CHAPTER four
You must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you.
—Ray Bradbury
I felt as if the very forces of nature had conspired to destroy me. All I could think to do was run, literally as well as figuratively. I put on my sweats, coat and gloves, and went outside.
It was cloudy when I emerged from the house. The flowers someone had left were still on the porch, frozen and dead. There was no longer any reason to salvage them, so I carried them around to the side of the house and dropped them, vase and all, into the garbage can. I stretched lightly and then proceeded to run.
The street was quiet, the ambient sounds dampened by a layer of snow that fleeced the lawns and roofs but hadn’t stuck to the roads or sidewalks. After my mother’s death I began running almost every day. I ran the four hundred meters for the girls’ track team before I was kicked off the team for honor code violations.
Habitually, I started out following the same route I had back in high school. I ran half a block south to the church then west toward my old high school.
As I neared the school, memories flooded back. I don’t know if the school was between classes but there were kids standing in the cold around the front doors, hardly any of them were wearing coats. They looked like they were fighting off frostbite. Why don’t teenagers wear coats anymore? I was sounding sensible, like an old person. Why ask why?
I ran south, past the school, then crossed into the 110-acre Sugar House Park. I cautiously descended a steep, snow-covered hill, slipping just once, then at the base, ran straight until I caught up to the road that made a one-way circular tour of the park. I ran twice around the park, passing its barren pavilions and playgrounds.
On my way home, life hit me with a full-blown anxiety attack. My heart was pounding so fiercely that I gasped for breath. Was this what a heart attack felt like? I couldn’t run, I couldn’t even walk. I knelt down on a patch of grass and sobbed.
God, if there is such a thing, I thought, why do you hate me?
CHAPTER five
Tears are words that need to be written.
—Paulo Coelho
When I finally stopped crying I looked up. An Asian couple, a man and woman, were standing across the road looking at me.
“Are you okay?” the man asked.
I sniffed. “Yes.”
“Do you need help?” the woman asked.
“No. Thank you.” I wiped my eyes with my arm. “I’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” the man said. They walked away.
I walked the rest of the way back to the house. I don’t know if I had ever felt so alone in my life. Natasha was right—I was angry. But I had every right to be. I never thought I had a great life, actually the contrary, but in spite of it all, I at least thought I had built something good. Now it was all tumbling down. I was turning thirty-one in December. I was getting older but going backward.
CHAPTER six
Writers live twice.
—Natalie Goldberg
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30
The next morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. Being jettisoned back into the job market wasn’t something I had remotely considered at this time in my life. I didn’t even have a résumé.
The reason I was fired wasn’t going to make job hunting easy. In spite of being a global enterprise, the New York publishing world is incredibly small. Before I was hired, there would be over-lunch discussions and off-the-record phone calls. There was a chance I would discreetly be blackballed.
Here I was, back to where I had started, beginning my life all over again. It’s like that board game when someone lands on you and sends you back to Start.
I made myself a cup of coffee and then sat down to escape in a book. It was somewhere around noon when the doorbell rang.
I put on a robe and walked to the front door, opening it just enough to look out. A paunchy, middle-aged man with an excessively receding hairline was on the porch.
He wore a polyester suit with an unfashionably wide tie that looked like a Father’s Day gift he felt obliged to wear. He carried a leather satchel tucked beneath his right arm. I noticed that his hand was tremoring.
I wondered what he was selling. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it.
“May I help you?” I asked curtly.
He looked at me, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Excuse me, but you are Noel Book?” His voice was a little hoarse.
“Noel Post,” I corrected. “What can I do for you?”
“I should have known that. Your father told me you’d kept your married name. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I called the number I was given for you, but no one answered. My name is Christopher Smalls, I’m your father’s attorney.”
“My father passed away.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.” He cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your father was a fine man.”
“Thank you,” I said, wondering how well he actually knew him.
“Your father said you lived out of town and didn’t know how long you’d be in Salt Lake, so, per his instructions, I brought some legal documents that need to be signed. Your father didn’t want to waste time; you know how he was.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
The bluntness of my response changed his demeanor. “I know this must be a difficult time for you, so if you’d like me to come back later, I understand.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Hold on a moment. Let me get some clothes on.” I shut the door on him, went to my room, pulled on my jeans and a long-sleeved blouse and sweater, then came back and opened the door. “All right, you can come in.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the front room and I closed the door behind him.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m good. I’m trying to cut back on caffeine.”
“I’m going to get some for myself.” I motioned to the front room couch. “Have a seat.”
“It would probably be better if we sat at the table. I have a few documents that need to be signed.”
“Wherever you like.” I went into the kitchen and poured my coffee, then brought it to the table. The lawyer was already seated. He had opened his satchel and laid out his papers in a few orderly piles. He looked up at me as I sat.
“Your name is Christopher?”
“Yes, ma’am. Christopher Smalls.”
“How long have you been my father’s lawyer?”
“I’ve worked with your father for more than ten years, when he hired me to draft his first will, which we updated just a few weeks ago.” He lifted his pen. “So, in his will, your father left you everything he owned.” He handed me a few papers. “We’ll begin here. Your father didn’t have a lot of liquidity, but he maintained a life insurance policy worth a million dollars, for which he named you the sole beneficiary.”
“A million dollars? Why would he have that much coverage after my mother’s death?”
The lawyer glanced down at his papers. “He actually increased the benefit after your mother’s death.” He looked up at me. “He did it for you.”