Sending hugs,
Morgan
In some ways, Morgan’s email was much like the others: horrible news, sorry to bug, what happened? Clearly, she had written it before news broke about Stewart’s aneurysm. But something about that question, “Was it an accident?” threw me off. As opposed to what? Murder? Why did that make me angry, considering I had thought the same thing at first?
I wrote her back:
Hi Morgan,
Good to hear from you.
I debated for an absurd amount of time about whether to add an exclamation point and decided to be more subdued. Because—death and all.
I’m so sorry that it took me a moment to get back to you. I’ve been a bit overwhelmed with the logistics of cleaning out Stewart’s apartment and helping plan a tribute for him.
Why did I feel the need to mention all my death-related responsibilities? Sure, it was a good excuse for having ignored her message, but, if I was honest, I also wanted her to know that Stewart and I had still been close. Our friendship wasn’t past tense.
By now, I’m sure you’ve read about the aneurysm. I don’t have a lot of additional details, but, essentially, he got a terrible headache—and that was it. It’s so hard to fathom, isn’t it? That one second you could be complaining about your sinuses and the next just be erased? Life without Stewart seems pretty unimaginable.
A black hole.
I stopped typing. Why was I now confiding in Morgan? The pendulum was swinging pretty wide and fast on this one. I guess I felt resentful of her intrusion, but also grateful that she could confirm memories of me and Stewart in our early days—like she could help make my time with Stewart real.
Anyway, you should definitely come to the tribute next week. In the meantime, I hope you’re doing well. It looks like you’re happy, judging by Instagram at least. Your trip to the Jersey Shore this past summer looked delightful.
xo - Wren.
I was about to close my computer, but then three dots—that flickering ellipses—appeared. Apparently, Morgan was online and already responding.
Thanks, Wren. So good to hear from you too!
(She went for the exclamation point.)
Yes, I heard about the aneurysm and, as sad as that is, I was relieved to hear that he didn’t suffer and that he’d been happy and thriving until the end.
We should try to get a group of high school people together soon and have a toast in his honor! And, yes, thank you. The Jersey Shore was awesome. Turns out NJ isn’t all garbage like they told us growing up. My kids loved it! I miss summer already!
Best,
Morgan
She was relieved that he was happy and thriving? He was a famous actor with a ton of successes—a rising star.
Morgan, is there some reason why you thought Stewart wouldn’t be thriving?
Maybe she had read about turmoil between the Manic Mondays cast in Us Weekly and took that seriously. Maybe she was perusing tabloids at weekly pedicures like Madison. I saw the dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. There was a lag, a pause, and then her response posted:
Well, I don’t know if this is okay for me to talk about. I guess he’s gone, so it doesn’t hurt anyone. But between you and me, I just always wondered how he was doing because of that month he missed in ninth grade—you know what I mean.
I did not know what she meant. At all. I mean, I remembered the month he was sick; he’d had a terrible bout of mono. Was she worried that his body was frail after that? Surely not.
You mean when he had mono?
Yes. “Mono.”
What did “mono” mean? Why the air quotes?
Hey Morgan, I’m sorry. I feel like an idiot, but I’m not sure what you’re saying.
Oh, no, I’m sorry. I was being too vague. I mean because of what really kept him out of school.
???
Wait, Wren. I’m so confused. Did you not know? I just assumed you knew ’cause you guys were inseparable and your mothers were friends. You know he was absent because of the breakdown, right?
The breakdown? My heart started pounding—or maybe it already had been and I was only alert to it now. How much was there about Stewart’s life that I didn’t know? How close were we really?
I was torn: I didn’t want to seem clueless about Stewart, but I needed to know more. Maybe Morgan was confused. Maybe she’d come unhinged in the years since I last saw her, all evidence to the contrary? I rubbed my eyes, as a tug-of-war played out in my mind. What was I afraid would happen if I admitted that I didn’t have all the answers about Stewart’s life? I gave in.
Honestly, Morgan, I don’t know about that. What makes you think he had a breakdown?
Okay. Did Stu ever mention that he and I saw therapists in adjoining offices? And that we used to talk?
My world was being rocked. Stewart had a secret friendship with Morgan Tobler? He used to call her “Fluffy” behind her back because of her wild hair. No wonder she’d wanted more information. They’d been legit friends. I thought about how ardently Stewart had argued with Jimmy about going to one of Morgan’s birthday parties so many years ago.
I knew he went to a therapist, but that’s it. Morgan, is there any way that I could call you?
Of course! I’m just getting the kids down and then I have a planning committee meeting at their school, but I’m headed into the city tomorrow for a dentist appointment and then I’m free. Do you want to meet for coffee, by any chance? Maybe at like three at Cafe Lalo?
I could swing it if I ran from there to Helen Beasley’s apartment to meet George at 5:00 p.m. to discuss the tribute planning. I had to see her.
Yes. I’ll be there. Can’t wait to catch up!
I closed my computer. What the hell was going on? Who was the real Stewart Beasley?
Chapter 25
Stewart. Are you for real? How much did you keep from me? And, more importantly, why? I wouldn’t have judged you. I would have been there. You know that! I loved you!
I can’t believe that I’m going for lattes tomorrow with fucking Morgan “Fluffy” Tobler to learn more about the real you. Am I making up how close we were? Was I imagining our connection all this time? Am I just one of many people who overestimated their closeness with you?
The worst part is that you’re not even here to verify what I thought were the facts. Who really knew you, Stewart? Because I’m starting to worry that it wasn’t me.
Chapter 26
The minute I saw Morgan’s moon face, I felt like a horrible person for projecting my anger onto her. I made a mental note to replan her funeral with an upgrade. Premium package.
She stood on the sidewalk right off Amsterdam Avenue, the lights from the café twinkling behind her even in the light of day. A lot had changed on the Upper West Side since we were kids. Mom-and-pop businesses, from knish and halva shops to shoemakers, had been replaced by basic chain stores. Amsterdam, once a dangerous stretch, was now home to sports bars and neighborhood eateries serving artisan fried pickles and Asian-inspired tacos. It was late afternoon and clusters of middle and high school kids romped by, postdismissal. Squealing and laughing with shoelaces untied, they chased each other in circles, free from the confines of grown-up rules. As I approached Morgan, one boy shoved another in jest, sending him flying in my direction. I jumped out of the way before he crashed into me.
“Sorry, ma’am!” He cavorted away, backpack hanging off one shoulder.
I looked at Morgan. “Ma’am? Did he just call me ‘ma’am’? Jesus. Like I wasn’t having a bad enough week.”
She giggled, cupping her hand over her mouth, the mannerism reminiscent of her girlhood self. She wore a Patagonia fleec
e, straight-leg jeans, and sporty sneakers, the colorful kind you wear to the gym, not out. Apparently, she had ceased to care. In some ways, I envied her that. Her puffy hair was tamed into a bun and maybe even keratin flattened, revealing her ruddy face.
We exchanged a quick kiss on the cheek and mounted the steps to the door. Inside, the restaurant was buzzing, more so than I expected. When we were kids, this had been a neighborhood spot, known for its extravagant pastries and desserts. But then Nora Ephron featured it in You’ve Got Mail and it became not only a tourist destination, but also a symbol of the old guard Upper West Side, standing staunchly on the right side of history.
We were led to a small round table. I ordered peppermint tea with almond milk and honey; Morgan ordered a cappuccino and tiramisu. I would have loved to inhale every sweet in the place, but my lactose intolerance means I’m out of luck at heavenly spots like this. I inhaled, though, and let the smell of chocolate and cream envelop me. Stewart lived for the key lime cheesecake here.
Lived for . . . Stewart. Gone.
Morgan and I exchanged pleasantries as we waited for our drinks. She asked after my parents. I asked after her husband and kids. Then, once she’d mixed a packet of stevia into her coffee, I decided it was time to dive in.
“So, Morgan, I was so surprised by what you said—about Stewart and his break from school. The thing is, I assume I know everything about him, but it’s starting to feel like maybe that isn’t the case. Like, at all.” I heard my voice shake and willed it to stabilize.
Her face folded like a consternated bulldog’s—a cute one. “Oh, Wren. I’m so sorry. The last thing I want to do is mess with your memories of him!”
“No, no. Not at all. Truly!” I stirred the honey into my tea for longer than necessary, then pushed on. “I mean, I want to know. Now that he’s gone, I’m finding I have this impulse to investigate him. To understand every single detail about his life because in some ways I feel like maybe I didn’t. We were still close at the end, but I feel like I let too much time pass between really checking in. I took for granted that we were in each other’s lives. That we always would be.”
“And why wouldn’t you have? You should have had much more time. It’s such a horrible, shocking thing, death. Especially when it’s sudden and arbitrary like this.” She looked down at her coffee cup, wiping a bit of foam off the lip and licking it from her finger. Only then did I remember that she’d lost her father to cancer about five years before. My stomach dropped. I was so self-involved.
Poor Morgan. Was she still shocked daily by her father’s absence? How long did that feeling linger? A few weeks? Forever? “You’re right. It is . . . shocking . . . again and again. Speaking of which, how is your mother holding up?”
“She’s good. Thanks for asking. But the thing is, it doesn’t go away, the sadness. It just moves toward the back of the closet, if that makes sense. You still keep it with you always, but, eventually, it’s not the only thing you think about—not every day, all day. You’re no longer angry and confused about how the world can continue to spin and people can go on with their days, even though you’re shattered. So that’s a long way of saying, my mom is still sad sometimes and she misses my dad every day, but she’s okay. She has this hiking club she loves. That’s very helpful—like a sisterhood.”
“That makes sense. I’m glad she found that.”
Morgan sighed. Then she seemed to remember herself. She took a big forkful of her tiramisu and groaned, “Oh my God. It’s so good.”
Life is funny. There is pleasure; there is pain. Sometimes they’re back-to-back. Sometimes they are one and the same.
“Are you sure you don’t want any?”
I shook my head. “Lactard.” I wanted to punch myself in the face. I vowed that I’d never use that expression again. I felt like Morgan was one-thousand times the person I was—or at least I’d been acting like lately.
“Ah. Too bad. I didn’t know. That must have started after high school?” Morgan took another bite and closed her eyes to luxuriate in the dessert. Suddenly, her eyes popped open. “You know, I’ve been so focused on Stewart, I forgot to even ask you what you’re doing with yourself! You wanted to be a journalist, right?”
“Good memory. Yeah. An international correspondent, as a kid. I wanted to travel the world.”
“That’s right! I think the last time I saw you—at the five-year reunion—maybe you were writing for magazines? Cosmo and ELLE maybe? And talking about applying to Columbia’s School of Journalism to move into more ‘serious’ stuff? Did you end up going? I remember that your dad taught there.”
I had a pat answer that I normally recited to this question—which people from my past asked from time to time—all about how I worked as a fashion and beauty writer for a while before realizing how frivolous and difficult editorial could be. Magazines are dying blah, blah, blah. Today, though, I looked Morgan in the eyes and worked up the courage to speak the truth aloud for maybe the first time ever. “I applied, but I didn’t get in. They rejected me.”
I waited for the world to shrivel up and drop off its axis—or at least a look of shock to register on Morgan’s face. Instead, she took a sip of her cappuccino, leaving a trail of foam on her upper lip. “Oh! Their loss! So, did you study somewhere else? Or continue working your way up in magazines?”
“No,” I shook my head. “I kind of took it as a sign—and did something else.”
“Oh. That’s too bad. I remember you being a really good writer!” Morgan peered at me through glassy eyes. I felt like she could see too much.
I shifted in my seat. “Anyway, so Stewart? And his break . . . down?”
“Oh, right! Sorry, I got off track. So, when my dad got sick the first time, during our ninth-grade year, my parents sent me to a therapist. I guess they wanted me to have professional help processing what was happening.”
“That was probably a good idea, right?”
“Sure. My parents love a therapist. Anyway, I arrived for my first appointment and the waiting room had one of those boards where you press the button and it lights up to let your therapist know that you’ve arrived. But I didn’t understand the system. I was standing frozen in this empty waiting room surrounded by framed floral prints and ancient magazines strewn on side tables and, suddenly, I hear this familiar voice from behind me say, ‘Just push the button, Fluffy.’ ”
“Stewart.” Morgan knew about the nickname, and she didn’t mind. I realized now that it was probably a term of endearment. Stupid, Wren.
“Yeah, I was, of course, very surprised. It was awkward. I mean, we were thirteen or whatever, and Stewart was one of the cool kids at school. I was—well, never quite that.”
I started to disagree, but she swatted at the air like it didn’t matter and continued. “Anyway, that’s the funny thing about therapists’ offices, right? You’re waiting to talk to a professional yourself, but you still assume that everyone else there must be crazy. Stewart and I were uncomfortable at first, but then it became clear that we had the same appointment time and that our therapists shared an office. We couldn’t avoid each other. So we started talking while we waited each week. First, it was just about school—teachers we liked or hated, impossible homework, some funny prank at assembly that morning. But then, we started to open up about why we were both there. I think it felt good to talk to another kid, who understood the nature of our lives, but who wasn’t in our immediate social circle. I remember, he mentioned his father being somewhat absent?” She looked to me for confirmation.
I nodded. “Yes. That remained true.”
“The other stuff was normal adolescent angst: his parents put pressure on him, his sister and mother fought, he was sick of playing peacemaker. But then he started to talk about how hard he found it to get out of bed some days. At first, I agreed. I thought I knew what he was talking about. What teenager doesn’t want to stay in bed? But, t
hen it became clear to me that he was experiencing something more intense than I understood. Now, as an adult, I would be better equipped to wrap my mind around the idea, but we were only kids. So I just listened. I told him you’d never know it from watching him at school. Everyone loved him. He always seemed so energetic and upbeat.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “He often was. And what did he say?”
She smoothed her bun. “He said he felt like it was weak to give into the sadness and lethargy, but that sometimes he felt exhausted by everything. I remember he said he wanted to curl up in bed and stay there for a month. He laughed afterward, but I didn’t feel like he was kidding.”
I pictured Stewart in his king-size bed, which seemed giant to me then, too big for a child to fill—navy sheets and gray duvet splayed around him, shades drawn. Morrissey playing in the dark. I had laid beside him in this state many times. I knew the Stewart who moped and festered. But it just seemed part of the performance of his being, and also part of growing up for us all. I could remember the feeling now, as a physical sensation, of lying next to him, his body warm beside mine as we stared at the ceiling in silence.
Competitive Grieving Page 17
