An Abbreviated Life
Page 18
THERE ARE STILL days I descend. On these days I am diving alone and no one can reach me. I am out of my depth. I pass twenty meters, pass thirty meters, rapturous with the descent and entering nitrogen narcosis. It’s called the Martini effect. But in this instance, the delirium is not a sensation of drunkenness but of nothingness. I descend with abandon, and there is no limit to how far I will go because the ocean I’m in is bottomless.
MY MOTHER DOESN’T get on the bus. It keeps going and I realize that she is walking slower than the pace at which we are moving. She is looking down at the pavement as she walks. Maybe counting the days until she sees me again. Or fixating on how rotten I am. It could be either. Or both. And what I see is an innocent. She has no idea why I would need to hide from her. She could never hold this in her thoughts. I see her now and there is compassion. What she missed out on and what I missed out on, too. I am grieving for someone who is still alive.
I LOOK AWAY. It is too painful. I am wanting to hug her without wanting her to hug me. She would never let go. Restless, I move seats three times in a matter of seconds. Unconsciously, like a pinball, pinging from one empty seat to the next. The bus stops on Madison Avenue and 79th Street and I jump up out of the seat, forcefully pushing open the exit doors with both arms outstretched as though I am breaking out of the bus, rather than exiting it. I slide past a blockade of strangers and start to run as fast as I can.
I DON’T FEEL my feet on the pavement. I just keep running, tearing away, weaving through cars. I don’t stop at the red light. I am compelled to look over my shoulder to see if she is behind me, closing in, but I don’t.
My mother could try to chase me, but she won’t catch me.
I head downtown on Madison Avenue past the Surrey Hotel, where my father lived; past East 75th Street, where the Hewitt School is still located. I keep moving forward. A long-distance runner through the canyon of childhood. Spurred by endorphins of hope, I outrace the past. Five, ten, twelve blocks pass, and I speed up even though I know I don’t have to, enthralled at last by my own motion.
Acknowledgments
THIS BOOK WOULD not exist without the love and support of Rita Waterman.
NO WRITER COULD ask for a more devoted and fierce advocate than David Hirshey. A full-service editor and soul mate in suffering. Thank you for reading every draft, pencil in hand, as though it were the first one. Your friendship, dedication, wicked intelligence, and humor have carried me through. You have stood by my side from the beginning, and I owe you more than a universe of pineapple.
I AM INDEBTED to my very patient agent and friend Rob Weisbach, for his kindness, wisdom, and diplomacy.
MY APPRECIATION AND gratitude extends to Will Blythe. For carving a statue out of the stone and for bringing this book into alignment. Also for judgment I relied on without fail. Thank you for the care and commitment.
THANK YOU AS well to Dani Shapiro, for astute observations and valuable advice at a crucial time.
I AM DEEPLY appreciative of everyone at HarperCollins. Kate Lyons, for keeping on top of all the essential details and Beth Silfin, for sensitive and undaunted advocacy. And to Sydney Pierce, for being a rock. Special thanks to Michael Morrison and Jonathan Burnham for providing incomparable support in every way throughout the process.
THANKS TO DOUGLAS MACY and MertaSari for the inspirational environment in which to think, swim, and work. And to Emily McGrath, for care and allegiance above and beyond.
THANK YOU TO all my friends for support and encouragement. Laura Belgray, your knowing refrain of “get it done” managed to actually get through.
AND INFINITE GRATITUDE to Mario Bari and the mermaid twins. For providing and steering the ship that helped to heal me.
About the Author
ARIEL LEVE is an award-winning journalist who worked as a senior writer on contract with the Sunday Times Magazine from 2003 to 2011. Her work has appeared in the Guardian, the Telegraph, the Financial Times, the Wall Street Journal, and other publications. She is the author of It Could Be Worse, You Could Be Me, a collection of her columns, and coauthor (with Robin Morgan) of 1963: The Year of the Revolution.
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Credits
Cover design by Milan Bozic
Cover photographs: © Ariel Leve (child); © Larry Washburn / Getty Images (frame)
Copyright
AN ABBREVIATED LIFE. Copyright © 2016 by Ariel Leve. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
FIRST EDITION
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Leve, Ariel, 1968– author.
Title: An abbreviated life : a memoir / Ariel Leve.
Description: First edition. | New York : Harper, 2016.
Identifiers: LCCN 2015050966 | ISBN 9780062269454 (hardback)
EPub Edition June 2016 ISBN 9780062269478
Subjects: LCSH: Leve, Ariel, 1968– | Leve, Ariel, 1968—Psychology. | Leve, Ariel, 1968—Family. | Journalists—Great Britain—Biography. | BISAC: BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs. | PSYCHOLOGY / General.
Classification: LCC PN5123.L43 A3 2016 | DDC 070.92—dc23 LC record available at http://lccn.loc.gov/2015050966
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