Chapter 34
Viv ran three red lights to get me to Robertson Memorial in eleven minutes. A world record in morning traffic. She told me she would park and find me, and I made my way into the emergency room. Two frazzled nurses checked the computer and gave me directions to the fifth floor.
All hopes of this being a mistake were obliterated when I read the sign on the wall: Intensive Care Unit.
“Hi, I’m looking for Mr. Anderson?” I asked a nurse writing in a file at the desk, tapping a blue Croc in time to a beeping machine.
A passing doctor overheard me. “Are you family?”
I wish. “I’m his emergency contact.”
“I’m Dr. Hartman.” He thumbed to a room down the hall. “If you want to follow me.”
My heels clopped down the hall, and I wished I’d thrown on a pair of sneakers. “How is he?”
“I’m afraid Mr. Anderson’s suffered a stroke.” He stopped outside a door at the end of the corridor. “From what I understand, the building supervisor found him on the floor of the living room. The concierge noticed he hadn’t come down for his daily walk and sent someone up to check.” Dr. Hartman moved to the side so I could enter.
My foot wouldn’t step over the threshold. I didn’t want to see him in a bed hooked up to bleeping monitors. “He takes a short walk every morning, no matter the weather.”
He sensed my hesitation and pushed the door a little wider, giving me a silent nudge. “Admirable at his age.”
The room reeked of bitter antiseptic and hand sanitizer mixed with a note of stale coffee breath from the doctors working overtime. In the middle of the room, Mr. Anderson lay prone in bed, eyes shut to the variety of machines surrounding him. A cannula snaked its way from his hand up to a clear bag of fluid. All the wires looked like a jumble of spaghetti against his pale blue gown.
Dr. Hartman moved to his bedside to read a chart printing from a monitor. He skimmed the results, keeping a poker face.
Did they learn that in medical school? “Is he going to survive?” My lips refused to say the word die.
The doctor moved around to the opposite side of the bed, clearing a space for me. Little by little, I approached the withering grey figure who loved to share stories of the college life with Warren Buffett that had led to him working on Wall Street.
“Because of the length of time between the occurrence and his arrival, the stroke has put him into a coma, and there is no brain activity.”
The amazing, insightful brain that I’d loved challenging over the newspapers during our Sunday morning brunches in his apartment. Always catered, to save him the trouble of cooking.
“So?” I pushed. Give me a straight answer, I wanted to scream so that it echoed all along the dull beige corridor of death.
He gave me a solemn look. “Right now, these machines are doing all the work for him. There is no chance of recovery. I spoke to his primary care physician who confirmed you have medical power of attorney. That means you can decide to turn them off or keep them on. However, it’s my recommendation that you withdraw care.”
Any minute, Jack would kiss me awake and we’d be in my apartment, arguing over whether to have bagels or donuts for breakfast.
How could I make this decision? I didn’t want to withdraw or turn off or kill this kind soul who’d made me feel valued as a businesswoman. A little heads-up about appointing me would’ve been nice, Mr. Anderson.
A nurse appeared at the door and motioned to Dr. Hartman. “I’ll give you a few minutes,” he said and left, his white coat floating behind him.
There was a cracked blue seat at the side of the bed, but I chose to stand so I could see Mr. Anderson’s face. It no longer moved, and I remembered those bushy grey eyebrows rising and falling as we’d debated who was the better president, Nixon or Kennedy.
I watched for any signs of life—a twitch of the eyeball behind closed lids or a curled lip—to let me know this was a prank and he’d got me good this time.
But the lined face remained serene, like his soul had already drifted away to Studio 54 in the sky.
Wrapping my warm hand around his cold one, a tiny sob burst through my quivering lips. “Hey, Mr. Anderson, it’s Scarlett. Your favorite neighbor.” He’d once called me his granddaughter by accident, and I’d never corrected him. We were so similar, two kids from broken families in New Jersey who’d dreamed of making it big in Manhattan.
No response.
“I’m sorry I didn’t call about brunch.” I squeezed his hand tighter. How many times had he listened to me talk about the brownstone I’d buy one day? Given me tips on shares so I could increase my savings a little more to get that brownstone? Watched Million Dollar Listing with me in companionable silence. “You deserved… you deserved more from me.”
Still nothing.
“I meant to, I really did. Please know it’s not because I didn’t want to see you. You weren’t just a neighbor to me; you were better than a… a grandfather.” My chest swelled, and I forced back the grief. “I wish you had been mine, because you were fucking amazing, and I never told you. Why didn’t I blow off work and take you to brunch?” I bleated. “I’m so sorry I didn’t take you to brunch.”
The pressure in my chest became too much to bear, and I let myself fall into racking sobs. The kind that would leave my body in agony, but I wouldn’t care because nothing could be as godawful as this torment. I deserved it. Work, work, work, leave everyone behind, shut the door on life and love. Make it big. Buy the big fuckin’ brownstone on the West Side that I would die alone in, just like this man in front of me.
Dr. Hartman entered, a little splash of blood on the lapel of his coat. “Sorry, we had an incident. Have you made a decision? I’m happy to talk through?—”
The dry fingers in my hand were like cement. Mr. Anderson wasn’t here anymore. “I’m sorry, Gerry.” I whispered his first name like a secret. “I love you. And one day up there, I’m taking you to brunch and buying you the biggest stack of pancakes you ever saw.”
A part of my soul left with him as I muttered the words. “Turn it off.”
* * *
The hospital told me they’d have someone call to make arrangements later that night. After ten minutes of breaking down in the car with my head between my knees while Viv rubbed my back, I told her to take me to Jack’s office. I didn’t even care he’d dated Clarissa. Right now, I needed safety. Someone who wouldn’t leave me. She pulled up outside, and I braced myself, rubbing a fist into my eye to stem the flood of tears.
The receptionist gave me a strange look when I told her my name, and she made a hushed call before advising me I could go through.
He didn’t stand up when I walked in, and I didn’t wait for an invitation to sit down. “You didn’t answer my call. I need to tell you about?—”
He steepled his fingers. “Now you know how that feels.”
In the last two hours I’d blocked out what had preceded it. The article. “You saw it?”
Jack’s jaw clicked. “I did.”
“I think Clarissa’s behind it, and maybe the first article as well.” The thought had been rolling around in my brain the whole drive here. Something to take my mind off the fact I’d just turned off life support for another human being. I felt like a damn murderer.
Jack sighed. “You talk about Clarissa, but you’re not that different, are you?”
“Excuse me?” This wasn’t how I’d expected this interaction to go. Jack should be cradling me in his arms, not crossing them in a back-off sign.
“Clarissa didn’t waste any time moving on from me either.” He frowned. “She did it before I even knew we were over.”
“Where are you going with this?” I wanted an embrace, not a character assassination.
His eyes were granite hard. “I saw Denzel go into your building the other night.”
“He dropped by to pick up his stuff that I never returned. That’s it. He didn’t even call to let me know he was coming.”
“Someone buzzed him into the building,” Jack said.
“Not me.”
“Funny how he showed up the day after our fight. When you wouldn’t talk to me.”
“I was pissed.” My hands clutched at my hair. “Because I found out you used to sleep with my co-worker—information that you kept hidden.”
“Like you did with David’s future business?”
Shit.
“Yeah, I know. Not so upfront yourself, are you? David told me he’d promised all his future business to The Lacey Group the day Lacey made you partner, and she told you. So I got screwed by my client and the girl I’m seeing.”
“I had to get it, or Lacey would fire me.”
He threw his arms out. “You could go to any agency you wanted, Scarlett. You don’t need her.”
“She gave me a chance. I couldn’t let her down.” My circle of loved ones was already shrinking to a dot.
“Keep telling yourself that”—he ripped off his tie and flung it on the desk— “when the reality is that like Clarissa, you’re out for yourself and don’t give a fuck who you take out along the way.”
“Jack, I?—”
“Go, Scarlett.” His voice broke on my name.
* * *
After Jack’s office, we went to Denzel’s building, knowing he’d be at practice. Lewis, the concierge, let us into Mr. Anderson’s unit. In the living room, his corduroy couch had been moved back. To make space for the paramedics working on him. Books he always kept in a neat stack on the coffee table were upside down on the rug. Viv stayed back as I lifted his thick knitted sweater from the arm of the couch. I could smell the scent of Old Spice engrained into the cream wool when I buried my face in it. “He was always freezing,” I said, “even in summer. We always ate brunch inside until I bought him this.”
“You should take it,” Viv said, running her gaze along the packed bookshelves.
“What if somebody notices?”
Viv pulled out a copy of Anne Frank’s diary. There were neon-yellow sticky tabs sticking out from the pages. Sometimes, I’d stopped reading the finance section to watch him go to town with his pencil, annotating and underlining anything that took his fancy. “Who’s going to notice? He doesn’t have a family. He gave you his lawyer’s information. It might fall to you to clear this place out.”
Clear it out. Sift through a lifetime of memories and belongings. Decide which ones went to the Staten Island dump or Goodwill. Things someone I cared about didn’t need anymore. Because he was gone.
No more sticky notes. No need for a sweater. No inside brunch.
The heartbreak overwhelmed me. My knees slammed onto the floor in the same spot they’d found him, and I moaned into the sweater. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
* * *
“More.” I held out my empty shot glass, and Viv poured tequila to the brim.
“Honey, that’s your fifth. You’re gonna be wrapped around the toilet if you don’t slow down,” she warned.
“I’m mourning.” I gulped it back. After our trip to Mr. Anderson’s, we’d come back to my apartment to get drunk and forget. I’d pulled myself together long enough to find the folder of important documents his lawyer would need. Viv had promised to drop it off when she was sober enough to drive. “It’s not as if I have work to get up for tomorrow, right?”
“Don’t remind me,” she groaned, topping up her glass. “Lacey said she’d keep me on for a month until I took my test, but how am I gonna be there without you?”
I licked the sticky residue from my fingers. “You’ll be fine.” No one except Lacey knew that I subsidized fifty percent of Viv’s salary. When her dad had gone into the nursing home, she’d needed a pay rise ASAP. Lacey had refused, since she didn’t have her license yet and worked more for me than the agency. Viv had broken down in the office toilets, and I’d assured her we’d sort something out. As far as Viv knew, I’d spoken to Lacey on her behalf, who’d then had a change of heart. Until we sorted this shit out, I’d find a way to get that money into Viv’s account without her knowing the real origin.
“I still can’t believe this is happening.” She took a shot straight from the bottle.
“That makes two of us.” I motioned for another refill. “I don’t know the first thing about planning a funeral.” When the hospital had called to ask if I had a specific funeral home in mind, I’d stammered out a “no” between tears. The woman on the other end had waited until I’d stopped so I could write down the number for their standard place, then let me know they’d be expecting my call.
Viv obliged my request for more. “They’ll take care of everything. You just tell them what you want or if he left any specific instructions.”
“We never talked about that. He’d want something simple though,” I told her. “He hated extravagance—must be why he never gave Denzel the time of day.
Viv held up her glass. “To Mr. Anderson.”
I raised mine. “To Gerry.”
We clinked glasses, and the liquid slipped over the jagged rocks in my throat. Just when you thought it couldn’t get worse. “Life is shit. Jack hates me, and now I’m going to end up alone like some Victorian spinster. Or that woman who thinks her cat talks to her. I fucking hate cats, Viv. I’m not getting one.”
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Jack doesn’t hate you, and you will never be allowed in a pet store. Also, excuse me. You’re forgetting about your glamorous best friend and adorable but a tad too overprotective big sister.”
“I know, and I appreciate you guys, honest.” My whole body squirmed at saying it out loud. Punches on the arm were much more my style. “And before, I thought that was enough. But Jack changed… Look. He does hate me,” I argued. “And I deserve it, after all the shit. We weren’t meant to be, and that’s fine. I don’t care anyway. He’s got a dumb face.” With the cutest creases at the sides of his eyes.
More tequila.
“You can get past this. The two of you need to talk it out and stop being so damn stubborn. Both of you are mulas.”
“Mulllasss what?” I couldn’t tell if she was speaking Spanish, or if I was so far gone that I could no longer understand English.
“Mules.” She drew out each letter.
“You’re a mulch,” I muttered. “Now top me off. I plan on sleeping in tomorrow.”
* * *
During the night, the Seven Dwarfs paid a visit to my head with their axes and sledgehammers. When I woke up the next morning, I prayed for death.
Viv was right; I couldn’t handle tequila like she could. My bland Caucasian body wasn’t built for it.
After the fourth spell of vomiting, I felt normal, checking the time on the kitchen clock as I trailed back to bed—2 p.m. On a normal day, I’d be heading to a showing or a listing. Something. Instead, on my first non-workday in five years, I’d lazed in bed like a college kid after a rager. Another thing I’d never experienced because I’d stayed laser-focused on getting somewhere in life instead of living it.
Who cares?I asked the green face in the bathroom mirror. Not me. Trying got me nowhere. Let’s see where not trying would get me.
A text from Denzel lit up my phone, and I scrolled back through the text thread. My nausea grew with each swipe.
Around 3 a.m. last night, as I’d cried over an Ed Sheeran song, I’d texted Denzel. Not for a booty call but to go to dinner.
Tonight.
What were you thinking? I screamed at my brain.
You fed me seven shots of tequila, it yelled back. And at least Denzel was always honest with you.
I conceded. You have a point, brain. Denzel told the truth. Maybe Mr. Anderson got him wrong.
He’d arranged to pick me up at six. Four hours from now. My pallor resembled a dead fish. Every second of the next four hours would count.
Jack preferred you makeup free.
Shut the fuck up, brain.
* * *
Denzel met me at our old restaurant in SoHo. As a joke, I’d worn the patent boots he’d thrown off his balcony. He didn’t register them when he stood to greet me.
“You look gorgeous, Scar.” He came around and pulled out my chair.
“Thank you.” Don’t call me Scar. Jack agreed with me on the Lion King reference. Don’t think about him.
“I haven’t come here since we broke up,” he admitted, the menu closed in front of him.
I laughed. “Me either.”
“Too busy being partner?” He put a hand over my mine. It felt heavy and oppressive.
You can do this. “Yeah.” Never had I felt so happy that Denzel didn’t read the paper or have a social-media account.
When I told him about Mr. Anderson, he shrugged. “Maybe I should buy his place and turn it into a downstairs closet.”
The image of Mr. Anderson’s homey apartment being turned into a mirrored room of vanity for Denzel’s sneakers made me excuse myself from the table. In the bathroom stall, I chewed my fist to silence my crying.
“So are you gonna stay in Brooklyn or move here?” he asked on my return.
I looked around to buy time. “It’s a bit up in the air at the minute.” Until I talked to an attorney. Lacey hadn’t known what would happen with the commission I’d earned from The Crystal. The four-bedroom brownstone I’d been stalking online and planning to put an offer on two days ago now felt like a pipe dream. For now, I found myself trapped. Two steps forward and fifteen fucking steps back.
“You could always move in with me,” he offered, taking a sip of water. “I mean, we were heading in that direction.”
“We never discussed it.”
“Yeah, that time, out on the boat, remember?” He clicked his fingers to signal for the waiter.
Did he do that before?
Putting on a brave face while your life turned to shit took more effort than I thought. My heart longed for bed and another pack of Oreos. “Nope, no recollection whatsoever.”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s enjoy tonight and see where this goes,” Denzel said, telling the waiter he’d be ordering for both of us and then ordering three things he knew I couldn’t eat.
Jack remembered you couldn’t eat coleslaw. I interrupted them to change the order and apologized to the waiter while Denzel looked put out.
Note to self: Speak to Viv about that lobotomy.