The Burial Society
Page 22
Who could have foreseen that Uncle Frank would lose his shit so spectacularly? All Dad did was confide in Uncle Frank about Natalie’s sketchbooks and his communications with that bitch Dr. Bloom, and Uncle Frank freaked. Thought he was going to be exposed for disposing of Crane’s body. Pathetic. But to try to pin Daddy’s murder on Jake? For that alone Uncle Frank deserved to die.
Once she saw his eyes, she knew. She got him to confess to killing Brian, and after he made his plea—“It’s the best thing for you too, Natalie. We need to keep our secrets”—she slashed his throat. Just like he had done to Dad. Fitting. Natalie likes things to have symmetry.
She’d relished turning the knife on herself, first slashing at her forearms to make her self-defense story plausible. Next, driving the knife deep into her own guts. A calculated risk.
She was willing to die then, she reminds herself. There’s a reason she didn’t. There’s a divine purpose for her, she’s sure of it.
Anyway, the story she’d told Hannah Potter (or whoever the fuck that woman is) was close enough to the truth. Natalie wonders again who that bitch really is and what she wants. But then she pushes the thought from her mind, as it interferes with her feeling gratitude for every day.
Honestly, look at how well everything’s worked out! Natalie’s famous. She’s going to do great things with this new lease on life. Just watch. She’s all about looking forward now, not back.
Natalie checks the time and hurries her steps; she doesn’t want to be late to her glassblowing class.
She loves this new medium, reaching with her pipe into the intense, glowing ovens, pulling out a molten blob of glass as pliable as taffy, rolling the radiating form against the steel table called the marver, the control she exercises as she forces shapes with her breath.
It’s almost like breathing fire. Like being a dragon.
Like being a god.
Save your prayers for the living because the dead are already dead.
Who used to say that? Was it Daddy? Father Karl?
I don’t pray anymore. But I can’t help mourning the dead, can’t stop worrying about the living.
“Let’s go, Cathy. Let’s go.”
Jake tries to determine if he is dead center of the bridge. That’s what he’s aiming for.
He’s crossed the pedestrian walkway of the Manhattan Bridge many times, but tonight he takes in the sparkling view of the skyline with a particular rueful attention.
Glimmering buildings, blurred streaks of yellow and red lights on the roadway, inky water shimmering below him. Jake inhales deeply, welcoming the cool that has descended over the city after a punishing Indian summer.
Autumn in the city was one of the things Jake used to love. He used to love a lot of things. But lately he’s been picking obsessively at scabbed-over recollections.
Their family vacation in Kauai, for example. That perfect time, the happiest they ever were. Or so he’d thought. But reflection dredged up bitter shards. That day on the boat, for example. After her tears dried, Natalie had whispered to Jake that she had swum “into the jellyfish bloom on purpose. Because that crew guy was flirting with Mom, which was disgusting.”
Other memories flower. So many of them raise questions about his sister. So many of them he just can’t bear.
He clambers over the chain-link fence and settles into position on the ledge overlooking the East River.
Just a moment more.
He wonders if he will be reunited with his parents on the other side. If there is an other side.
For Natalie, he offers up a prayer to the universe, “Please, do no more harm.”
He spreads his arms wide. Takes a step forward. Falls.
A rough hand tugs at the nape of his sweatshirt, hauling him back to safety. Jake wheels around, rocks tumbling out of his pockets and spiraling down to the water below.
He’s astonished to see Hannah Potter. Holding on to him for dear life.
Was it sheer luck that got me to the bridge on time? Or divine intervention?
All I know is, I wasn’t able to get Jake Burrows out of my mind. I tracked him to his apartment in Brooklyn. Found his suicide note. You can figure out the rest.
Now we sit opposite one another in a booth at an open-all-night coffee shop. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead and a lazy fly buzzes my uneaten turkey on rye. I have no desire for the sandwich now, although I was ravenous when we sat down.
Jake’s confessed to finding correspondence from Natalie’s doctor to their father. In it, Dr. Bloom diagnoses Natalie with borderline personality disorder, along with a heavy lacing of narcissism. The doctor believed Natalie to be a danger to herself and to others.
Jake haltingly added his suspicions that Natalie may have in fact killed Dr. Bloom, who died in a car crash shortly after their last session together. How that speculation has led him to question everything Natalie has told him.
Can you blame me for my loss of appetite? I’m shocked I allowed Natalie to work me so expertly, especially since I was well aware I saw too much of myself in that girl. I’ll have to re-examine everything I thought I knew about her. As well as everything I thought I knew about myself.
Jake had ordered only black coffee. He sips at his cup now, but I suspect it’s merely to give him something to do with his hands. He shrugs back against the red leatherette seat of the booth, guilt and relief over his betrayal of his sister simultaneously evident on his face.
“So your fears about Natalie led you to that bridge?”
“More or less.” Jake stares down at his coffee.
I don’t tell my story often, but I do now, in plain, strong language. I leave out a few chapters; some things shouldn’t be shared until true intimacy is built, others should remain private forever.
Jake’s eyes lift to meet mine. His face registers confusion, disbelief, compassion, and fear in turn.
“Some things are better left behind, Jake. My life has taught me that. It doesn’t mean we can’t survive them. That we can’t move on and find a present that reconciles our past. You are not your parents. Or your uncle. You are not your sister.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I sought you out because I saw something in you.”
“What might that be?” He spits it bitterly.
“Compassion. Initiative. Protective instincts. Smarts.”
“And I’ve fucked that up now too, haven’t I? Whoever it was you thought you were going to find turned out to be just a suicidal crazy? From a family of crazies, right?”
“You can be your own man, Jake. Chart your own path. It may not be conventional. It may not be what you had planned. But you can get past this. I promise you.”
“I’d like to believe you.”
“We all make mistakes. Take our hits. It’s what we do after that matters. Do we stick our heads in the sand? Give up? Jump off a bridge?”
Our eyes meet and for a split second we share a smile.
“No,” I continue. “We learn. We do better. We try to make amends for our past mistakes. So, what’s next for you, Jake?”
“The fuck if I know. My calendar after today was blank.”
I hesitate. Given what I now know about Natalie, this could be trickier than I’d anticipated.
But also, just maybe, more useful.
“I have an idea I’d like to run by you.”
I offer him a job.
If I could tell the story differently…
Well, who knows? Next time I might.
There are always countless versions.
Some are even the truth.
This book is dedicated to my most excellent children, Raphaela and Xander (neither of whom is anything like any of the characters contained herein). You inspire me always and in all ways.
I am grateful for all the many and varied circumstances of my life that aligned to allow me to write this book. In creating a heroine dedicated to setting things right while trying to battle her own demons, I found I empowered myself.
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br /> I must acknowledge my early readers, Kingsley Smith, Hannah Phenicie, Sean Smith, and Janet Cooke, all of whom provided helpful perspective along with their profound friendship.
I also want to thank the many readers who loved Just Fall and reached out to tell me so. Writing requires a lot of time in a solitary bubble. Concrete proof that your words and thoughts have excited others is a delicious gift.
As always I want to acknowledge the friends and family who keep me sane and able to present a cheerful disposition to the world (with my blackest thoughts relegated to the page). So thank you to Ed Sadowsky, Jonathan Sadowsky, Laura Steinberg, Richard Sadowsky, Mary Clancy, Robin Sax, Carolyn Manetti, Michelle Raimo, Deb Aquila, Betsy Stahl, Debbie Liebling, Thom Bishops, Matthew Mizel, Sukee Chew, Brenda Goodman, Suzanne Sadowsky, Heather Richardson, Robin Swicord, Pam Falk, Wendy Leitman, Marcy Morris, Lisa Kislak, Shandiz Zandi, Ruth Vitale, Jeff Stanzler, Kathy Boluch, Linda Bower, Debbie Huffman, Judy Bloom, Alexandra Seros, Ted Sullivan, Andrew Wood, and all the women of the Woolfpack. A special note of thanks must go to the extraordinary Laina Cohn for being my spirit guide through both personal and professional challenges this past year. I have immense gratitude for the “bonus kids” in my life, Arielle and Daniel, Darius and Analia, Ivan and Julia, and my USC students who teach me as much as I teach them. Love and recognition to my husband, Gary Hakman (who now knows enough to get out of my way when I’m writing). I also want to thank everyone at Atmosphere: Mark Canton, Dorothy Canton, David Hopwood, Michael Dwyer, and Frazier.
A good editor makes all the difference, and mine is wonderful. Deep thanks to Kate Miciak for her guidance throughout this process, and for constantly challenging me to be a better writer. And for always suggesting another glass of wine.
I am grateful for the support I have gotten from everyone at Ballantine, particularly Kara Welsh, Kim Hovey, Sharon Propson, Quinne Rogers, Denise Cronin (and her entire team), Loren Noveck, and Julia Maguire. I’m also deeply appreciative of the work my excellent book agent, Emma Sweeney, has done and continues to do on my behalf, and for my film and TV agents at The Gersh Agency, Roy Ashton and Lynn Fimberg.
And to my mom, Jean Thelma Sadowsky, who died on September 17, 2016, I love you and I know you’re somewhere watching me publish my second novel with unbridled pride (while asking, “Where’s number three?”).
I’m working on it.
BY NINA SADOWSKY
Just Fall
The Burial Society
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
NINA SADOWSKY is the author of the thrillers The Burial Society and Just Fall. She has written numerous original screenplays and adaptations for such companies as The Walt Disney Company, Working Title Films, Lifetime Television, and STARZ.
Sadowsky served as president of production for Signpost Films, where she worked on such projects as the Academy Award–nominated House of Sand and Fog. Prior to joining Signpost, she served as president of Meg Ryan’s Prufrock Pictures. Sadowsky was executive producer for the hit film The Wedding Planner, starring Jennifer Lopez and Matthew McConaughey, and produced Desert Saints, starring Kiefer Sutherland, Lost Souls, starring Winona Ryder, and the telefilm Northern Lights, starring Diane Keaton. She also produced Jumpin’ at the Boneyard, starring Tim Roth, Jeffrey Wright, and Samuel L. Jackson, which premiered at the Sundance Film Festival.
She is currently a part-time lecturer at USC’s School of Cinematic Arts, as well as the director of educational outreach for the Humanitas Prize’s College Fellowships and a member of Humanitas’s Woolfpack, an organization of women writers, directors, and showrunners. Sadowsky belongs to International Thriller Writers, Sisters in Crime, and Mystery Writers of America, and is proudly serving on the leadership committee of creative economy promoter Creative Future.
ninarsadowsky.com
Facebook.com/nina.sadowsky
Twitter: @sadowsky_nina
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