Chapter 22
Before
A week passed before I worked up the nerve to ask Oliver about Danielle Schwartz’s death.
That didn’t stop me from thinking about it, though, obsessing over it.
I’d known several people that had died over the years, of course.
Mostly Marmee’s older relatives. The fact that someone my age, someone I’d spoken to in public only weeks before, had died so suddenly seemed surreal, like the inciting incident in some old movie.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t know the cause of death.
Obituaries are notoriously vague, reporting on the outcome without providing grislier details.
Danielle certainly didn’t appear sick when she’d accosted me outside the coffee shop, although she was clearly agitated.
Had she suffered some kind of freak medical emergency?
An aneurysm or a seizure during an inopportune moment?
Had she been struck by a bus while crossing the street?
What disturbed me even more was that Oliver never said anything.
I kept waiting for him to mention it. I even practiced how I might react when he told me.
Would it be better to tell him I knew or act surprised?
Would he have an emotional reaction, knowing the person he’d at one point thought he might build a life with was no longer among the living?
These questions lived and died in my head, leaving me in a constant state of anxiety.
Finally, when I couldn’t take it anymore, I dropped the news to Oliver myself.
We were sitting on the balcony, sharing a bottle of wine to signal the start of the weekend.
He’d returned from a three-day convention in Albuquerque, one of the last trips he was scheduled to take before the move.
Even though he’d been gone, we’d talked on FaceTime every day.
I’d waited long enough for him to mention her death, and I couldn’t bear ignoring it any longer.
“Danielle Schwartz died.”
Oliver picked up his wineglass, swirling the maroon liquid inside. His new Rolex slid down his wrist.
“I know.”
Relief blossomed that this huge secret was out in the open. “How did you hear?”
“A family member reached out,” he said, putting the glass back on the table. “We didn’t keep in touch, but I suppose they thought I needed to know.”
“Did they say what happened?”
Oliver shook his head. “Danielle was a troubled woman.”
He’d told me this before, explained how her paranoia and jealousy led to their divorce, which seemed to only further deteriorate her mental health.
Oliver had described her in a way that made me feel pity.
I never felt bothered by the woman who came before me, unlike the unnamed narrator in Hitchcock’s Rebecca, who is constantly compared to her husband’s superior first wife.
I didn’t have any strong feelings about the woman at all until she accosted me at the coffee shop and made accusations about Oliver.
And then just happened to die weeks later.
“She was young,” I said. “Younger than me. Surely they must have told you what happened.”
“Suicide,” he said bluntly.
I placed my hand over Oliver’s and squeezed. “Honey, I’m so sorry.”
I’d never considered this possibility. Maybe I should have, given the way he described her mental state. I imagined Oliver was carrying an enormous amount of guilt. Perhaps that was why he’d never mentioned her death to me.
“Sadly, I always feared it would come to this,” he said. “Some people are marred by tragedy.”
For years, I’d felt like I was one of those people. Rich girl with a lonely upbringing, family history plagued with death. I built some connections—with Marmee and Ava and Constance and Marlowe, my career—but the rest of life felt fleeting, unfixed.
Until Oliver. His presence had taught me maybe I wasn’t meant to go through life alone. I looked at the dazzling diamond and sapphire ring on my finger, unable to shake my horrible heartache for Danielle.
“How did you find out about it?” Oliver asked just as a plane droned overhead.
“I read the obituary online.”
“That’s a strange hobby to take up,” he said, fixing me with a curious stare. “Reading obituaries.”
“The name caught my attention,” I explained. “It seems like just yesterday I ran into her.”
He stood then, looking over the balcony at the night skyline, sparkling buildings and stars in the distance. Before he walked back inside, I asked him, “Which family member called to tell you?”
“Her mother,” he said. “Poor woman was beside herself with grief.”
I couldn’t imagine how difficult it must be to lose a child. The unbearable loss. Perhaps thinking of this unknown woman and her strife was why the tragedy of Danielle Schwartz refused to leave me, why it lingered like smoke after a candle had been snuffed out.
“Earth to Tippi,” Ava said, snapping her fingers in my face. “We can’t plan your bachelorette party without your input.”
Days had passed since my conversation with Oliver. I’d met Ava and Constance at a sleek Mediterranean restaurant to discuss more wedding festivities, but even then, my thoughts swarmed around Danielle’s haunting face.
“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head to try and refocus. “Lots on my mind.”
“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet,” Constance said, dipping a triangle of pita bread into tzatziki.
“It’s not that. I’ve just been busy trying to figure out work. If Oliver and I are going to travel after the wedding, I’ll have to pre-record a shitload of content, and I’m starting to get overwhelmed.”
I hadn’t told them I’d turned down my invitation to Cannes. Ava would have said it was the right call, on account of the wedding, but I knew Constance would question the decision, worry I was putting my own enlightenment on pause for the sake of my relationship.
“You have plenty of time,” Ava said. She placed a spiral-bound notebook in the center of the table.
“Right now, we’re talking fun. I want this to be special.
A new location where we can really celebrate this next chapter.
I’ve narrowed it down to three places. Nashville. Palm Springs. Miami. Let’s discuss.”
“Why so far away?”
“You can’t leave your fiancé to celebrate with the girls? Gag me with a spoon,” Ava said, stabbing the notebook with a pen. “Palm Springs would be the farthest away, but the others are only a couple of hours by plane.”
“Why Nashville?” Constance asked.
“It’s one of the leading locations for bachelorette parties,” she said. “Tons of stuff to do.”
“Have you started without me?” Marlowe stood at the end of the table, a giant messenger bag hanging from her shoulder.
“Brunch started at eleven,” Ava said, a hint of superiority in her voice. I wondered if the two of them had spoken since the blowup at the dress fitting.
“We’re trying to decide where to go for my bachelorette party,” I said, pulling out the seat beside me. “We need your vote.”
“I really can’t stay. The restaurant is short-staffed this week and needs me to come in early for some prep.” She ignored the other women to focus on me. “I only popped in to see you.”
“Are you kidding?” Constance said. “We haven’t even ordered our entrées.”
“Good thing I work in a kitchen.”
Marlowe stayed around long enough to enter her vote—Miami, for the food scene—before taking off. She barely spoke to Ava.
“Have you two even talked about what happened during the dress fitting?” I asked her after Marlowe left.
“It was nothing,” she said, shooing me with her hand. “She let her emotions get the best of her.”
“We all know Marlowe can hold a grudge,” Constance said, fiddling with her napkin. Her eyes raised to Ava. “You were a little harsh.”
“She’ll get over it,” Ava said, flipping the pages of her notebook. “Let’s talk rehearsal dinner.”
I barely paid attention for the rest of lunch. My thoughts were still on Danielle. Her funeral was being held that afternoon at High Street Cathedral only a few blocks over.
After brunch, I ended up walking in the direction of the church.
Part of me wondered if Oliver would attend.
If maybe he was bothered by her passing more than he let on.
I was hoping for that. I craved a level of emotion he wasn’t giving and thought maybe it was because he wanted to spare my own feelings.
The church was one I’d passed dozens of times before.
I’d heard the donging of the bells too many times to count.
It was smaller than some of the other churches in the city, and the wrought iron gates were open, leading to a cobblestone walkway lined with dying shrubbery.
The structure itself was made of gray stone and mortar, plain.
It was the bright stained-glass windows that brought the building to life.
Various reimagined scenes from the Bible, sunlight filtering through ruby reds and emerald greens.
Old churches often reminded me of Marmee’s house; they shared the same beauty and mystery. From inside, an organ began to play, the despondent melody inviting me in.
Without thinking, I walked closer to the church entrance, peering inside at the massive space filled with pews and Bibles and altars.
People were noticeably absent. Fewer than a dozen sat at the front of the church, where I could see a shiny black casket, a sprawling lavender flower arrangement covering the top.
Beside that display sat a framed picture of Danielle. She looked younger in the photograph, happier. I felt myself overcome with loss, sadness for this woman I barely knew.
“Are you a friend?” asked a woman standing at the back of the church.
She appeared younger than Marmee, and in better physical health. She had an upright posture and wore a dark fur coat. Her hair was pinned back with a clip. She clenched a napkin between her fingers.
I realized how odd it was for me to be hanging about at the funeral of my fiancé’s ex-wife. I had no business being here, around the few people who loved and mourned her, but I couldn’t explain that to this woman without sounding like a lunatic.
“Yes,” I lied, “although we’d lost touch.” A kernel of truth came next. “I read her obituary and haven’t been able to stop thinking about her.”
“We appreciate you coming,” the woman said, looking at the nearly empty room up ahead. “Receiving of friends seems an outdated concept for this generation, but it means a lot to the family.”
“Are you related to Danielle?” The sound of her name leaving my lips made it sound as though she were still here with us.
“I’m her mother.”
Shame filled me. I had no business being here, talking to Danielle’s mother, of all people. My eyes darted around the church, once again looking for Oliver, but this time, I hoped he was nowhere in sight. I hoped he’d never know how seedy I’d been in coming here.
“I’m terribly sorry for your loss,” I told the woman, cringing at the clichéd phrase. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through.”
“It’s just so unexpected. I can’t bear to walk all the way up there,” the woman said, staring ahead.
“As I’m sure you know, Danielle was always careful with her medication.
She’d been diabetic since she was a child.
She counted her carb intake meticulously.
I never would have imagined she’d die from a miscalculation. ”
Oliver had said Danielle took her own life. He’d said that’s what her mother had told him. “She died from a complication with her medicine?”
“An insulin overdose. She lost consciousness before she was able to get help, and too much time passed,” she said. “If she hadn’t been living alone, it could have been avoided.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeated, lost for what else to say.
“And she was just starting to get her life back together, after that awful divorce.”
Divorce. She was talking about Oliver.
“Like I said, we’d lost touch—”
“She was broken after that,” her mother continued, determined to release the words from inside her. “He took everything from her. Was determined to leave her penniless, but she’d finally started to rebound. She made plans to open a new business, started dating again.”
That’s not what Oliver had said. In his version, it was the other way around. The demise of his marriage left him in a position to start over from scratch and emotionally recover from the psychological abuse she’d put him through.
“Have you talked to him?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking. “The ex?”
“Not in years,” she said coldly. “He probably wouldn’t even care that she died.”
Another inconsistency in Oliver’s story. He’d told me Danielle’s mother had called him. He’d spoken with her only days ago. Could she be so overwhelmed with grief she’d forgotten?
“It’s not good to focus on the difficult parts of her life,” she said, mostly to herself. “We’re here to celebrate the happy parts. And there were many. Before him.”
“Danielle was kind to me,” I said. “Confident.”
“I appreciate you coming, but no need to stay.” She squeezed my hand, turning to look outside the open church doors at the heavy light pouring in. “Better to enjoy a beautiful day like this while you still can. It all goes by so quickly.”
With that, she took a step forward, walking between the pews toward the front of the church, where her daughter’s body lay. I couldn’t help thinking of a parent escorting their child down the aisle for a very different reason. A wedding. A symbol for new beginnings.
I envisioned this woman walking Danielle down the same aisle to meet Oliver, just as I planned for Marmee to walk alongside me in a couple months’ time. A shiver ran through me.
Nothing Oliver had told me about Danielle—their divorce, her death—lined up with what the grieving mother had to say.
Why would Oliver lie to me?