Season 20, Episode 6 PB&J Sandwich #2
The climb commenced below, and we’d learn PB was leading when Greta violently dropped. Tati added to Greta’s wails in rapid Cyrillic, seagulls echoing each other in a parking lot, until Greta abruptly quit—right as an airless release in tension shuddered through my gear.
The ten-foot drop sent chills through my body as I swung like a precariously hung Christmas ornament.
Despite Ecklund’s confirmation that Imogen was leading, this had become unfun really quickly.
Melange, Tati, and Jiamin plunged next, but Erika remained unmoved.
“Erika, we’re bringing you in,” Zara eventually called. “Fortune tapped out.”
Melange and I then fell again, almost simultaneously.
“I hate this FUCKING show!” Melange screamed beside me.
I glanced down, trying to discern how far away Imogen and Shawn were, but only saw specks, barely larger than the crowds behind the security barricades down the street.
“Come on, Im! Almost there!” I cheered, hoping she heard me. I’d dropped low enough to be eye level with a balcony that wrapped around the hotel. A boom operator stood there, extending his mic to capture our screams, his shirt riding up as he stretched over the railing, flirting with a fall…
My throat suddenly seized, as if I were choking, my mind plummeting somewhere else entirely from that balcony, that hotel balcony—
2007
SEASON 5, EPISODE 2:
“Are You There, Maud?
It’s Me, Picholine!”
“There’s this French chick harassing a former nun from Nashville—”
“You watch Endeavor more now than when I was on it.”
Jenny groaned on the other end of the phone, echoing in my silent kitchen. “Because now I can divorce myself from legitimate investment. Turn it on! It’s airing now!”
I scoffed as I diced carrots. I was rarely tempted by the television—and certainly not Endeavor. My time on the show was a bad dream, and the only thing that remained when I’d woken up was my husband. “I have to finish dinner before Barnes gets home.”
“Can’t you multitask, Donna Reed?”
“The nun’s all yours.”
“Former nun. They call her Holy Maud.”
“Good night, Professor.” I hung up, scattering the carrots amid the bed of vegetables upon which I’d bake my halibut.
We’d been in the DC house eleven months, moving in right after the 2006 election, and I’d been relishing the freedom in my straightforward household duties.
I mean, how high were the stakes to scrubbing pans after dinner? Every to-do list was achievable.
And there was the secret joy, which I hadn’t even told Jenny yet: we were meeting with a surrogacy agency in less than a month.
Now in the afternoons when I paced the house, my chores done, I imagined the quiet blissfully disturbed by toddlers careening, scattering toys, hiding crayons in my shoes.
We still had no clue where the eggs were coming from, though I’d instantly vetoed Barnes when he mentioned Greta had volunteered.
Barnes was unusually late. His freshman term had proven more demoralizing than anticipated, as he’d struggled to get his new colleagues to take him seriously.
I’d been working overtime to pamper him, from massages to stilted role-play as a handyman while he fucked me against the garage fuse box.
Lately he’d been disclosing little fantasies, which I squirreled in the back of my mind like Easter eggs, despite how absurd I found most of them.
I was shoving the prepped fish in the fridge when I heard the garage.
Tonight’s billing was a riff on “sexy chef,” and I prayed I’d be able to keep a straight face.
Resolute, I tore off my sweater, jeans, and boxers, posing awkwardly by the kitchen island.
“Dinner’s going to be slightly delayed,” I announced, trying not to wince as the door opened.
I instead found Barnes ashen in the hallway. “Wow,” he murmured, his fragile smile trembling. Something had to have gone awry at work, and I felt like even more a fool, shielding my crotch. “This was much sexier in theory. I’ll get dressed—”
“Luke, wait… I got a call.” He beckoned for me, but his tone sent numbness coursing through me until it reached my mouth, metallic, sharp. “Sweetheart, give me your hand.”
And yet I didn’t. I stayed planted to the kitchen tile. “What happened?”
Barnes inhaled, eyes hollow and lost. He who was never lost. “Arjun died.”
Impossible.
“It happened in London, early this morning. He was at a hotel—”
No. Arjun was a dream. A dream doesn’t exist. What doesn’t exist can’t die.
“He… fell off a balcony. The press isn’t running the story yet—”
Those eyes couldn’t die. That smile. Those fingers dangling a plastic cartoon turtle over my palm. That boy in an airport, on a beach, by my side. That life.
“Helena called so you’d hear about the accident from me—”
I knew how false the word was. This was no accident. My vision blurred, my lips contorting in a spasm. I was speaking. What was I saying? I was speaking, wasn’t I?
“Luke, it’s not your fault! This could never be your fault!”
Barnes failed to catch me when I collapsed but he held me after, draping the cashmere blanket from the couch over my naked body. “It’s not your fault,” he kept whispering. People only say that when they love you—and when something is completely, irrevocably your fault.
Arjun killed himself four years and three days after the first episode of Endeavor premiered—October 16, 2007.
Four years since we’d chatted past midnight about how amazing the show looked, how he was finally starting the Chabon book, how magical our Europe trip would be.
Except now I was married to someone he hated, and he was stepping off a hotel balcony into the unformed, newborn hours of the day.
A hotel balcony.
The boom operator, inches from falling off a hotel balcony.
Arjun, inches from jumping off a hotel balcony.
Pulse racing, hands trembling, I thought only of escape. How typical.
I feebly, hoarsely cried, “Help… Help…”
“Luke, don’t you dare quit!” Melange called. “Hang on for Imogen!”
My lips were racing when I saw the footage later, though who knows what I was mumbling.
Erika shouted support from the roof, but she was the last person I could look at.
Had she been thinking of Arjun earlier, when I’d been so cavalier, so oblivious?
Had it looked like this to him, that night in London?
The city a puzzle underneath, summoning one last piece from on high to its final, irrevocable place.
Had he thought of me, the way I thought of him now?
“Sweetheart, give me your hand!” Melange hollered.
My mind was spinning too fast, my chest burning too hot, to feel her find my palm. Or to notice Imogen win, flying up the building like a champion. I didn’t even see Shawn grab Camdon’s calf at sixty stories up, foiling his last-ditch sprint to beat Imogen.
Troy pressed me about my panic attack afterward, but I whispered the truth to Imogen alone. “I didn’t even think of it,” she murmured guiltily. “The show’s done so many heights challenges since it happened. I guess I just… got desensitized.”
I rubbed my bloodshot eyes. “I can’t mention him on camera.”
“Say you thought about the kids and panicked,” she replied. “Otherwise, Troy will push until you say Arjun’s name. Then it’s the story, and we know who he’ll ask about Arjun next…”
Erika. I’d never drag her into this.
Nonetheless, I couldn’t keep deluding myself that the past was erased. My old crimes still watched from the shadows, waiting to be joined by the ones I had no clue I’d soon commit.