Her Perfect Life

by Rebecca Taylor

  “Just cream. I’ll get it.” She waved off the idea of him doing anything further for her and moved to search the industrial-sized refrigerator for a carton of anything dairy-like. Simon’s grief was so palpable, the weight of it filled the whole house. She considered sending him back to bed and wondered if Simon and her sister had been the sort of people that might have a leftover prescription bottle of something that might help him sleep. When she returned to her cup with the closest thing she could find to cream, a thin container of nonfat milk, she noticed Clare’s new book on the kitchen table.

  “I can’t help but think,” he said when he saw her staring at the book, “that I missed something. Some clue. Some answer to Clare, some reason for why she’d…do this.”

  Eileen poured the watery milk into her coffee, glanced at Simon to make sure he wouldn’t object, then picked the book up off the table and brought it over to the island. She held it between her hands and stared down at the cover.

  Simon sighed. “I’ve read everything she ever wrote at least ten times. Partly because it’s my job, mostly because I’m her husband, but always because I loved her stories. That book.” He pointed to A Perfect Life in Eileen’s hands. “Something was different. I knew it right from the start. She wouldn’t let me read any of the early drafts, wouldn’t tell me what it was about. She would even stop writing and close her computer if I happened to walk in on her while she was working on it.” Simon stared at the bare marble countertop in front of him, as if some answer to Clare could maybe be deciphered in the randomness of black and gray swirls. “All her other books, except for that first one…she’d never acted like that before. We always consulted, brainstormed. She’d let me read her works in progress so we could discuss direction, theme, the current market, what her fan base expected. But not that book… So I keep thinking, because of what she’s done, that maybe there’s some message, some clue. Something I might have caught in time, if only I’d made her let me read it.”

  Eileen looked up at Simon, his pained expression, his false belief that he might have somehow saved Clare from herself. Her sister, Clare, the same girl who had always, always, fearlessly marched ahead into God-knows-whatever unknown and hardly blinked an eye. That he even entertained the idea he could have deciphered Clare made Eileen seriously wonder if he had ever really known his wife at all. Because to know Clare, truly, was to accept the fact that you couldn’t ever know what was swirling beneath her beautiful surface. She was a mystery, and aside from the money and fame that Clare manifested, the mystery was her single greatest draw, and certainly the most enduring. Had Simon never realized it? Really? Because Eileen had managed to work that all out by the time she was twelve.

  “Why not her first book?”

  “Hmm? Sorry, what was that?”

  “You said, aside from her first book, she’d included you in creating every other one. Why not the first?”

  “Oh.” He shrugged and raised one eyebrow. “Well, she wrote that first when we were only getting to know each other. Before we fell in love, I suppose.”

  Eileen racked her brains, trying to remember. “Which book was that? I can’t remember the title of her first book.”

  “Yes, well that’s because it was never published. She wrote it during her short story days back in—”

  “Brooklyn,” Eileen finished. “And actually, I think I did read it. I must have. Back then I used to read all Clare’s stuff.”

  Simon, despite his haggard and grief-stricken self, cracked a small smile. “Of course. You were her only fan.” He nodded.

  “What?” Eileen tilted her head to the side.

  Simon took a sip of his now-fresh cup of black coffee. “When I first met Clare, in that run-down bar on its way out of business trying desperately to stay afloat by holding readings for local writers, she told me her sister was her only fan.” Simon raised his coffee cup to Eileen across the island. “So, brava, sister Eileen. If not for you, one of the most prolific and popular fiction writers of our time may have thrown in the towel before the world had a chance to show up and kneel at her door.” He took a long drink from his coffee and lowered the cup to the counter with a clank that rang out.

  “Some fan. I can’t even remember now what that book was about. Why didn’t it ever publish?”

  Simon stared at his cup and took a breath. “If I recall, editors far and wide said something along the lines of, while the writing was fantastic, they had a hard time connecting to the main character. They couldn’t determine a market audience. They liked it but didn’t love it, and some of them simply didn’t respond at all. Clare was a nobody, and I was a nobody agent. Collectively, we were easy to reject out of hand at that point in our careers.” Simon shrugged. “All of that, it’s fairly typical actually. It’s what she and I did after that first book—that’s the stuff of literary dreams.” His voice broke on the last word.

  “Simon…” she said, her voice soft and trying to comfort.

  He raised his hand to stop her, sucking air fast and hard through his nose. He shook his head once, as if trying to push away the sudden tsunami of grief that had washed over him again. “My every thought leads to her, and it’s like breaking in half over and over, and over. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to breathe… Why would she do this? Why would she leave me like this?”

  Eileen shook her head. She had no idea what Clare could have been thinking, feeling—what might have driven her to something so desperate, so irrevocable. By all accounts, Clare’s life was perfect. At least that was what Eileen had always thought. Clare was beautiful, talented, successful, rich beyond belief, and adored by both her husband and her fans. She looked down at the book she still held in her hands, A Perfect Life. She now wondered if Simon’s suspicions could be correct. Was there something about this book that was different? Some message from Clare that someone who knew her could possibly decipher? But if Simon couldn’t see it… He had been the closest person to Clare for the last sixteen years. Simon and…

  Eileen looked up at him. “Has our mother been told?”

  He closed his eyes and sighed, as if just now remembering the elderly woman in the assisted living home who had lost her eldest daughter but had no idea any of it had happened. “No… I don’t know. Maybe someone from the Regency… God, I completely forgot about—”

  “I’ll figure it out. I’m sure the home wouldn’t have told her without consulting one of us first. It will be best if I tell her.”

  Simon nodded. “She didn’t even know who I was the last time I went with Clare to visit. It was like the last twenty years had disappeared for her.”

  Eileen nodded. “I’ll go today.” She stared down at her milky coffee, dreading the moment she would have to try to explain to her mother that Clare was gone. It would be awful under any circumstances, but how would it play out with a woman whose mind slipped further and further every day into a tangled gray fog of confusion and loss? Would she even understand what Eileen was telling her? “What about…what other arrangements still need to be made?”

  “I don’t know. Everything, I guess. Clare’s publicist is coming. She’s hired someone to help us, some sort of professional planner.”

  “A funeral planner?” Eileen asked, never even considering once in her life before this moment that such a profession existed. “Like a wedding planner?” she clarified and immediately regretted mentioning two disparate life events that threw their current situation into such a stark contrast. “I’m sorry… I just—why a planner? Won’t someone at the funeral home just sit down with us and help us pick out… I mean, go through the details, let us know what we need?”

  “If it was me that had died, yes,” Simon said. “But it’s not me; it’s Clare Collins. I don’t think you’re realizing this could turn into a circus, a total media shit storm. And the sheer number of people who will try to be there—her most devout following? We need more help than a funeral d
irector can offer. I’m sure you saw what happened when the publicist released the initial announcement, just the basics?”

  Eileen thought of the two women in the airport bookstore, commiserating and buying Clare’s new book. Obviously, people knew her sister had died, but Simon was alluding to something more. “I guess I didn’t. I’ve been pretty out of touch since your call yesterday.”

  He nodded and pulled his phone from his robe pocket and swiped the screen awake. “I told the publicist, just a basic announcement that she’d passed away, here at home. That we wanted some privacy. She had advised being more forthcoming. She wanted us to verify the death was a suicide.” Simon handed Eileen his phone so she could see what was happening for herself. “I just couldn’t do it—I still can’t. But people are speculating wildly now. Some are even wondering if her death was drug-related, or even murder. There’s all sorts of theories all over the internet and social media, people making wild leaps of logic, some based on characters or plots from Clare’s books—especially because of that book.” Simon pointed to his copy of A Perfect Life. “That’s part of the reason the publicist and planner are coming today.”

  “Damage control,” Eileen offered.

  “Exactly.”

  “How much information will you release?” she asked.

  “You mean, how much will we release?” Simon shook his head. “I don’t know. I can’t even imagine getting dressed, never mind trying to think this all out. It wasn’t just a courtesy asking you to come. I really need you here, Eileen. It’s too much, and I can’t manage it alone.”

  “Of course,” she said. She took a deep breath and held on to it for several moments before letting it go.

  “They’ll be here at three. They want us to hash out a plan and come out with a revised statement by the end of today. They hope it will help squelch the rumors starting to fly.”

  Eileen nodded. “We’re going to tell everyone, aren’t we? We’re going to let the world know what Clare did?”

  Simon swallowed, the corners of his mouth pulling down. “I think we might have to.”

  “I need to tell our mother first. It needs to come from me—not some news report or nursing assistant.”

  Simon looked at the time on his phone. “Yes, absolutely. You’re right,” he said, the tone in his voice giving away the fact that he hadn’t even considered this. “That would be the right thing to do. And you should have time to get there and back before everyone arrives if I call Henry right now and arrange for him to drive you.” Simon pulled up the contacts on his phone. “Can you be ready in twenty minutes?”

  “Yes,” she said, largely because no was apparently not an alternative. She picked up her coffee and turned to head back up the stairs and into a very quick shower. She stopped at the door and looked back at Simon, who was just finding Henry’s number. “You said especially that book. Why? Have you figured out what’s so different about it? Aside from her not letting you read it right away?”

  “You haven’t read it?” Simon asked as he lowered his phone.

  Feeling slightly ashamed of the fact, Eileen shook her head. “Not yet. I just picked it up.”

  Simon sighed. “Well, apart from it just being a very different book from what she usually wrote, the main character, in the end… she kills herself.”

  Eileen stared at him.

  Simon looked up and met her gaze. “So you can understand why I feel like I should have known my wife needed help.” He looked down at the space of counter between them and shook his head. “I should have known. I should have been here.” He placed his hand on his forehead and held it there for a moment before slamming his fist onto the marble. “I should have fucking been here,” he whispered. “I could have stopped her…saved her…fucking done something other than…find her.”

  On instinct, Eileen went to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

  “I don’t… It doesn’t make sense to me,” he whispered while his shoulders shook. He pulled away and looked into Eileen’s eyes. “Did she say anything to you, ever, that may give you a clue? Was it something… Did she ever say anything to you that would make you think… Jesus Christ, is this my fault?”

  Eileen stared into Simon’s sorrowful expression; his eyes a bottomless well of grief and pain. She said the only real truth about her sister she knew. “Clare was complicated and secretive and always so…hard to really know. Even as kids. She was my sister; we shared a bedroom, for God’s sake, but I’ve never felt like I really understood Clare.”

  And when that explanation didn’t seem to help ease the pain on Simon’s face, Eileen grasped his hands and told him a lie.

  “She loved you, Simon.”

  Chapter 16

  Clare

  Twenty-one years before her death

  Clare stood with the awkward cardboard and cellophane box open in one hand while she used the plastic tongs to pick up the glazed, jelly-filled doughnut her mother had requested. Careful to keep the box balanced as she placed it next to the other ten assorted sugar bombs she had already selected, all that was left was Eileen’s cream-filled éclair. It was Sunday morning, and all of them had slept late. Her mom had promised to make the coffee if Clare would go pick up some doughnuts.

  “Fine,” Clare had groaned and taken the car keys from her mother’s outstretched hand. It wasn’t just that her mother wanted her to pick up breakfast. Her mother’s frequent requests for Clare to “run to the store” or “drop Eileen off at school” were actually Ella’s not-especially-covert attempts at getting Clare past the fear of driving she had developed since the accident.

  For months after Clare had come home from the hospital, she hadn’t touched a steering wheel, but none of them really thought anything about it. It wasn’t until the following February, eight months after the accident she still couldn’t remember, that her mother pulled her car over to the side of the road and unbuckled her seat belt.

  “What are you doing?” Clare asked.

  “It occurred to me last night that you haven’t driven, not once, since…before. I’m getting out so you can drive the rest of the way home.” Ella opened her door and was moving around the car to Clare’s side before she had a chance to respond.

  “Wait—what?” she said, as a panic she hadn’t expected clutched at her chest while her hands and feet burned with a surge of adrenaline. Clare watched her mother reach for the passenger door handle, intent on forcing her out of her seat and behind the wheel of the car. On reflex, Clare’s hand shot like a bullet from her lap and locked the door. She met her mother’s surprised eyes through the closed window and shook her head.

  “Clare?” her mother said, a worried frown sprouting between her eyes. “Don’t be silly. Unlock the door.”

  Clare closed her eyes. Her heart thundered in her ears. As surprised as she was by her own behavior and reactions, she was far more terrified that her mom was going to force her to do something she suddenly realized she couldn’t. She couldn’t move, was barely breathing. Her hands were sweating profusely just from thinking about driving. When she opened her eyes, she saw that her mother was still standing outside the car but had taken several steps back. Her arms limp at her sides; she looked shocked.

  “I can’t,” Clare whispered. “I can’t.” Her eyes welled up with tears that spilled down her cheeks.

  Her mom walked back around the front of the car, got in the driver’s seat, and closed her door. They sat for a moment, both staring out the windshield, the silence humming in Clare’s ears. After several seconds her mom reached for the key, turned the ignition, and shifted the car into Drive.

  “We’re going to have to fix this, Clare. You know that, right?” She pulled the car back onto the desolate road and accelerated. “I had no idea you were so afraid to drive now.”

  “Neither did I,” Clare whispered.

  So her mother started her slow. “Just o
pen the driver’s side door.” And for the next three days, Clare opened and then closed the driver’s side door several times a day. “Today, I want you to open the door and sit in the seat, for as long as you can.”

  At first, she was only able to sit for a few seconds before the racy, panicked feeling clawed up out of her gut and spread throughout her back and chest. But after a week, Clare was able to sit there for ten minutes, especially if she turned on the radio to distract herself.

  “Now,” her mother said, standing next to the open door and handing her the keys, “start it up.”

  Which was how, two months later, Clare was eventually able to drive around their block. By the time summer came, and after the one-year anniversary of that night, Clare was able to make her first short trip, alone, to the store. She had spent the whole summer taking care of small errands for her mother, her mother who was on a mission to help Clare recover, move on—get her life back. So by the fall, Clare could drive again. Short distances only, and she never enjoyed driving. It had now become a necessary evil to be endured, but she could do it. Even if she hadn’t really moved on in any other way.

  She was nineteen now. She wasn’t working or in school and didn’t really see a path toward either of those options. Waiting her turn in the checkout line, Clare read the red-and-white Help Wanted sign taped to the wall beneath the customer service desk where they sold lottery tickets and scratchers. There was small, handwritten print, probably detailing exactly what sort of job they were hiring for, in the white space at the bottom of the sign, but it was too far away for Clare to make out.

  She inhaled, gathering herself for what she knew she needed to do next. Her mother hadn’t mentioned her getting a job, not once, since the accident. But she couldn’t spend her every day floating from her bedroom to the kitchen to the bathroom, occupying herself with little more than the words she scribbled down in her journals and daytime soap operas. It was time. She needed to keep moving on with her life, even if that life wore a red smock and a name tag. After she paid for her doughnuts, she would head over to the counter and ask for an application.