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“My story is simple. I was born in Maine, in a farmhouse, on land that had been in my family for generations. Janie Traynor was my neighbor down the road. We fell in love somewhere around eighth grade, right after she stopped throwing spitballs at me. For twenty- some years, we did everything together. We went to NYU, got married in the church in town, and had a beautiful daughter. ” His smile starts to fall, but he hikes it back up and squares his shoulders. “Drunk driver,” he says. “Crossed the median and hit the car. Janie and Emily died at the scene. That’s when my story veers west, you might say. Since then, it’s just me. I moved to Seattle, thinking a new view would help. I’m forty-three, in case you were wondering. You seem like a woman who wants details. ” He leans forward. “Your turn. ”
“I’m forty-six—I’ll lead with that, although I don’t like to. Unfortunately, you can get my entire life story off of Wikipedia, so there’s no point in my lying. I have a degree in journalism from the UW. I worked my way up the network news ranks and became famous. I started a successful talk show, The Girlfriend Hour. Work has been my life, but … a few months ago, I learned that my best friend had been diagnosed with breast cancer. I walked away from my career to be with her. Apparently this is an unforgivable breach and I am now a cautionary tale instead of a shining star. I have never been married and have no children and my only living relative—my mother—calls herself Cloud. That pretty much sums her up. ”
“You didn’t say anything about love,” he says quietly.
“No. I didn’t. ”
“Never?”
“Once,” I say. Then, more softly. “Maybe. It was a lifetime ago. ”
“And…”
“I picked my career. ”
“Hmmm. ”
“Hmmm, what?”
“This is just a first for me, that’s all. ”
“A first. How?”
“Your story is sadder than mine. ”
I don’t like the way he’s looking at me, as if I am somehow vulnerable. I toss back the rest of my martini and get to my feet. Whatever he is going to say next, I don’t want to hear. “Thanks for the dating matrix,” I say. “’Bye, Dr. Granola. ”
“Desmond,” I hear him say, but I am already moving away from him, heading for the door.
At home, I take two Ambien, and crawl into bed.
* * *
I don’t like what I’m hearing. Xanax. Ambien, Kate says, interrupting my story.
That’s the thing about your best friend. She knows you. Inside and out, down to the studs, as they say. Even worse, you see your own life through her eyes. It has always been true: Kate’s is the voice in my head. My Jiminy Cricket.
“Yeah,” I say. “I made a few mistakes. The worst wasn’t the meds, though. ”
What was the worst?
I whisper her daughter’s name.
September 3, 2010
8:10 A. M.
Time slowed to a crawl in hospitals. Johnny sat in the uncomfortable chair, tucked in close to Tully’s bed.
He pulled the cell phone out of his pocket and stared down at it. Finally he pulled up his contact list and called Margie and Bud. They lived in Arizona now, near Margie’s widowed sister, Georgia.
Margie answered on the third ring, sounding a little out of breath. “Johnny!” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “How good to hear from you. ”
“Hey, Margie. ”
There was a pause, then: “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Tully. She’s been in a car accident. I don’t have all the details, but she’s here in Sacred Heart. ” He paused. “It’s bad, Margie. She’s in a coma—”
