Skipping a Beat

by Sarah Pekkanen

  “Yup,” she said. “I hadn’t realized how fear was keeping me frozen in place, you know? Now I can see how another five years might’ve slipped by, and then maybe five more … and who knows? Maybe I never would’ve done it. It would’ve been the single biggest regret in my life. Well, except for that spiral perm I got in the ninth grade.”

  The laughter in her voice conjured my own. “How do you feel?” I asked.

  She paused, and when she spoke again her voice was serious. “I think about her all the time. I keep imagining her parents bringing her the letter, maybe at night when she’s in her bedroom studying. I wonder what her room looks like. I wonder if she’s in the popular crowd at school, or if she feels like an outsider. For some reason I imagine she’ll carry the letter around in the pocket of her jeans, so she can take it out and look at it whenever she wants.”

  “What did you write?” I asked, before quickly adding, “You don’t have to tell me if it’s private …”

  “No, it’s okay. I kept it simple. I took your advice and told her how scared I was to write before. I described what I felt like when I was pregnant—how she seemed to dance inside of me whenever I turned on music—and why I picked her parents. And I wrote that if she ever wanted to get in touch, I’d love it.”

  “It sounds perfect,” I said.

  I could hear Isabelle take a deep breath. “So now the ball’s in her court.”

  “I’m at the office, but I was about to head home,” I said. “Want me to swing by there on the way? We could have a celebratory drink. Or are you still hungover from the other night?”

  “Yes,” Isabelle said. “And yes.”

  I looked down at the Washington Post clipping I still held in my hand, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it in the trash can as I held the phone tight against my cheek with my other hand. No matter how this turned out, I couldn’t stand losing Isabelle. I’d find a way to fight through the awkwardness. I had to.

  * * *

  Sixteen

  * * *

  AS I PULLED UP at our security gate, after leaving Isabelle’s house, I saw a small knot of people—five, maybe six—clustered around Michael. He’d stopped his car outside the gate and was standing there chatting with them.

  “What’s going on?” I called, putting my own car in Park and stepping out as a twinge of fear worked its way down my spine. “Michael?”

  A photographer whipped around, and a bright flash temporarily blinded me. By the time I could see again, Michael was by my side, holding my elbow. “A story went out on the AP wire this morning,” he said quietly. “I’m giving them a statement. I might as well do it now; they’ve been calling my cell phone all morning.”

  “A statement?” I asked in confusion, just as a middle-aged woman with gray hair called out, “So you confirm you’re giving away one hundred million dollars?” She pushed her glasses up higher on her nose and poised a pen above her little spiral notebook. “That’s your entire net worth?”

  I wrenched my arm away from Michael’s grasp. Don’t answer, I wanted to shout, but it was already too late. He was nodding as camera flashes exploded again.

  “Can you tell us exactly what made you decide to give it all away?” A man’s voice rose above the din.

  Michael hesitated, and I suddenly remembered the last time we’d stood in front of the media, after he’d bought an interest in the Blazes. Back then we’d had a savvy publicist waiting to usher us away if the questions turned unpleasant or went on too long. Now we were on our own, and I felt trapped. I had to make Michael see that going on record would make this almost irrevocable, that if—no, when—he finally came to his senses, he’d regret making his decision so public. I had to stop it.

  “I died recently, for four minutes and eight seconds,” Michael was saying, as casually as if he were recalling a sudden change in the weather. “You remember my cardiac arrest, right? It made the local papers. When I came back to life, I realized everything I once valued didn’t matter. Money is completely meaningless to me now.”

  The reporters scribbled furiously in their notebooks as two photographers moved in closer, their cameras zeroing in at dueling angles on Michael’s face. My God, how had I gotten here? I felt like one of those cheating politicians’ wives, standing at a press conference while the intimate details of our lives were rolled out for the world to hear. I knew my face must look just like so many of theirs: grim, shell-shocked, uncomprehending.

  “Michael, let’s go,” I said, tugging his arm.

  “Did something happen to you?” someone asked. “Did you have a near-death experience?”

  Michael paused, and everyone fell silent. A group of geese flew overhead, heading south in anticipation of the coming winter, and one let out a loud honk, making me flinch.

  “I don’t know what to call it,” he finally said. “But yes, something happened.”

  “What was it like?”

  Michael had never before struggled to express himself; his lightning-fast mind always sorted through his vast vocabulary and zeroed in on the precise words he needed. “I can’t—can’t really explain it,” he said now. “It was beautiful. I don’t know what else to say. Some of it is private …” He glanced at me. “I can’t talk about it. Not now.”

  “Where is the money going?” another reporter asked. “Which charities?”

  “I’m keeping a little bit for some immediate expenses. Everything else will be sold at auction, including our houses. I’m going to ask Christie’s to handle it. It’ll go to a lot of charities. Doctors Without Borders, Habitat for Humanity, cancer research, as well as a number of smaller ones … I’ve got a list inside.”

  He was calling Christie’s? He had a list?

  I instinctively jumped into my car and hit the remote control to open the security gate. Just before I pressed down on the gas pedal, the passenger-side door flew open and Michael jumped inside.

  “Why the hell did you have to tell them?” I yelled as the gate swung open, agonizingly slowly, and I sped through it, wishing I could mow down the reporters. I rubbed my hand roughly over my face, feeling furious with myself for not stopping it. But everything had unfolded so quickly; I’d been blindsided.

  “It just seemed easier to give them a quote and get rid of them,” Michael said and shrugged. “They would’ve kept calling if I hadn’t.”

  “You should’ve talked to me first.” I struggled to keep my voice even. I couldn’t scream at Michael; I needed to stay calm and rational. It wasn’t too late; maybe we could call the reporters and get his statement retracted …

  Michael glanced at me. “Honey, I’m not going to change my mind,” he said quietly. “If you decide to stay with me, it can’t be for my money. I won’t have any.”

  I felt a fresh surge of anger. “So you expect me to work while you sit around the house?” I asked incredulously, skidding to a stop in front of our house. “Oh, wait, scratch that, we won’t have a house.”

  “Julia, it’s not going to be like that at all.”

  “So you are going back to work? Because that’s the only other option I can see in this whole fucking nightmare you’ve created.”

  I saw different emotions play across his face before I got out of the car and slammed my door.

  “I can promise you one thing,” he said, getting out, too, and facing me across the hood of the car. “I need to sell my company, but you’ll never have to support me.”

  “So you’ll get some sort of job?” I asked. “A consultancy or something?”

  Michael seemed to choose his words carefully. “I would love to do that. To work less, and be with you more.”

  I stormed toward the house, feeling my frustration swirl into a sharp peak. Michael could probably make a ton of money as a consultant. He obviously wasn’t averse to earning a living; so why was he so hell-bent on giving away all his DrinkUp profits?

  “What is it, then?” I finally asked. “Why do you have to sell the company? It’s like it’s suddenly your
… enemy or something.”

  Michael fitted his key into the lock and swung the door open before answering.

  “In a way, it is,” he said, standing aside to let me enter our house first. “I’m not proud of my company anymore. I think it ruined me. I got so caught up in it that I turned into someone I didn’t like. I’m ashamed of some of the things I did.”

  I could think of one or two things, I thought, my mind helplessly flashing to his former employee Roxanne’s knowing smile as her eyes raked up and down me …

  “You killed yourself to build that company,” I reminded him.

  Michael smiled a kind of half smile. “Literally, right? Listen, I would love it if we could just sit down together and talk. Hold hands, maybe.”

  My God, he was like a sixth-grader with a crush.

  “Tonight, maybe we could pack up a picnic and watch the sun set.”

  No, he was a Hallmark card—one that had been rejected for being too sappy.

  I opened my mouth to say something to move us past this ridiculous moment, but instead, something completely unexpected emerged in a strangled whisper.

  “Why do you love me so much now?”

  Michael just looked at me, his eyes filled with sadness.

  “There were so many times you could’ve been with me,” I said. “Not even special occasions, just regular nights when you could have come home early so we could’ve had dinner together and talked.”

  “I know,” Michael said. “I’ll never get that time back. That makes me sadder than anything else.” He paused and looked down for a moment. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said, meeting my eyes again. “From here on out, I’m only going to be honest with you about everything.”

  Something in his voice made me nearly flinch, but I forced myself to lift my chin and stare at him. After all, what else could Michael do to me?

  “I told you I wanted to go back to work,” he said. “And I will, if I possibly can. Julia, I’d love to build a new life with you. But … I don’t know how much time I have left.”

  Relief made my body sag. This was Michael’s big, honest announcement?

  “None of us do, Michael,” I said. “I could die tomorrow, or next week.”

  “It’s different,” he said. He inhaled a slow breath, and that look came into his eyes again—the one that always did when he talked about those missing minutes. “I just had this sense … while I was there … I was being allowed to come back, but not for long…. You see, time doesn’t really have meaning there—”

  “Who told you this?” I interrupted. “The head angel? Was he walking around like a gym teacher with a whistle around his neck and a clipboard, putting everyone into lines and telling them whether they could stay or go back?”

  “Not exactly,” Michael said. He grinned. “It was much nicer than gym class. No one gave me a wedgie there.”

  “Do you have any idea of how crazy this is?” I walked into the living room and flopped down on a chair. “You’re telling me you might not live much longer, but because there’s no concept of time in the afterlife—it sounds kind of like a preschooler’s brain in that way—you have no idea if you’ll be here for another five years or fifty. Michael, come on. Don’t you hear how nutty this all sounds? I know what happened to you was terrifying—”

  “It wasn’t scary at all,” he cut me off.

  “Fine,” I said. “But can’t you just slow down a little? Why does everything have to change all at once?”

  He moved over to kneel on the floor beside me. This was how he’d proposed, I remembered with a start. He’d just walked over and knelt next to me one morning while I was reading, and he’d pulled an inexpensive gold band out of his back pocket, and I’d shouted “Yes!” before he’d even said a word. “I was going to ask you tonight,” he’d said. His voice was muffled against my shoulder. “I was going to buy flowers and cook you dinner and everything, but when I walked into the room and saw you, I couldn’t wait another minute.”

  A few years after we married he bought me the big diamond, but I always wore that plain engagement ring next to it, every single day.

  “Let’s not argue anymore,” he said now. “I can’t bear to waste any more time with you.”

  “So you want me to fall in love with you again, even though you think you’re going to leave me?” I asked. Even though I didn’t believe a word of it, I felt a tear trail down my cheek. “But that’s so … mean.”

  “Oh, Julia, don’t you see?” he said, and his eyes were so clear and blue. “I had to come back for you. Because of you. I’ll only be truly at peace when I know you’re going to be okay when I’m gone.”

  I used to believe that all of the biggest moments of my life were tangled up in opera. But I know it was pure coincidence that the station our Bose radio was tuned to began playing La Bohème later that day. La Bohème was the Italian composer Giacomo Puccini’s first big hit, and it has always been one of my favorites. It’s the story of four young guys, all broke, who live together in a crappy little apartment in Paris—well, as crappy as a Parisian apartment can be. A neighbor named Mimi knocks on their door one night because her candle has blown out—I know, I know, it sounds like a cheesy pickup line to me, too—and she ends up falling in love with one of the guys. The thing is, she’s dying of tuberculosis. Her boyfriend, Rodolfo, struggles with his conflicting feelings. Their relationship is intensely complicated, and the way they sing to each other, with longing and passion and sorrow … Well, if you can sit through it without pulling out a tissue, then you must be made of steel. Rodolfo and Mimi become estranged, then passionately reconcile. Things would be easier if they just separated—their future together is so complicated, their love always intertwined with the pain of their mistakes and transgressions against one another—but they can’t. They’re as necessary to each other as oxygen. But no matter what happens, looming over their heads is the knowledge that death will soon separate them.

  Like I said, pure coincidence.

  * * *

  Seventeen

  * * *

  I’VE ALWAYS LOVED THE ritual of balancing my checkbook. The day I received my first payment from my nanny job, I walked straight to the bank and opened a checking account, pride making me stand taller than usual. Every month after that, I sat down to balance my account with my supplies spread out around me: a calculator, a yellow legal pad, and a freshly sharpened pencil. At any given moment, I could tell you almost to the penny how much I was worth.

  I’d established a personal budget with that first paycheck, and it became a game to see if I could beat it, if I could save more every week than I’d projected was possible. I’d once read that writing down expenses and calories was the best way to keep track of both, so I kept a little spiral notebook in my purse and dutifully noted every bottle of Suave shampoo and newspaper and pair of socks I purchased (Snickers bars were best consumed under the radar, I’d decided. There was only so much note taking a girl could do, and given the energy level of the twins I was caring for, splurging on chocolate seemed virtuous compared to my other option, which was mainlining speed).

  Sometimes, if I worked late, the twins’ parents gave me cab fare home. “Should we call you a taxi?” they’d offer. “Oh, don’t bother. I’ll just walk a block to Wisconsin Avenue and hail one,” I’d say cheerfully. “There are so many at this time of night.” Then I’d head for the bus stop, fingering the crisp, folded bills in my pocket.

  By the time Michael’s company stock went public, I’d added two more bank accounts under my name: one that automatically withdrew savings from my checking account every month, and another devoted solely to All Occasions. I took great satisfaction in watching the sums in all three accounts steadily grow.

  It might seem odd that, when I was in Michael’s world, I drank criminally expensive wine and bought clothes I saw in Vogue layouts, but when I was at work, I debated whether to upgrade my office computers or stretch them out for another year. But I never
considered asking Michael to buy things for my company or pay the rent on my office; somehow I felt it was critical to keep a fire wall there. I’d built my company all by myself, and even though it was nowhere near the roaring success that Michael’s was, I liked being the only one in control of it. Now I was grateful I’d never asked him for help; it meant I’d have a true picture of my assets and expenses.

  I took a fresh legal tablet out of the box of twelve that I’d purchased years ago and then stacked the already-used pads back into the bottom of the box. These yellow pads were the closest thing I had to a diary. All anyone could ever want to know about my thoughts and fears and hopes was in the pictures doodled in the margins—a frowning face for the time a client’s check bounced, a bunch of balloons for the office party for five hundred that would net me fat commissions, and thick, excited lines drawn under the numbers when my savings account broke five figures.

  I’d spent a few hours on the computer in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep, researching the costs of houses in areas circling D.C., like Del Ray and Silver Spring, so I knew the ballpark costs. “Mortgage,” I wrote on the top of my page. That would be my biggest expense. “Office rent. Utilities. Food. Car.” What else? I nibbled on the rubbery pink pencil eraser, then wrote, “Insurance. Clothing. Miscellaneous. Savings.”

  My fingers moved over the calculator’s buttons for a few minutes, then I jotted some more figures on the page. I didn’t need to look at my tax returns to know exactly how much money I earned each year, and I wrote those sums in a column next to my projected expenses.

  Even if the worst happened and our prenup held up—if I didn’t get a dime of Michael’s money—I’d still have enough, I saw, relief flooding me as my eyes flickered across the page. I could live in a perfectly pleasant house, pay all my bills, even tuck away a bit every month. Somehow, instead of depressing me with the prospect of downsizing so drastically, the knowledge was oddly liberating. I’d felt dependent on Michael—tied to him by the gilded ropes of his wealth—but now I knew that, no matter what he did, I’d be safe.