REMEMBER THIS
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters and events in this book are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Gatekeeper Press
3971 Hoover Rd. Suite 77
Columbus, OH 43123-2839
Copyright © 2016 by Patricia Koerner
All rights reserved. Neither this book, nor any parts within it may be sold or reproduced in any form without permission.
ISBN: 9781619845336
eISBN: 9781619845343
Printed in the United States of America
I want to express my appreciation to my beta-readers, Raven and Patti for their invaluable help and support. Thanks and hugs, ladies.
“Being loved deeply by someone gives you strength; loving someone deeply gives you courage.” – Lao Tzu
Contents
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1
Present day (March 19th):
As she waited for the kettle to boil, Hannah looked out the window at the New York skyline to the south. It looked like the beginning of a fair sunny day. Pieces of shiny green foil caught her eye as they were carried on the breeze. She watched as a plastic St. Patrick’s Day hat rolled along the street, discarded or lost by someone after the parade two days earlier. Retreating back inside, she quickly dressed and combed her hair. She was 62 years old, but her face had few wrinkles and she could easily pass for a decade younger. She smiled remembering how many people have commented that she bore a resemblance to Loreena McKennitt. There was some grey in her sandy blond hair, her once curvy, voluptuous figure had become thickened and matronly and bi-focal glasses covered her grey-blue eyes.
The kettle whistled and Hannah poured herself some coffee. She made sure to make it extra strong this morning. For the last two nights she had been unable to sleep. She had woken up sweating, shaking and her heart beating rapidly, as if from a nightmare. Hannah didn’t like to take sleep aids, so she now was sleep-deprived and in need of a little caffeine boost. She carried the coffee and some toast over to her desk and turned her computer on. She opened her e-mail, answered a message and then deleted a few others, obviously junk, muttering, “delete this….delete this” as she went down the list. She opened a letter she had already read. The bar at the top of the screen read ‘You replied to this message on March 16th at 10:34 a.m.’ A tender smile slowly appeared on her face as she re-read the letter. She read the last sentence in a whisper to herself, “Remember this; I think of you every day and you are always in my heart. Only 10 more days till spring. Love, John.” After moving this letter to a folder, she opened a news website, Newswatch.com. She clicked through several stories as she ate her toast and drank her coffee, reading each one for a minute or two. Another item caught her eye and she clicked on it. It read:
Actor John Eaton Dead at 65
John Eaton, best known for his role as drug lord Miami Mike on the popular TV crime series, D.E.A., was found dead Wednesday of an apparent heart attack…
As Hannah read on, tears filled her eyes. Before she was able even to finish the article, she collapsed into inconsolable weeping, her body shaking with sobbing.
Two weeks later (April 2nd):
Hannah had been through emotional hell and it showed. Her eyes were red from weeping and lack of sleep and had dark circles under them. A deeply private person, she confided nothing even to her few close friends. She kept all her dark pain to herself. She tried to get through each day, hoping that her grief would subside, but it did not. She had done little in two weeks other than re-read all of John’s letters, which she had saved over the years, and look at the photos she had of her and John. There were some taken at his sister’s wedding, some at her friend Laurie’s wedding, some on a trip to San Francisco taken when they lived in California, and two of them taken on the same bench in Central Park – the first in 1972, when they were both students at Performing Arts Academy and the second taken in 2007, when John had a break in filming of D.E.A. and had come up from Miami to visit Hannah. They figured the Swiss tourists they asked to take the photograph wouldn’t recognize John.
Today, though, Hannah has had to run errands and buy groceries. As she crossed East 87th Street to reach her apartment building, she noticed several people milling around the entrance with cameras and microphones. As Hannah brushed past them, one of them, a young man, stepped up and said, “You’re Hannah Newman, aren’t you?”
Before Hannah can respond, a woman said, “Yes, she is, I recognize her.”
The man then said, “Care to give us a statement? How do you feel about your secret relationship with John Eaton becoming public?” Seeing Hannah’s shocked look, he continued, “Yeah, it’s all over the internet, complete with pictures, and some pretty racy stuff, too. Woo-hoo!” He turned back to the others and they all laughed. Turning back to Hannah, he asked, “So, what do you say?”
So far, Hannah hadn’t spoken at all, but she now she managed to croak, “Get away from me!” She rushed into the building as best she could with all her bags of groceries and made her way up to her 6th floor apartment. She turned on her computer and searched her own name. A number of hits came up.
“TV crime drama actor led a double life!”
“Relationship with Grammy winning composer lasted over 40 years!”
“Anonymous source provided racy pics.”
Hannah clicked on one link and up came a series of erotic photos of her and John taken over 30 years ago, when she and John were engaged. Scrolling down to the comments section, she read several crass and vulgar comments along the lines of:
“I don’t get why he was so crazy about her. She isn’t even pretty. In fact, she’s kinda homely.”
(In reply to the previous comment) “Yeah, but look at that fine rack she’s got! Jugalicious! No wonder he kept going back.”
(In reply to the previous comment) “Those pictures were taken 30 years ago brother, and that rack has gone south by now. She probably gives good head and is a good lay. That lasts longer than a good rack.”
(In reply to the previous comments) “You guys are so frickin’ clueless. Why do you assume that it was all him wanting her? As a woman, I can tell you that it was just as likely that it was he that was well-endowed and he gave good head and he was a good lay.”
There were more, but Hannah couldn’t read any more. A wave of revulsion washed over her, followed by nausea. She ran into the bathroom to vomit.
***
The next day, Hannah’s son, Matthew Townsend, whom Ha
nnah called Matty, phoned and asked if he and his wife, Paula, could come visit her. Hannah agreed and invited them to stay for dinner, glad for the distraction. She decided to cook one of Matty’s favorite dishes, lasagna. As she prepared the meal, she contemplated how she would tell Matty about what has happened because he must hear it from her and not from the internet or sniggering friends or worse, strangers.
Over the meal, Matty and Paula told Hannah that they were expecting a baby, due in early November, right around Hannah’s birthday, which fell on All Souls’ Day/Day of the Dead. All her life Hannah had thought it a paradox to have been born, to have drawn her first breath of life, on the day reserved for honoring the dead. No matter now. She felt happy for the first time in weeks. It seemed strange to be happy, almost as she had forgotten what it felt like.
“You know I love my furry grandbaby,” said Hannah as they ate, referring to Matty and Paula’s tabby cat, Herbert. “But I’m excited about finally getting a hairless one.” They all laughed, but Hannah’s laughter stopped suddenly. She remembered that John had made a similar remark in an e-mail to Hannah just after Matty and Paula married in 2011, when Hannah was caring for Herbert while they were on their honeymoon.
“Herbert misses his Nana. You should come out for a visit. Rutherford’s not that far,” Paula was saying.
“I will,” said Hannah. “I haven’t been out of the city for a while and I miss him, too.”
Hannah decided now to tell Matty and Paula. “I have to tell you two something,” she began. “Before you hear it elsewhere. There have been some articles and pictures on the internet, about me … and John Eaton.” Matty and Paula put down their forks and focused their attention on Hannah, making her even more nervous. “John and I were in a relationship and after he died, someone made it public and also published photos that weren’t meant to be public, that he or she had no right to. I wanted you to hear about it from me, not anyone else.”
“John Eaton? The actor?” asked Matty. “For how long?”
“Off and on since college. The relationship wasn’t always a secret. We were together openly for years. Eventually we split up and that’s when I married your father, Matty. After we divorced, I took you to California and John and I got back together again. We planned to marry and were engaged for over a year, but we split again and he eventually married someone else. After that I married Guillermo and got that teaching position in Utah. Eventually John’s marriage failed and we got back in touch.” Matty opened his mouth to speak, but Hannah cut him off. “In case you’re wondering, his wife knew of our relationship and was willing to turn a blind eye to it if he remained married to her for the sake of their children and if we kept our relationship out of the public eye.” She let out a deep breath. “Those are the facts, Matty.”
Matty got up from his chair and began pacing and throwing his hands up. “Great! Just great, Mom! After all my life of you telling me about discretion, about the need to watch what we say and do in front of other people because it could reflect back on the family and especially on Granddad, you chose to hook up in secret with a man who was married!”
“Oh yes, Matthew, they were so-o-o-o married that they didn’t even share a bedroom let alone a bed.” Hannah rose from her seat and rounded the table until she was right in front of Matty. “His wife had no idea he was lying dead in his bed. She was out somewhere attending to her own business and wasn’t even home. He was found by the cleaning woman, the cleaning woman!” Hannah’s voice rose to a shout.
Paula, who had been sitting in silence during this exchange interjected, “Hannah, Matty, please!” as she got up and rushed over to Matty. She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t yell like this.”
Matty took a deep breath and in a calmer, lower voice said, “All right, Mom, I guess we’d better see these pictures.”
Hannah retrieved a manila envelope from her desk drawer and handed it to Matty. “I have copies. We made two of everything.”
Matty took the envelope, emptied it onto the desk and began looking through the photos. He picked up one of him as a baby, with his mother and John, taken in San Francisco. He gazed at it for a moment. Still gazing at it, he mused, “I’ve seen this picture from time to time over the years.” He chuckled. “I used to watch D.E.A. back in law school. It bugged me that Eaton looked so familiar and yet I never could place him.” Matty tossed the photo back onto the desk. “Guess that mystery is solved now.”
Meanwhile, Paula stepped up to the desk and picked up a couple of the erotic photos and looked at them. One was of Hannah wearing a red see through teddy, decorated with small heart appliques. Her head turned to one side. John was standing behind her, bent down, kissing her neck. The other was of Hannah naked from the waist up, embracing John, also naked from the waist up, his face on her breasts. “These aren’t smutty pictures,” said Paula. “They’re actually rather artistic.” She briefly scanned the rest of the photos. “There is no total nudity, no depiction of sex, just two people in love. Why all this fuss over pictures that look like the cologne ads you see in fashion magazines?”
Matty rolled his eyes. “How would you feel, seeing your mother in pictures like this?” He slapped the photos still in Paula’s hand, knocking them out of her hand and onto the floor.
At this, Hannah stepped in between Paula and Matty. She moved a stray lock of his blond wavy hair. She then placed her hands on his cheeks and said, “Matty. I am your mother. I carried you, birthed you, and raised you. I love you with my whole heart. But, I am entitled to my privacy, my private relationships, my private feelings. I am entitled to things I don’t have to justify to anyone, not even to you, son.”
For a long moment mother and son looked at one another. Finally, Matty let out a deep breath and embraced his mother, drawing her close and kissing the top of her head. Releasing her, he said to Paula, “Let’s go home. I want to find out more about this and if there’s anything we can do.” As Paula and Matty put on their coats, Matty asked, “Mom, who released these photos?”
“I don’t know. The articles all say ‘an anonymous source,’ one I suspect is very much like the ‘anonymous source’ that sold the story to the tabloids after your uncle Danny died about his sexual orientation and that he had AIDS.”
Hannah and Matty exchanged another look. “I’ll let you know,” Matty said as he and Paula left.
The next morning, Hannah was determined to try to get through another day. She sat down at her piano and tried to play her favorite Mozart sonata. All her life, her music had been her comfort, something she could always turn to – when she needed refuge from her mother’s “bad moods,” when she didn’t win a competition or land a job she wanted, when her marriages failed, when her relationship with John hit low points. Now, for the first time, her music seemed to turn its back. She couldn’t play the notes today, even though the piece was one she knew by heart. Her hands shook and refused to move across the keys. In frustration, Hannah slammed the lid shut. She walked over to her stereo, selected a CD of Baroque lute music and inserted it. As the soothing music played, Hannah lay down on the sofa and closed her eyes.
The doorbell ringing startled Hannah. She started up, but hesitated. She was expecting no one except perhaps Matty, but he always phoned first. The bell rang again. Hannah went to the door and looked through the peep-hole. “Reporters again!” she said to herself. She turned and stood with her back against the door. “Shit! How did they get past the security door?” Anger rose in Hannah, but was followed by panic. She thought, irrationally she knew, “What if they try to force their way in here?” On impulse, she ran to her bedroom and retrieved from her nightstand a .45 caliber semi-automatic pistol. She threw open the front door and raised the weapon, racking the slide mechanism, and then aimed it straight at one reporter’s head. “You want my statement? Here it is!” The reporters stepped back in alarm. One of them instinctively put his hands up to ward her off. Hannah advanced several steps, still holding the gun high. The reporters turned and hurri
ed toward the elevators. A couple of them opened the fire exit door and started clattering down the stairs. “Vultures!” Hannah laughed as the last of them disappeared. “They’ll think twice now before coming back.” She laughed again as she went back into her apartment and kicked the door closed after her. Once inside, she sank to the floor, her back still against the door, as if to block it. She sat there until her hands stopped shaking. Taking a few deep breaths, she picked up the gun from where she dropped it and returned it to the nightstand.
***
Late that night, Hannah was sleepless with despair. She had lost everything. Her beloved John was dead, her son was angry with her and now, music had deserted her. Exhausted, her eyes red from yet another crying jag, she went into the bathroom to wash her face and brush her teeth before going to bed and trying again to sleep. She didn’t bother to turn on the light as she knew every square foot of her apartment by heart. She had lived there for ten years, since she divorced Guillermo, and moved back to New York. Entering her bathroom, she deftly avoided the loose tile near the door. She opened her medicine chest, but instead of picking up her toothpaste, her hand fell on a bottle of Atenolol, prescribed to her for high blood pressure.
Gripping the bottle tightly, Hannah made her way to the balcony door. She opened it and stepped outside. It had finally stopped raining and the air was still and humid. It was unseasonably warm for early April. It was well after midnight and the full moon was high above the city, partially obscured by the few remaining clouds. Hannah sat down on a chair, her hand fiddling nervously with the bottle cap. Finally, she opened the cap and poured some of the pills into her hand. She contemplated them for a moment, fresh tears welling up in her eyes. If the only way to stop the pain in her heart is to stop her heart, then that is what she would do. She dumped the pills back into the bottle and placed it on the balcony railing. Going back inside to the kitchen, Hannah got a bottle of water from the refrigerator and returned to the balcony. On her second step out onto the balcony, she stubbed her toe on a chair leg. As she staggered forward, she instinctively thrust her arms forward to steady herself, knocking the bottle of pills off the railing. Bending over the railing, she watched the bottle fall to land in a rivulet. “No! Dammit!” she cried, pounding her fist on the railing. The rivulet carried the bottle straight into a rain gutter.
Remember This Page 1
