I back away as if Eve might infect me with her ability to forgive. “So it’s okay with you that Kara let everyone think your mother was unhappy? She let everyone believe Mom took her own life. That’s okay with you?”
Eve throws her hands in the air. “No, it’s not okay. But it is what it is. At least we know, Dad. At least she told us. It could be worse. Think about what Mom would—”
“No.” I cut her off. I see what she’s saying but can’t match it. There’s a certificate that lists my wife’s cause of death as suicide. It’s disrespectful to Madeline, disrespectful to our life together.
* * *
Eve endures thirty minutes of questioning at the police station.
“Did Kara indicate she asked or otherwise coerced your mom to step out on the ledge?”
“No. She said her instinct was to jump before my mother could get help.”
“Did Kara in any way indicate her movements on the ledge caused your mom to fall?”
“No. She said she was already headed toward the door.”
“But she knew your mom fell?”
“Yeah, she heard her scream.”
I listen in awe. Eve’s recall is impeccable. She rationally delivers this sensitive material in a way I never could’ve at her age. Or now. Imagine what this afternoon was like for my daughter: she consumed facts that are, at most lenient, emotional and, at most accurate, life altering. Then she thought about them, independently, and developed her position. And now she’s here supporting me, even though we disagree. Seventeen going on thirty.
The detectives stand. “What now?” I ask.
“We question Kara.”
Eve and I wait in silence. After a few minutes she reaches over and squeezes my hand twice. A simple gesture of backing. She’s telling me we’re a team. No matter what.
Neither officer makes eye contact when they return. “Kara’s story was consistent,” the older one says, “although harder to understand because she’s still quite intoxicated.”
They exchange glances to determine, without speaking, who will break the news. The rookie loses the silent argument. “We talked to the D.A. and there’s really no action for us to take at this point. Miss Anderson did not commit a criminal act.”
“How is that possible?” I sneer. “She knew it wasn’t suicide and failed to come forward. How is that not illegal?” Eve stays mute, willing me to drop it, but I can’t be the bigger person here. Maddy believed in showing love, compassion, and forgiveness, but some things are unpardonable.
“The fact is, Madeline’s death was an accident. The only possible argument for liability would be that she created a perilous situation for your wife, and then failed to make an effort to protect her.”
“That’s true. That’s what happened.”
He scratches his cheek. “It’s a stretch. She only really created a perilous situation for herself. Your wife stepped into it voluntarily.”
“Can’t you argue that by going out on a ledge, you’re creating danger for anyone that finds you? Obviously if someone notices you’re there, they’re going to try to help.”
“Even if we could prove that, your wife slipped. There’s nothing the state could argue Kara could’ve done to save her. For a charge to stick, she needs to have failed to take action.”
I shake my head defiantly. “She killed my wife.”
The older officer sighs. “Because of her your wife is dead, no one is arguing that, but she didn’t kill her.”
“What about the fact that she didn’t report it? Isn’t that negligence or accessory or something?”
“There’s no law in Massachusetts that you have to report a crime. Not to mention that we just concluded there was no crime. And keep in mind that she’s a kid. She was probably scared to come forward.”
I need to conjure up an angle that puts Kara in a position to pay.
I catch Eve’s eye. She looks so much like Maddy, sitting there, waiting for me to come to my senses. A wave of oxygen courses through me. That’s it. That’s why Eve is so serene. She’s thinking of it the way Maddy would have: everything happens for a reason. So what’s the reason Eve sees that I’m missing?
It’s a fact that we learned more from Maddy’s death because we thought it was a suicide. If I’d known it was an accident, I would’ve been angry at the world and retreated to work. I wouldn’t have questioned my life, my priorities. And if I hadn’t done that, I wouldn’t have worked so hard to find common ground with Eve. And if I hadn’t done that, I would’ve become a bitter workaholic with an estranged daughter. Kara’s cover-up was to my benefit. The epiphany calms me.
Eve and I stand to leave as though on cue. I put my arm around her and she clasps into my side, our physical closeness no longer uncomfortable. We leave the officers confused by what transpired during the silence. As we walk away, the older one calls out, “We’ll get that death certificate changed, though.”
EPILOGUE
TEN YEARS LATER
Eve
I’m the matron of honor in Rory’s wedding.
Robert is even crunchier than she is. He’s such a passionate advocate for natural beauty that Rory grew out her roots as a wedding present. She’s only fifty, but she prances around with silver hair and an AARP card, saying things like “When I grow old I shall wear purple.” I joked that Madeline will think her auntie is the Fairy Godmother.
“Fairy Grandmother is more like it,” she said with a snort.
Brian agrees with his sister that her hair makes her look older. Change is hard for him, but eventually, he gets there.
Rory was the maid of honor at our wedding three years ago. For her speech she said: I’d take credit for my dear friend and younger brother falling in love, but they did that on their own. A lawyer and a writer might seem an unlikely match, but what better combination is there than confidence and curiosity?
We connected one night when Brian picked up Rory at my apartment in the North End. I knew him only from the piercing memory of their mother’s funeral. When I opened the door my image softened. He’d changed; life had beaten him down to a more honorable perspective. Rory said it was Greta who sparked it. He still takes her to lunch once a month, not only to atone, but to get to know his mother through her dear friend. It’s amazing what can happen when someone learns to learn from pain.
We were clumsy in our introductions that night; neither of us intended it to be more than a standard pickup/drop-off scenario. “Aren’t you coming to dinner?” he asked, feigning surprise when I said I wasn’t. “I’d like you to,” he pushed, to Rory’s surprise. “And it’s my birthday. I’m just saying.”
By the end of dinner I knew I’d be tied to Brian forever. He still has a slight arrogance, but there’s something soothing about it, something that brings out a more assured version of myself. He reminds me of my father. The next day two dozen roses arrived with a note that read: Your presence was the perfect present.
I worried Dad would be put off by our age difference, but he just shrugged and said, “You’ve been older than your time for a while now. He makes sense to me, if he makes sense to you.” His acceptance didn’t stop him from joking though. He refers to our nine-year age gap as the delta. Whenever he starts in, Brian gives it right back to him. “I might’ve robbed the cradle,” he’ll quip in front of Pamela, “but at least I made an honest woman out of her.”
Pamela jumps to her own defense. “I’m a hell of a lot more honest than any attorney.”
Though her aggressiveness is occasionally at my expense, Pamela has been a blessing for my dad. He wasn’t looking to replace my mom. He knew that wasn’t possible. He was looking for the person you’d pick to be stranded on an island with. I’d probably pick Pamela for that too—she’s a modern-day warrior.
Their relationship allowed me to go to California for college without worrying about my dad. The West Coast is where I discovered myself as a writer and where I learned to enjoy people again, to laugh despite loss. Some are offended by
the idea that there’s beauty in mourning, but I can’t afford to be swayed by them. For a long time, my loss was all I had. I’ve trained myself to appreciate the independence and knowledge that accompanies pain. So my tattoo did serve a purpose, though Dad and Rory were right—it looked hideous during my third trimester carrying Madeline.
It was an Exeter alumni connection that ultimately got my first poem published in Underground, a literary magazine that only people in the industry are familiar with. I can hardly remember my state of mind when I wrote it, but I embrace the words as a part of my history.
DISSOLVING
I am everywhere God is
Encompassing a truth
A truth that does encourage compassion
And this startles me
But from this vintage view
I can distinguish the universal difference:
Truth the drought that drains the terrain
Just there, just is, no justice
It does not cater to reality as compassion does
Molding structure into an eroded tomb of bias
It does not seek it with fury
As its destination is always right where you are
Going where you’re going
And from these eyes I’ve borrowed brilliant power
Compassion surrendering
Dissolving like the sugar in my iced tea
Not sweet though—
Bitter.
Rory still has a framed copy on her mantle. “I don’t totally get it,” she admitted over the phone, “but it came from you, so I love it.”
Aunt Meg read more into it. “I only wonder if it means you’re healing or still raw from her death?”
“Healing,” I assured. “At least this way I’ve put my pain out there. At least I’m not afraid of it.”
“You’re just like your mother,” she said. A compliment of the highest order.
After school I found California crowded, and the mild season changes made it hard to keep track of time, but mostly, I came back to be closer to Dad. He and Pamela live in the same house I grew up in. It doesn’t appear they’ll ever marry. “You get married for the kid’s sake,” Pamela confided once after a couple glasses of wine, “or for money. But my kids are grown and I’m rich as all hell, so if your dad doesn’t want to wear rings that’s fine with me.”
They came to Rory and Robert’s wedding, cheering on little Madeline as she crawled down the aisle. Rory is the only person clever enough to dress up the flower girl as an actual flower because she’s too young to walk. I can’t wait to see the pictures. Madeline has my mother’s eyes and full cheeks. More painful than my loss is knowing she’ll never meet her namesake, and vice versa.
Brian squeezes my knee under the table. It’s my turn. I stand, one hand to my heart, and hold up a glass. “To watch the person who found your happiness find happiness is a beautiful thing. The day I knew Rory would always be a mentor, she said, ‘You don’t always get to know what happened, or why things happened a certain way, but it always, always, goes deeper than any one thing.’ I look at her life, and all she’s done for others—her students, her family, her friends … me—and then I think about Robert entering the picture, and giving all that love back, and I realize Rory is right. Their love brings me a sense of justice, something I’ve struggled to find for a long time. They’ll be happy because they found each other at a point in their lives when they know what a gift it is. Please raise your glass for my mentor and best friend, and her lovely husband, to toast the blessing that happened on this day.”
When I lean down to hug Rory I whisper, “Sometimes I feel like you were sent by my mother.”
SHOUT-OUTS
Okay, raise your glasses! A toast:
To my husband, Kevin Wittnebert, for absolutely everything.
To my sister, Sarah Byrnes, for being my first reader and pro bono therapist, and to her husband, Matty, for his complimentary legal advice on the ending.
To agent Elizabeth Winick Rubinstein—it’s not just her name that’s badass.
To the entire team at St. Martin’s Press—Jennifer Weis, Sylvan Creekmore, Katie Bassel, Karen Masnica, Brant Janeway, and everyone in editing and subrights that I don’t interact with directly—for taking a risk on an unknown.
To author Lisa Daily for her Friday dose of hope accompanied by a slice of cheesecake.
To Emily Anderson for sharing the wisdom that family is made of the people who show up, and then showing up for me.
To Vala Afshar for reminding me what charisma looks like.
To Crystal Walker for teaching me the art of +1.
To Gabriela Lessa, whom I’ve never met, for her candid feedback. It made me cry a little, but saved this manuscript from the rejection pile.
To Richard Sachse, a.k.a. Mr. Wonderful, for his honesty, and his wife, Lynne, for encouraging me to practice love, compassion, and forgiveness.
To my cuz, Ezra Ace Caraeff, for his twelve-year-old wisdom on raging hormones, and the insight that people think of you what you think of them.
To Stephen King for offering On Writing to the world, and Professor Carolyn Megan for making me read it.
To Sara Bareilles: Brave cures my writer’s block.
To Rachel Platten: Fight Song brought me back to life after I got sick.
To the writing community: I’m in awe of how you band together to support newbies.
To the dozens of readers who marked up drafts over the years I puttered on this while working full-time … y’all kept me going.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ABBY FABIASCHI is a human rights advocate on the board of Her Future Coalition, an international nonprofit organization with a unique prosperity model that uplifts victims from human trafficking and extreme abuse. In 2012, Abby resigned from her executive post in high tech to pursue a career in writing. I Liked My Life is her first novel. She and her family divide their time between West Hartford, Connecticut, and Park City, Utah. Learn more at www.abbyfabiaschi.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Epilogue
Shout-Outs
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
I LIKED MY LIFE. Copyright © 2017 by Abagail Katherine Wittnebert. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover photographs: woman with flowers © Lee Avison/Trevillion Images; flowers on wood © Starsmore/Shutterstock
The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.
ISBN 978-1-250-08487-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-08488-0 (e-book)
e-ISBN 9781250084880
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or busine
ss use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First Edition: January 2017
I Liked My Life Page 27
