The End of Normal

by Stephanie Madoff Mack

  I lived in awe of my father from a very young age. He was the man that everyone wanted to be. His business was successful; he had the admiration of his colleagues and the respect of government officials. But it was more than simple praise. To us, it felt like constant glorification from heads of business, regulatory bodies, and exchanges. I knew my father to be one of the leaders of Wall Street, not a master criminal. I knew my father, yet the person he is now was not he.

  I am the son of a crook. I am also a son, and a son looks up to their father from day one. My father taught me to throw a baseball, he taught me to be a good husband, and he taught me to be a good father to my own children. I saw him as a great man. As I got older and grew professionally, the aura surrounding my father only grew. For my entire professional life, I worked diligently to build a business that would make my father proud. Bernard Madoff was one of the most respected men on Wall Street and he was my father. How could he be a crook? Ironically, I grew up fearful that I would always find myself in my father’s shadow, never being able to known [sic] for what I myself had achieved. I wanted so badly to be the person that my father was . . . and now I can’t get far enough away.

  I lived a big life by Main Street standards. Wall Street had been my home for my entire career and I had achieved a lot. My future, as I had known it, looked bright. My market making business was peaking in profitability and my proprietary trading desk was close to even, dramatically outperforming the indexes. I was proud of what I had done. While the horrors of my father’s deception will cast a broad shadow, what I had accomplished professionally was significant. I will not allow that to be forgotten.

  I have read that there are those that feel since my father was bad, I must be bad or at least must have known that he was. Why, because I was his son? My father stole from his brother, sister, niece, nephew, best friends, coworkers, and countless others. Somehow, he was able to disguise his true character from them. It should not come as a surprise that the one who idolized him the most, his son, would not see his own father as a criminal. My father was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He was not the man that anyone thought that he was.

  My own father has stolen my life from me. It’s pain that is beyond description. The business that I spent twenty-three years building gone, I am unemployed, my livelihood destroyed, and my family will forever live with the shame of what my father has done. There were so many victims of my father’s fraud, so many horrible stories. How do I explain to my children what I do not understand myself?

  * * *

  How do I explain this to them? I ask Mark still, as Nick and Audrey chase each other past the candle I keep burning, like an eternal flame, in the foyer. The women who came to do a spiritual cleansing of the apartment placed it there and told me to keep it lit at all times, but the thought that it might set something on fire while we sleep scares me. So I whisper a small “Sorry” and blow it out each night, smiling, because Mark was such a worrywart, and I know he would approve.

  The cleansing was a gift from my friend Mariana. Mercer Street is a small, cobblestoned lane, but the upscale façades of retail stores and boutiques belie an old-fashioned neighborliness among the regulars who work and live there. Everyone, from the manager of our favorite restaurant on the corner to the young manicurists who worked in the nail salon two doors down, was anxious to know how I was doing after Mark’s suicide; comforting words trickled back to me via the urban grapevine, from my babysitter or dog walker or doorman. The familiarity of my neighborhood was what had drawn me back from my lonely grief in Greenwich, but once home, I felt too embarrassed to show my face. I was ashamed of what Mark had done, afraid to face the inevitable questions and concerned looks. I could never tell when the tears were going to suddenly flow, and I hated the thought of breaking down in public.

  My mom was getting her nails done one day soon afterward at Haven, the little salon next door to my apartment building, where I was a regular and knew all the employees by name. Mariana, a hip and pretty young Mexican manicurist, wanted my mother to ask me about having my apartment spiritually cleansed. I was raised by a Catholic mother and a Jewish stepfather, but I’m not a religious person. I seized upon Mariana’s suggestion hungrily. This was exactly what I needed! The place felt haunted, and the fear and anger I was carrying only added to the oppressive atmosphere inside a space that used to be so bright and airy. I eagerly accepted Mariana’s offer, not knowing what to expect, but open to any possibility.

  Mariana issued her instructions: First, I was to keep a clear glass bowl of cold water behind the front door, changing it every twenty-four hours and checking it for a week before the cleanse. “Negative energy will make it bubble up,” she said. I did as she told me, and the very next morning the water was fizzing like club soda. I changed the water, and the same thing happened again.

  Mariana arrived at nine o’clock on the appointed morning with Karen, a Colombian woman with a friendly face and calming presence, who gently but firmly took charge. The pair began unloading the bags they had brought with them and set up a little shrine on a table in the foyer, placing a fat candle on a circle of royal blue satin, then arranging smaller candles around it. They changed into simple white skirts and blouses and wrapped their heads in white cotton scarves. This was for protection from negative energy, they explained.

  Mariana had instructed me to have the children out of the apartment during the cleanse, but told me I would need to stay during the ritual.

  “You’ll have a reaction, but it will be healing,” she explained now, warning me that I would likely start to cry.

  “Some people behave like a baby,” Karen added, noting that some even lose control of their bladders.

  I was terrified. What were these women going to do to me? Was I going to slip into some trance, or enter a mind-altering state I couldn’t escape? I wanted to summon Demi Moore in Ghost, not Linda Blair in The Exorcist. The prospect of breaking down in front of these two women, no matter how kind, made me nervous.

  “Do the apartment, not me,” I said.

  No, they insisted, they had to do both, or it wouldn’t work. They gave me a cloth and told me to wrap my head and stand where Mark had died. From their bags, they pulled out a conch shell, charcoal, and solidified sap from a tree in Mexico. They lit the sap and charcoal in a ceramic bowl. A piney scent reminiscent of myrrh filled the air, and they began chanting in soft Spanish. Karen stood in front of me, Mariana behind me.

  “Take deep breaths, then blow it all out,” Mariana urged, exhaling a heavy sigh to show me how. She rubbed my shoulders and back to calm me.

  “You’re safe,” Karen said. “You’re going to be safe.”

  Karen moved the bowl of sap and charcoal in circular motions, letting the smoke waft in my face, while sprinkling me with fragrant water. I kept my eyes closed through most of the ritual. Mariana held the conch to her lips and began to blow it like a horn, its sound low and mournful, and I began to cry.

  My cleansing complete, Karen and Mariana started in on the apartment, going from south to east, to north, then west, dousing all three of us periodically with the scented water, for protection, they said. First, they cleansed the children’s room, climbing on furniture and crouching into corners to get the smoke into every possible crevice. Then they moved to my room, where both Karen and Mariana focused their energies primarily on my bed, standing in the center of it, then pulling the covers back to smoke out my pillows. In my closet, Karen spotted Mark’s clothes still hanging on the rods and insisted on cleansing me again. I stood there among his empty suits and crisp shirts and felt the tears flood my face, uncontrollable, and I wept as I had never wept before.

  We covered every inch of the rest of the house with smoke from the burning sap. Mariana and Karen wanted me to clap as they chanted, but I felt too self-conscious, so they found a tambourine among the kids’ toys and let me use that instead. For three hours, we inched our w
ay through every room, until smoke filled the house thick as fog. Twice, the smoke alarms went off and I had to race to open the big windows overlooking Mercer Street. By the time it was all over, Karen and Mariana were both spent, drenched in perspiration, chugging bottles of water. We opened the front door to let the negative energy out. They changed back into their street clothes, hugged me, and reminded me to keep the glass bowl of water by the front door. Mariana had to go to work, but Karen hung back. I decided to test her.

  “I find it really interesting that you put it here,” I said, nodding toward the small shrine with its candle still glowing. Neither she nor Mariana had ever been in the apartment before, and I hadn’t spoken about the significance of that spot. “Why did you do that?” I asked.

  “Because I could feel that this was where he died,” she answered matter-of-factly. The candle flickered directly below the beam—since concealed—where Mark had hanged himself.

  That night, I sat in the window seat where Mark used to go to try to clear his head, and I looked out at the starless city night. “I forgive you,” I said. “I forgive you for leaving us.” In that moment, I physically felt my anger dissolve, and sorrow take its place.

  I was shocked by how much harder it is to be sad.

  In Greenwich, sleep had been my refuge in the weeks immediately following Mark’s death. There were always family members or friends in the house to keep an eye on the kids, and I would retreat to my bed when I needed to just lie down and let the sadness wash over me. Back in SoHo, though, anxiety joined forces with my sorrow, and sleep came only in short, fevered jags, ending with my ritual panic attack as the hour of Mark’s death drew near each night. Barely a month after losing him, I wandered into the kitchen at four a.m., unable to sleep. I sat at the kitchen counter and began writing Bernie Madoff a bitter letter.

  Bernie—

  I find it strange that I am the one to be writing you a condolence letter—but there is no question in my mind that the reason I can write to you is because I have more manners, bravery, and certainly more dignity than you—so perhaps this letter should not arrive to you as that much of a shock.

  That being said, I have heard there is no greater pain than losing a child, and for that I am sorry for the loss of your son.

  Up until the day he died, Mark always made me feel very happy and, most importantly, he made me feel very loved. He gave me two beautiful children that get me out of bed in the morning and give me a reason for living.

  I understand that you stole money from thousands of innocent people—your children, your grandchildren, your entire family, and even my parents. However, what you must know is that you stole the love of my life and four of your grandchildren’s father. You stole something from me that can never be replaced. You stole Mark—a loving husband, devoted father, and my best friend.

  I deserve an explanation from you as to why and how you as a human being can possibly live knowing how much pain and destruction you have caused. I deserve an explanation as to how you feel about Mark’s death—or do you even have any feelings?

  I pray that your days in jail are as dark as they can be, because let me tell you, it’s much harder to survive on the outside—and I refuse to let you ruin my life.

  Stephanie

  As I signed what I knew would be my last letter to Bernie Madoff, the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the kitchen. I glanced at the clock; Mark would be getting up now. Making coffee had always been his ritual, and the scent would wake me each morning. I hadn’t made a pot since he died. Now I inhaled the incredible smell deeply, comforted by it, taking it as a sign that this letter to his father was the right thing to do. The water in the bowl by the front door remained still and clear.

  Not long after that, I had one of those dreams where you fight consciousness as it pulls you back to the surface because you can’t bear to wake up and have it all end. Mark had come to me again, and crawled into bed beside me. He hugged me, and we were both laughing hysterically. But then it was time for me to take Audrey to school, and I begged him not to leave, to wait for me to come back. When I reached the bedroom door and looked back, he was already disappearing. I woke up feeling as if it had been a gift; we had gotten to spend time together again. A few days later, an envelope turned up in my mail bearing the prison’s return address. Bernie had written back.

  I pray that you never have to experience the pain and torment I live with every day. I would gladly give my own life if I thought it would bring Mark back . . . I blame myself for everything that has happened and nothing will ever change this . . . You ask how I can live with myself. I can’t, and I don’t know how much longer I can go on.

  He signed it Love, Bernie, and added a postscript, imploring me to let Ruth back into my life.

  It was very difficult to give me up after a life of 55 years together, which she has now done, he claimed. I shook my head in disgust as I read it. The lies, it seemed, would never stop.

  Even as he supposedly poured out his heart to me on a lined legal pad, Bernie was granting select reporters prison interviews, basking in the attention, and even joking about his newfound appreciation for Danielle Steel romance novels. “I am a good person,” he told New York magazine. His narcissism might have been laughable had it not been so dangerous. Mark was the fourth known suicide linked to Bernie’s crime. A French financier had slit his wrist with a box cutter and bled to death in his office. A British investor shot himself, and another Madoff victim had hanged himself in a London hotel room.

  Mark’s memorial in Greenwich had been a fiasco, full of tension, lies, and distrust. It was not how I wanted to say good-bye. I didn’t want to keep him in the black metal box on my nightstand forever, either. I planned to scatter some of his ashes in places that had been meaningful to us, and I wanted to do that by myself. I planned to take just a small portion of the remains and leave the rest for Mark’s four children and brother to have when they felt ready to say their own good-byes, in their own ways. The funeral director graciously offered to help me.

  “How long will this take?” I asked as I reluctantly handed over the black metal box. “I’m kind of nervous to spend the night away from him.” My eyes were no doubt red and swollen. Mr. Kuhn looked at me sympathetically.

  “No longer than twenty-four hours,” he gently assured me, adding, “I’m so sorry.” I left and started wandering the neighborhood in a daze. I had a parent-teacher conference at Audrey’s school in a few hours, but felt too anxious and unsettled to go back home with the empty shopping bag I had used to carry the black box uptown. On Second Avenue, I passed a movie theater and bought a ticket to The Fighter. When I came back out, my phone rang. The funeral director had compassionately given my request priority, and the remains were ready to be picked up again. I hurried back to the funeral home and picked up the black box still containing most of Mark’s remains and six smaller containers, each the size of a ring box. Inside each little box, two teaspoons of ash were sealed in a plastic packet.

  By now, I was running late for the teacher conference, so I left my SoulCycle bag with its precious contents in the lobby with my doorman and rushed to the school. I nodded and smiled in the appropriate places as the three teachers showed me Audrey’s work and told me how great she was, and how well she seemed to be handling it all. It, I had learned, is the best euphemism we have for suicide. I flipped through the portfolio of Audrey’s work and stopped when I saw a drawing of a flower. For Dada, she had written neatly across the top. I thought I had already cried myself dry for the day, but now I was blinking back yet more tears.

  “I can’t believe I’m here alone,” was all I could say.

  My parents had invited us to spend a week at their home in St. Barths, and I took a little box of Mark’s ashes with me. He hated being cold, and the warm Caribbean beach was his idea of paradise. Mr. Kuhn had asked me if I planned on taking any of the remains on board
a plane.

  “Can I make the suggestion that you be forthcoming with security?” he said.

  “I’m going to put it in my luggage,” I explained. Bathing suits, flip-flops, sunscreen, Daddy. When widowhood wasn’t tragic, it was ludicrous. There seemed to be no in-between.

  “No, don’t do that,” the funeral director admonished. It would raise suspicions on an X-ray or hand search. “They may confiscate.”

  “But it has his name on it,” I objected. The boxes were clearly labeled. That label was exactly why I wasn’t about to disclose the contents and take it through with my carry-on. It had been barely two months since the suicide was on the front page of every New York paper. I didn’t want WIDOW SNEAKING ASHES OUT OF COUNTRY to be the next tabloid headline.

  I ended up taking my chances, packing the little box, and I was not forthcoming with security. I sailed through without a problem.

  As much as I wanted my own farewell and some sense that I was giving Mark a resting place he would have wanted, I also dreaded this moment. At Gouverneur Beach—Mark’s favorite beach in the world—my parents hung back as I crossed the sand to the spot where we had always put down our towels. I walked into the warm sea until I was waist-deep and sprinkled the gritty remains into the water. I was shocked when they instantly sank. I waded back to shore, and my parents wrapped me in their arms, and the three of us cried. This sadness felt different, though. It was a peaceful sadness.

  March came before I knew it, before I was ready. Mark’s birthday was March 11. He would have been forty-seven. The thought, again, of a forced family get-together overwhelmed me. In spite of my love for them, my relationship with Kate and Daniel had become undefined. And the relationship between Andy and me was strained at best. The only time he had even contacted me since his brother’s death had been two months later, in February, when he called me around Nick’s birthday and angrily demanded to know whether I was planning to write a book. He had heard rumors from someone he would not name.