of course, you still have a job. Why would you even say that?”
His shoulders rise and fall. “Not exactly a good day for publicity.”
“But there’s nothing you could have done to prevent this, Jean-Paul! Certainly you know that. And Mr. Manley knows it, too.” She squeezes his forearm, her slender elegant fingers wrapping around it. “You mustn’t worry.”
“And we have a wedding this weekend.” He pulls his arm away and rests his head in his hands, the first time he’s allowed himself this small gesture of capitulation the entire day.
“I was wondering about that on the way over,” she says quietly. “The poor bride. Will they still go on with it, I wonder?”
“I think they have to. I haven’t spoken to the bride, but Gillian has been in touch with the bride’s mother. She says so long as any access to the terrace is blocked off and there are no camera crews around for tomorrow, they’ll keep the wedding here.”
“Well, that’s good, then. I like a woman who’s practical.”
Jean-Paul lifts his head, surprised by his wife’s sudden pronouncement. He would have expected a more sentimental response from her, something along the lines that the wedding reception couldn’t possibly take place here now. “Yes, well, I’m not sure she has much choice in the matter. You can’t exactly switch your venue at the last minute. And needless to say, an exorbitant amount of money has already been invested.”
“Which is exactly why you need to get back out there and keep your ship skating.”
A smile flits across his face. He’s almost forgotten that Marie was a motivational speaker back in Paris, that she’s prone to silly metaphors that don’t always translate well into English. “You mean sailing?” he asks.
“Yes, yes. Whatever the right word is. Sailing, skiing? You know what I mean. Get back in your boat. Or your canoe. Or whatever.” She pauses. “Your crew needs you right now.”
“And I’m here,” he retorts. “I’m just taking a few minutes to appreciate my wife and my daughter, whom I’ve been missing all day.”
“I’m sorry, honey.” She rubs more circles on his back. “I don’t mean to upset you. We’ve been missing you, too. When do you think they’ll release the name? When will they know what happened?”
Jean-Paul shrugs again. “Soon, I hope. We already have a name. From the room that’s been cordoned off. It’s only a matter of time before the police release it, once they’ve spoken to the family.”
Her dark eyes widen again in surprise. “So you know? You know who it is?”
He nods his head. “Yes, I know,” he says. “I know and wish I didn’t.”
He’s about to say more when his cell rings—it’s the commissioner. They exchange a few words, and when he hangs up, he tells Marie he has to go. “They’ve found a phone,” he explains hurriedly. “And it’s not the victim’s.”
THIRTY-ONE
She’d googled it. Of course, she’d googled it. Nearly six million Americans were suffering from Alzheimer’s disease, but fewer than five percent of those were diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s. Five percent. She’d sat with that number for a while. Roughly 250,000 to 300,000 people under the age of sixty-five. It struck her as both an impossibly large number and an incredibly small percentage. The more she read, scrolling down the pages, the more it seemed maybe she’d gotten lucky with a diagnosis at sixty-one. Some people developed it in their fifties or forties. Even their thirties. At least, Claire thought, there was some solace in knowing that she was officially on the other side of middle age, staring down her retirement years. Not as devastating as if she’d been a young mother or had just been getting back to work at the Dealer and had been handed the diagnosis.
So much can go haywire in a body! she thinks. Things like MS or ALS, other ailments with tidy but fearsome acronyms. She’d never spent much time considering it until she’d gotten sick, but now it seems a small miracle that something else didn’t knock her out of the world a long time ago. Her doctor had said anywhere from a year to several years for the disease to progress. But what she really wants to know is the exact day when she’ll lose it all—the ability to recognize her friends’ faces, her children’s voices, the door to her own house. She’d read about a young woman who’d been diagnosed two years after she’d first begun noticing vague symptoms, things like blurred speech, missing words. Her loved ones had commented on it, and she’d blown them off. Now a part of Claire wonders if Amber is already onto her secret but is too afraid to ask.
For doctor’s appointments, Ben has been her rock, no question, but that doesn’t mean he has shied away from homeopathic-healing suggestions for her. And even though Claire puts about as much stock in homeopathy as she does in astrology or Ouija boards, she figures what can it hurt? If it helps Ben feel better about her situation, then she’s on board. Her cupboards at home, when she remembers to open them, are filled with specialty teas, her fridge stocked with fresh blueberries and other produce rich in antioxidants. Twice a week, Ben delivers bulging bags from his health-food store directly to her fridge. And although Claire doubts that any of it will actually halt the disease from creeping across her brain like kudzu, she eats those damn blueberries, every last one of them, as if her life depends on it.
Because the part that terrifies her most, that she won’t often allow herself to think about, is the burden she will become to her kids once her memory truly slides away from her. Several years ago, Claire had visited an older friend in a home for Alzheimer’s patients because she’d promised the woman’s children she would. It was one of the most awful, depressing places she’d ever set foot in. The antiseptic smell, the intermittent moaning, the beeps of nurses’ call buttons. But the worst were the blank stares on the patients’ faces, their mouths hanging open. One woman, her hair in a rat’s nest atop her head,
had approached Claire and asked, “Are you my sister?”
She’d looked so full of hope, it was all Claire could do not to lie. “No, I’m sorry, but maybe your sister will be here later?” The woman had nodded and wandered off, her slippers slapping against the cold, tiled floor.
No, when the time arrives, Claire will absolutely not, no way put her children through the agony of caring for her. Nor will she allow them to watch her wasting away into nothingness, becoming a shell of herself, someone who no longer recognizes them at visiting hours. When the time comes, as it inevitably will, she’ll inquire about options, about a magic pill. Maybe she’ll have to enlist Ben’s help, but she’s counting on him to understand. It’s Amber who will try to talk her out of it. But no matter, because Claire has already made up her mind. If a person doesn’t have the presence of mind to appreciate life, then how is it living? she’ll insist. In the end, it’s her life. Her choice.
Never before has religion assumed a large presence in her life, but lately she has found herself thinking a lot about God, about heaven and where she might go. A few weeks after her diagnosis, she’d wandered into a Unitarian church during her lunch break, the hard wooden pew pushing against her back, and asked herself why, exactly, was she here? What was she searching for? Hope? Absolution? A cure? They had always been more of a holiday-churchgoing family, and she and Walt had brought the kids to a Protestant church on occasion. Every Easter and Christmas Eve, she’d comb the kids’ hair and cut their fingernails in anticipation of services, though if Walt had had his way, they’d have avoided church altogether. But Claire insisted they go. If only to introduce Ben and Amber to the idea of it. Well, here it is, religion, should you need or want it. You have a holy place to worship, a Holy Being to pray to. And some holidays Claire would feel her pulse begin to slow when she cracked open the hymnal, a sense of serenity unexpectedly falling over her while she recited the Lord’s Prayer.
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