The End of Normal
Page 21
The restaurant was a popular one, and getting a table was impossible. But as snow blanketed the city that night, Mark and I had the sudden inspiration to make our way from 72nd Street clear downtown to Il Buco, reasoning that no one else would venture out in this weather and we could finally score a table. Mark, ever the sensible one, called first to make sure they were open. We arrived shivering and shaking snow from our boots, but triumphant. The restaurant was cozy and warm, and we ate the most delicious pork chops in the known universe, and topped our meal off with a dessert wine and a panna cotta drizzled with balsamic vinegar.
Returning nervously with friends on a rainy summer evening seven months after Mark’s suicide, I ordered the exact same meal, laughed with my friends, and savored every morsel.
I started to miss volunteering at the hospital and look forward to the internship I had to postpone for a year. There must be new families on the pediatric floor now. I wonder how they’re coping.
One day, Audrey balled up her small fist and started hitting herself in the head.
“Audrey, stop doing that! You’re going to hurt yourself, silly,” I chided her. “I don’t like to see that.”
“Okay,” she promised agreeably.
I caught her doing it again.
“Aw, I forgot,” she apologized brightly. “You don’t want me to do it!”
The third time, I finally got it.
“Are you trying to give your brain a boo-boo so you can see your daddy again?” I asked. This is all she knows about Mark’s death: Sometimes people get a boo-boo on the brain and it makes their brain stop working, which makes their heart stop working, and when your heart stops working, your body dies.
“Yes,” she answered.
“No,” I told her. “That’s not going to happen. I know this is very hard and sad. But you are never going to be able to see Daddy again. But you will always be able to feel him with your heart.”
And she does understand, I know. When she started to learn how to write, she printed her name neatly on scraps of paper and the pictures of flowers she likes to draw. She asked how to spell Daddy and practiced until she could do it perfectly, except for a stubbornly backward y. She asked how to spell die. It was the first verb she learned to write. Daddy Die she labels everything.
The flowers she draws are surprisingly precise for a four-year-old, and I compliment her on the lovely petals and perfectly proportioned stems. She colors most of them pink, her favorite color.
“It’s a wish flower,” she tells me. She got the idea from a cartoon show where characters were blowing on dandelions and making wishes.
“What are you wishing for?” I ask her.
“Daddy to come back,” she replies.
It’s been six months and a thousand times that I’ve had to disappoint her, but the psychologists all agree it’s important to be consistent and clear, so I draw a deep breath and tell her again that her daddy is never coming back.
“I know,” she says too wisely. “It’s just pretend.”
No, I say to myself. It’s not.
I found an apartment to rent in another downtown neighborhood, close to the kids’ school. Miraculously, I was able to lease out the Mercer Street loft, and prepared to move out and move on.
From the master closet, I gathered up Mark’s clothes and packed separate boxes for Kate, Daniel, and myself. I selected shirts, hats, and ties that are meaningful to each of us—the button-down shirt he wore to Daniel’s high school graduation, the tie he wore to Kate’s bat mitzvah. Just when I thought I’d finished, feeling drained, I remembered the hall closet full of Mark’s coats and steeled myself for another round. I laughed when I found a neatly folded plastic dog-poop bag in every single coat pocket.
I kept sorting and packing. I put some of my own things into a box I labeled MEMORY CLOTHES. There’s the white sweater with crystals that I wore to our rehearsal dinner, and the fancy evening sandals I bought for our big date to the long-ago STANY dinner. I preserved a little bottle of coconut-mango shampoo from our romantic vacation on Little Palm Island, but then I unpacked it again and threw it away.
The new tenants are insisting I remove the big wooden fish bolted to the study wall, and I’m assuming they’ll want to banish the shellacked dusky shark whose fin is forever threatening to poke out an unsuspecting visitor’s eye in the front hallway, too. I don’t want these things now, either. Most everything from this place, this life, will go into storage. I’m only taking our beds, our clothes, the kids’ toys, some dishes, our pictures, the memory book, and the matte black metal box. What I truly need, and what I truly cherish.
All the rest, I’m leaving behind.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I decided to write this book, I had no idea how I would feel in the weeks, months, even years after making my choice. It was far harder to do than I could ever have anticipated, and it was a horrendously painful process at times. And, at times, it was the best therapy I could ask for. I’m very grateful to the people who worked with me to tell this story: Tammy Jones, a truly gifted writer and interviewer, who spent many, many patient hours with me on the manuscript, and who will forever be a friend; my editor, Sarah Hochman, who guided us both and who has been my rock every step of the way; my publisher, David Rosenthal, who embraced this book in its initial stages and gave it all of his support; associate publisher Aileen Boyle, who navigated publicity and marketing so deftly; and the team at Blue Rider Press and Penguin USA, whose belief in my book was encouraging in even the darkest hours.
Tremendous thanks are also due to my agent, Steve Troha, and to my publicist, RoseMarie Terenzio, who both worked tirelessly on my behalf.
My stepdad, Martin London, made invaluable contributions along the way, and I am eternally grateful for his love, devotion, and guidance. He loved Mark as a son, and in the midst of his own heartbreak has helped and advised me in the face of continuing challenges and conflict every day.
Thank you to my wonderful and loving family: Mom, Rob, Sloane, Wilke, Jesse, Liz, Aunt Karen, and my cousins Beth, Meg, Amy, and Jo (Yes, they are named after Little Women!). And thank you to Daniel and Kate Madoff for being such a great older brother and sister to Audrey and Nicholas.
Thank you to my dear friends Christi Friedman, RoseMarie Terenzio, Ronit Berkman, Joe and Courtney Goldsmith, and Jennifer Nilles, whom I needed most when Mark died and who spent countless hours and days at my side.
Many thanks are also due to so many friends who have supported my family and me wonderfully through these past few years: the staff at 158 Mercer Street (John, Miguel, Floyd, Igor, Steve, and Julio), Penny and Chris Armstrong, Bill Berkman, Matt Berman, Gabi Brand, Toni Calamari, Josie Carvajal, Nancy Chemtob, the Child Life crew at Bank Street College of Education (Beth Braddy, Lesley Frankel, Sharon Granville, Emily Johnson, Caitlin Koch, Marissa Madigan-Keane, Mariel Maffetone, Leslie Marnett, Elena Michaelcheck, Oana Orodelo, Troy Pinkney-Ragsdale, Diane Rode, Lee Russeth, Camille Soto, Stefani Tower, Deb Vilas, Alix Watson, and Hillary Woodward), the CLS Team at MSKCC (Therese Weisbrot, Jessica Annenberg, Alyson Silver, and Evan Clarke), Nei Cruz, J.T. Danielson, Samantha Diedrick, Andrew Ehrlich, Dr. Marc Engelbert (as well as Karen and Diana), Leila Fazel, Martin Flumenbaum, Josh Forman, Christina Franzese, Tracy Frost, Liz Georgantas, Emily Gershon, Marybeth and Chris Gibson, Debbie Perelman-Gil and Gideon Gil, Aaron Goldschmidt, Bob and Sandie Greene, Haven Spa (Marta, Yasmine, Rebecca, Fahmida, Ira, Emma, and Gabi), Justin and Merrilou Hillenbrand, Dorothy Hutcheson, Jennifer James, Kathy Kalesti, Rachel Karliner, Ph.D., Laura Kosin, Keith Lascalea, Daniel and Michelle Lehmann, Lure Fishbar (Josh, Robert, Albert, Lisa, Roz, and John), Petal McDonald, Mariana Meja (and Karen), Mark Merriman, Brenda Mikel, Sandy Miller, Brian Milton, Michael Olajide, Jack O’Neil, Lilia Parkes, Danny Pfeffer, Katia Pryce, Mary Risi, Narciso Rodriguez, Francesca Santorelli-Breheney, Sallie Sandborn, Maria Seremetis,
Hannah Sholl, Errol Sibley, Adam Stracher, Tom Tolan, Agata Wachulska, Washington Market School (Ronnie, Joan, Chelsea, Kim, and Maria), Susan Wilen, and Jen and Josh Wilkes.
My heartfelt thanks to Jacky Marshall for her generous permission to include several of her beautiful photographs inside the book and on the front jacket.
Photo insert: pages 2 (bottom left and right), 3, 4, and 5 (top) courtesy Jacky Marshall
TOP LEFT: Mark and me in Key West, Florida, December 2002. This was one of our first trips away together.
TOP RIGHT: Same fishing trip, at Little Palm Island.
BOTTOM LEFT: Visiting Mark at his house in Greenwich, Connecticut, spring 2003.
BOTTOM RIGHT: East River fishing, September 2004. I was determined to always be the fun-loving good sport Mark wanted in his life.
The place where we both truly felt relaxed, St. Barths, spring 2003.
My thirtieth birthday party turned into an engagement party, April 2004.
The morning of our wedding, Nantucket, October 23, 2004.
The wedding ceremony. Left to right: Mark’s daughter Kate; my brother, Rob; me; Mark; and Mark’s son Daniel.
Our reception was one fantastic party.
Saying “I do.” A truly happy moment.
Mr. and Mrs. Mark Madoff. Narciso’s dress was perfection.
Ruth and Bernie in a celebratory mood.
Bernie and me.
Bernie and Ruth, my new in-laws.
An autumn-themed cake to go with our Thanksgiving dinner.
The first stop on our honeymoon, North Island, Seychelles.
Married bliss, fishing in Key West, 2005.
TOP LEFT: One of Bernie’s visits to feed Audrey a bottle in the middle of a working day. This image stirs complicated feelings in me, as I try to reconcile the doting grandfather and the financial schemer as one and the same.
TOP RIGHT: Bernie, Ruth, Audrey, and me, vacationing in the south of France, June 2007.
BOTTOM LEFT: Audrey with her grandparents on Bull, Bernie’s yacht in the south of France.
BOTTOM RIGHT: Mother and daughter. I had so much fun on this trip.
Bernie sitting on the deck of our new house in Nantucket, summer 2008.
Ruth, Audrey, and Bernie, New York City, 2007.
The Madoff ladies. Top to bottom: Ruth, me, Kate, and Audrey in New York City, fall 2007.
Mark and Grouper.
Audrey and Mark, Nantucket, summer 2007.
Audrey and Mark, Hotel du Cap, Antibes.
Mark and Audrey on summer vacation in Nantucket, 2008.
Ruth and Bernie at Audrey’s second birthday party, about ten days before Bernie’s confession, November 2008.
Mark and Audrey, pumpkin-picking, fall 2008.
Andy, Mark, and my brother, Rob, also at Audrey’s birthday party.
Mark’s forty-fourth birthday, March 2008.
Bernie and my stepfather, Marty, at Audrey’s party. Marty had just recently given Bernie a sizable portion of his retirement savings to invest.
Bernie knew at this point that his lies were coming back to haunt him. It’s astounding he was able to hold himself together like he did that day.
Mark and me in Nantucket the first week of December 2008, during the Christmas Stroll, which is one of my favorite events of the year. I was seven months pregnant with Nicholas.
Mark and Audrey choosing the Christmas tree, December 7, 2008. Our holiday excitement was flattened just days later, when Bernie confessed.
Mark and Audrey, just weeks after Bernie’s arrest, December 2008. Mark was destroyed by his father’s confession, though we both tried hard to keep our trauma hidden from the kids.
Nicholas was born February 13, 2009. Proud dad Mark with my mother, Pinks.
Nick, Mark, and Audrey. It seemed at this point there was hope for rebuilding our happy family life again.
Father and son.
TOP LEFT: Family portraits, early 2010. After a disastrous few months, Mark seemed genuinely to be in a better place.
TOP RIGHT: Greenwich, October 2009. Mark was recently home from the hospital, and though it was a sad time, he valued more than ever the good things in his life rather than what had been taken away from him.
MIDDLE LEFT: Halloween 2009. I absolutely loved getting the kids dressed up and excited for any holiday.
MIDDLE RIGHT: Nick’s first birthday, New York City, February 2010. Mark and I were determined to celebrate happy family moments, though our stress shows.
BOTTOM LEFT: Mark, Nick, and me. Mark’s proud expression breaks my heart when I look at this picture.
BOTTOM RIGHT: Left to right: Nick, Kate, Daniel, me, Mark, and Audrey.
TOP LEFT: Montauk, Summer 2010.
TOP RIGHT: One of our last photos, and our last weekend together as a family, at the Montauk lighthouse, post-Thanksgiving weekend 2010.
BOTTOM LEFT: Audrey’s fourth birthday. Mark and I were in a good place as a couple, and Mark was happy about and inspired by his new job.
BOTTOM RIGHT: Nick’s second birthday, 2011.
Audrey and Nick both draw pictures for their dad, and we hang them in the apartment windows so he can see them from the sky.
Mark in St. Barths, one of the places he felt happiest, February 2006. I keep this photo on my nightstand.
In Nantucket, March 2011. It would have been Mark’s forty-seventh birthday.