I was upset. My face felt hot. I’m sure it was flushed. I unbuttoned my chunky cardigan sweater. Why did this family keep their homes so hot?
“I can liaise with Madison about having everything messengered, if that’s helpful,” George was saying. Liaise. Lawyer mode.
“Thank you, George. You’re a lifesaver. Oh, that reminds me. I wanted to give you this.” Helen bent down and began rifling through her Goyard tote.
I shifted in my seat. I was desperate to get out of there. Nothing felt further from Stewart than sitting in this stifling office with this ice queen. The family never appreciated the real him. They never understood him! He always felt that way.
George stole a glance at me and mouthed, “Are you okay?” I shook my head. He stood.
“Helen, I’m so sorry to rush us, but we should go. I have a client call that I couldn’t reschedule. Apologies.”
She looked up. “Not at all. I know you have an important job. Wren can stay and get the rest of the information from me.”
I looked up at him in panic.
“No, no. I promised her a ride downtown. I can wait until we have everything we need from you. My client will just have to understand.”
“Okay. Thank you.”
With a small shrug, he sat back down. Without looking at me, he placed his hand on top of my own and squeezed once, then moved it away. I wanted it back.
“Ah, here it is. I wanted to give you two a program from another recent TV Institute tribute, so you know how they usually go. Most of it will be organized by the staff there—they’re pros at this. They’ll reach out to invite his professional contacts, etcetera. But, in order to introduce a personal element, they’d like us to choose someone to speak—about Stewart as a person. Wren, I’ll let you choose whom, if you think you’re up to it. You did a good job finding the aneurysm organization. As I understand it, the partnership is good to go.”
I cursed Stewart for choosing me to help with his aftermath. I knew Helen Beasley would never have asked me otherwise. “Sure,” I managed. “I can find someone. Unless . . . were you hoping to speak?”
“Me? Oh, God no.” She looked down at her desk and seemed to say to herself, “I wish I could, but I couldn’t.”
“And Ted?”
It was a silly question. I wasn’t even sure that Stewart’s father would know how to describe his son. She shook her head. “Maybe Blair or . . . I don’t know, Keith. He knew Stewart for a long time.”
I flinched. Over my dead body. Not over Stewart’s. “Okay. Thank you, Helen. I’ll give it some thought. Maybe Jimmy.” I pictured Jimmy demurring, if I could even get him to respond. Public speaking was not his jam.
“Yes!” her face brightened at the thought. “Maybe Jimmy. Okay. That should be it. George, have a good meeting. If you don’t mind calling me later to discuss some minor life insurance issues, I won’t bore Wren with that now.”
He nodded. “Of course.”
Once dismissed, we blew past Madison. George gathered our coats and, in no time, we were outside in the fresh air. I wanted to bow to the trees in gratitude for their oxygen.
He pulled on his jacket. “Does it seem to you like we’ve spent the days since Stewart’s death constantly trying to escape?”
“It does. Thanks for rushing us out of there.”
“Feeling any better?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“No problem. I thought you were about to turn into a tomato.”
“Gee. Thanks a lot.”
“A cute tomato. One with a face.”
“Oh, that’s much better.” The word “cute” hung in the air between us like a balloon; I blew it off. He probably called Madison “cute” too. “It’s just strange to be in Stewart’s childhood home. Without him, it feels like everything he wasn’t—cold, stiff. It’s odd. It makes me feel even lonelier. Like he was the life of that place and without him—”
“Yeah, I get it. He was the family’s heart.”
“Yes! And they’re so odd. I know they’re mourning and I shouldn’t judge and all families are insane, but why don’t they want to help more? I expect his father to be too busy, as usual, but why won’t Kate get over whatever is happening and come visit Stewart’s apartment one last time? Pick up the photographs of them as kids?”
“I don’t know. Families are nuts. Especially at times like these.”
Nearby, a teenage girl was checking her phone while walking a giant dog in a sweater across the street. A squirrel darted in front of them, catching the girl unaware. She yelped as the dog dragged her after him. It would have been funny, under other circumstances. I used to have a sense of humor.
I blurted out, “I can’t stop thinking about how she found out.” It felt like an admission.
“She?”
“Helen.”
“Right.”
“Do you know . . . the details?”
George studied me, maybe wondering how much to share, his jaw flexing and releasing. I was making him nervous. “Well, I know that his downstairs neighbor found him,” he said gently. “They had some sort of arrangement where he allowed her to use his cable when he was away. She didn’t realize that he was home. After she found him, she called the doorman to come up. I think maybe it was that guy watching the game on his phone when we arrived the other day. And then he called the police. I imagine they called Helen.”
I thought about that for a moment. It was as I pictured, only now I had a whole new scenario to consider: the neighbor walking in. Horrifying. Stewart. Lifeless. Blue. What happens when your brain explodes? I almost asked George. Thus far, I had been wise enough not to look it up online. I was afraid of the images that might appear.
Behind George, the sky was turning a soft pink, warming and darkening as evening set in. I looked up at his face, half in shadows. “How did you find out?”
He cleared his throat, eyes downcast. “She called me. Right afterward.”
“Where were you?”
“At my office. LA time. It was earlier there, of course. I was drinking my morning coffee, which was, of course, some special Ethiopian blend that Stewart had insisted I try. My day had just started.” The day had begun like normal, then everything flipped upside down.
“I wonder how she knew—to call you.”
“She knew I was his lawyer,” he shrugged, “even if I wasn’t the right kind.”
I bit my lip. “When I found out, I was eating vegan taco salad and watching The Bachelor.”
George’s eyes widened. I saw him try not to laugh. “That’s . . . I feel like I should say something somber, but I can’t think of what.”
“I was super excited for my relaxing evening! It was the finale!”
“I can’t believe you watch that show.”
“Why does everyone say that? It’s quality TV!”
“You are a complicated woman.”
“That probably wasn’t meant as a compliment but thank you.”
He looked at me, hard. “Of course it was a compliment.”
Something about the way he was examining my face—refusing to look away—made me feel exposed. A flutter of nerves reverberated through me. “Hey, are you hungry? I’m hungry!”
“As far as I can tell, you’re always hungry.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know you’re used to LA models on intermittent juice fasts, but, yes. I’m a human being. I need food to live. Preferably fried food.”
“Fair enough. Let’s walk downtown. We’ll find something around Columbus Circle.”
We started to walk, the magic hour settling over us like an enchanted spell. The behemoth prewar buildings were like mystical mansions of a bygone era. I half expected the glitterati to emerge from them in stoles and shimmering diamonds on their way to the Harvard Club or the Algonquin or some such playground where the likes of Dorothy
Parker quipped. George was walking beside me like some handsome costar. I wondered why he’d chosen a job behind the camera instead of in front of it. But I knew. Because—responsible. And he didn’t need the spotlight. I took a deep breath. “I have to tell you something.” I heard myself say it before I understood that I would confide in him. “It’s a confession. It might be silly.”
He raised his eyebrows, “You have my full attention.”
I exhaled. “I’ve been doing some digging and I think that Stewart may have struggled with depression and anxiety. And he never told me.”
George stopped walking and cocked his head. “That’s your confession? I was hoping for something tawdry.”
“Well, you’ll have to settle for maudlin.”
“Seriously, though, what makes you think that?”
“I talked to a high school friend who remembers a bout he had with it. And I found a prescription for meds tucked inside one of his plays.”
George toggled his head. “High school was a long time ago. And a prescription for antidepressants doesn’t seem unusual. Plus, if you found it, it means he might not even have filled it. These days, doctors, especially in LA, dole that stuff out like candy!”
“Why do I feel like I’m about to get a lecture on the opioid epidemic?”
“It’s a serious problem.”
“Sometimes you do remind me of Stewart.” Preachy. I shoved my hands in my pockets. “Anyway, I know it doesn’t even matter. He’s gone. It’s just upsetting me that I somehow didn’t know—like he had this whole world I was oblivious to.”
George brought his hand to my shoulder, stopping me. “Wren, you knew him. As well as anyone. He adored you. You can’t possibly know every single facet of any human being. That doesn’t mean that your relationship wasn’t legitimate.”
Across the street, a trio of children shrieked with excitement. Their father stood watching them climb up onto a green park bench and then jump down off of it. I thought about sitting on benches like that with Stewart. Never again.
Stewart. Gone.
George was right. I was overreacting. I gazed up toward the swanky hotels on Central Park South, across Columbus Circle toward Time Warner Center. Trump Tower slumped—a gold and gaudy blight—at its edge. That’s when I spotted it! The antidote for all my woes: Nathan’s!
“Oooh.” I made a beeline for the shiny green cart.
“Where are we going?”
“Hot dogs.”
“Hot dogs?”
“Yes.”
“I thought you were vegan.”
“Really? Why?”
“You said when you found out about Stewart—”
“Oh!” I laughed. “No, I’m not vegan. I ate a turkey sandwich at the bagel place with you, dummy. I’m just—” I stopped myself from saying lactard, thank God. George wouldn’t have let me hear the end of it. “I can’t eat dairy. But I love hot dogs.”
“I should have known. For all of Stewart’s health nuttiness, the man loved a Dodger Dog. During baseball season, we went to all the games together. You should have seen the shit he gave me for wearing my lucky Pirates hat in the box.”
“Um. Lucky Pirates hat?”
“I told you. I’m from Pittsburgh. The hat’s maybe a little old. And decrepit.”
I stepped up to the ordering window. “Stewart and I were regulars at Gray’s Papaya as kids. He actually hated healthy food, as you saw. He just had to look good for TV. Luckily, I don’t have that problem.”
Minutes later, we were leaning against the stone park wall, halfway through our hot dogs on doughy buns with mustard and sauerkraut. George ordered relish on his too, even though I scrunched up my nose in disapproval. Gilding the lily.
It was almost fully dark out now—time to head home. I was spending a lot of time below ground lately, as the subway shuttled me, on a daily basis, up and away from my everyday life and into my past. Or was it my uncertain future? Obviously, the loss of Stewart was terrible, but what about the interruption to my life? Was that so bad? I realized that there wasn’t anything, except for my grouchy cat, that I was missing about my routine.
“This must be weird,” George said, startling me out of my reverie. “For you.”
“What? Eating hot dogs?”
“Um, no. I get the feeling that you do that a lot.” He smirked. “I meant hanging out with me. I’m another remnant of Stewart’s life with which you have to contend. A reminder of his absence.” He tossed his white cardboard tray in the garbage. Swish.
I thought about that. “You know, for some reason, you feel separate. Maybe it’s because I never knew you guys together. Like I can talk about him and you can remind me that he was real, which I appreciate. You’re more like a super inept therapist who appeared in his wake.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I’m sure he would have thought it was weird, though—us hanging out.”
George’s dimple appeared beneath his stubble, an open-ended parenthesis. I wanted to trace it with my finger. “Oh, he would have been horribly jealous.”
“You think?”
“Sure! He didn’t share well. He and I went out to beers with a friend of his from set once—the first AD on the show, Gary something. The guy and I connected about old noir movies; turns out we both love them. Gary mentioned a Raymond Chandler screening at this old movie theater in Hollywood. Stewart basically freaked out thinking we might hang out without him. He made me promise we would call him if we ever went.”
I giggled. “Yeah, he liked to be the main event.”
I pulled out a pack of cherry Lifesavers from my purse. I have thing for old-school candy; I popped one in my mouth. I offered one to George.
“Wow. These take me back.”
“They’re so good, right? It’s easy to forget how good they can be. Life’s simple pleasures.” I thought about Morgan and her tiramisu.
We were quiet for a beat again, watching people rush by on their way home to children or out to drinks, only now it wasn’t awkward. I snuck a glimpse at George and saw that he was watching me. He scratched his head, like he was figuring out how to approach something. I wondered if he did that in court. “The other thing is, with Stewart . . . and you, I mean, he would have been jealous because you were special to him.”
“He relied on me to keep him grounded, I guess.”
“Yeah, there’s that.” George narrowed his eyes—even then they seemed to twinkle. “But he also loved you a little—don’t you think?”
I inhaled.
George had rendered me speechless. In the silence, I searched his face. He looked like he was trying hard not to look like anything. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to say.
I thought about the question—looked at it hard without a filter, tried to find the truth I understood at my core. Did Stewart love me a little? Could I have loved him if I tried?
“No. I don’t think so,” I said finally. “Not the way you mean.”
I felt a tightness in my chest, but George looked relieved. It made him even more handsome. Those amused eyes brightened. The semicircle crease by his mouth grew more pronounced. I resisted the urge to bury my face in that navy blue sweater peeking out from beneath his jacket.
When I started down into the subway, a few minutes later, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw him watching me descend.
On the train back downtown, the car was crowded. I stood, leaning over other passengers—a teenage girl with a pimple on her cheek (her funeral: hiking accident, “I’ll Be Missing You” by P. Diddy, gummy candy) and an older man with paint on his pants (his funeral: diabetes, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” by Aretha Franklin, chocolate cake). I felt sick to my stomach. I’d done all I could to avoid thinking about that night, but now it was consuming me.
He loved you a little, don’t you think?
There were s
everal times throughout the years when I decided I liked Stewart as more than a friend. Or maybe you could argue that I always wondered what that might be like. It remained there, humming under the surface as we went about our lives: When he got a haircut in seventh grade and looked like Zac Efron. In high school, when he comforted me through my breakup with Matthew Simonsson (apparently I didn’t handle rejection well). In early college, when he got cast in Streetcar and was brilliant. That time, I think he must have known. I came close to telling him at drinks afterward. I even launched into a whole prepared speech about how long we’d been friends, how I’d never want to “mess that up” and how “change is confusing.” But, before I got to the part about how lately I’d been “feeling different” about us, he made it clear he had feelings for his costar, Carolina White. Maybe he was trying to stop me from confessing.
I imagine he felt conflicted and wondered about me sometimes too. When Stewart was on a winning streak, I always had the sense that he was flying somewhere above me. It was during his losing streaks that he searched me out, or so I felt.
This particular night was different—and the same. We were maybe twenty-five. He was in one of his moods, which I wrote off as self-pity. Auditioning wasn’t going well. He wasn’t yet in grad school. I was on an upswing—or so it seemed to the untrained eye. In fact, the reality that my magazine writing career might not prove sustainable had begun seeping into my consciousness. I’d soon realize that I’d have to write a hundred features about plumping lip gloss a month at fifty dollars a pop in order to survive. And I was running out of synonyms for “glowing.” I was starting to feel like I wanted something more, starting to think about journalism school.
We got dressed up, went out to a fancy dinner at a preposterous restaurant (that was often Stewart’s move to cheer us up) and got sloppy drunk. The place wasn’t cool or trendy, only expensive and stodgy—a special occasion restaurant for the wealthier bridge-and-tunnel set. We stuffed our faces with steak, creamed spinach, and corn bread.
Competitive Grieving Page 19
