Skipping a Beat (13 page)

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.

I leaned back in my chair and drew up my knees, wrapping my arms around them. I didn’t need Michael. The question was whether or not I wanted him.

He’d left a few minutes earlier, saying he had to go into his office and tie up some loose ends. Before he’d gone, he’d invited me to have dinner with him, and something in his expression reminded me of how he’d looked back in high school, when he’d offered to stay with me at Becky Hendrickson’s house.

I’d felt sharp tears prick my eyes, which had infuriated me.

“Just go,” I’d said brusquely. “I don’t know if I’ll be here when you get back.”

He hadn’t tried to argue; he’d turned around and silently walked to his car. But after a moment, I’d gone to the window and seen him sitting in the driver’s seat, his head resting on the steering wheel. He’d stayed that way for several minutes before starting his engine.

Now I stood up and stacked my yellow pad back into the box. Suddenly I felt at loose ends; I needed to get out of the house. It was an unusually warm day for late fall, and I wanted to be outside. I’d go to Great Falls and walk until my mind cleared, I decided impulsively, scooping up my keys. I hadn’t been there for a while, but I’d always loved hiking along the green trails and rocky banks of the Potomac River; it was a little bit of wilderness draped around the stone and asphalt that dominated D.C. I used to go there after we moved to town because it reminded me of our river in West Virginia. Sometimes I’d pack a water bottle and sandwich and take long walks on Sunday mornings. Michael came with me at first, but once he began creating DrinkUp, he stopped. Remembering that erased the ache I’d felt in my chest when I saw him slumped in his car.

Half an hour later I was pulling into the parking lot at Great Falls Park. I grabbed my iPod out of my purse and tucked the buds into my ears as I headed for the main walking trail. It was quiet today, since it was a weekday afternoon and most people were still at work. After a few minutes, I glimpsed something between the trees—a big flat rock jutting out over the river’s edge. It looked like the perfect place to sit and think, to lose myself in the endless rush of water. I pushed back a few prickly branches, feeling a quick burst of pain as a thorn caught the skin of my palm. As I drew closer, I could see a boy was already on my rock. He was small and skinny—maybe ten years old—with an elfin face dominated by huge blue eyes. By the boy’s feet was a dog, and it was hard to tell who was more scruffy.

“Hi,” the kid said cheerfully as I passed by. “This is a cool spot, isn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmm,” I grunted. I wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

He threw the stick into the water, and the dog leapt in after it.

“Do you live around here?” the boy asked. Clearly he was lacking a filter that prevented his thoughts from flying out of his mouth like popcorn. An adult I could’ve glared into silence, this kid would probably mercilessly grill me about why I was so grumpy.

“Yes,” I said. “Well, sort of. Not for long, though, I think.”

He nodded, like it all made perfect sense.

I glanced out over the water, then did a double take. “Hey, I don’t see your dog.”

“I know,” he said calmly. “His name’s Bear. I’m Noah, by the way.”

What was it with this kid? Hadn’t he ever gotten the stranger danger lecture?

“Are your parents here?” I asked. I looked at my watch. “Shouldn’t you be in school?”

“School’s been out for half an hour.” He dug into his pocket and came up with a cell phone. “And I’m allowed to come here alone if I call my mom when I get here and before I leave.”

He looked up at me, and his forehead wrinkled. “I’m twelve, you know. You thought I was younger, didn’t you?”

“Of course not,” I lied. “I was going to guess thirteen.”

I scanned the rippling surface of the water again, more slowly this time. Where was that sandy head? I felt a stab of fear: Had the dog gotten tangled up in something below the surface?

“Aren’t you going to ask me what my favorite subject is?” Noah said. “Adults always ask me that. I have no idea why.”

“Bear can swim, right?” I said, fighting to keep my voice calm.

“Like a fish,” Noah assured me. “Math, by the way. It’s my favorite. The problem with everything else is that there is rarely a perfect answer. Math has just one answer, and you get to figure out what it is. That’s the fun part.”

I shaded my eyes with my hand.

“Shit! I mean, shoot! I don’t see Bear anywhere.” I jumped down from the rock and began running along the waterfront. This boy’s dog was going to die on my watch, and the kid didn’t even seem to care. He’d been under for how long now—fifteen seconds? Twenty?

“Algebra’s really cool,” Noah called.

I ran faster, tripped over a tree root, and sprawled on the ground.

“Are you okay?” he asked. My God, was there something wrong with him? He seemed bright enough, but didn’t he understand what was happening?

“Noah, I don’t see your dog!” I yelled. Sickening images flooded my mind: Bear struggling underwater, his legs tangled up in roots, his paws helplessly clawing toward the surface … How much longer could he last?

I could tear off my shoes and dive in, but I’d never find him in time. The river was too big. There wasn’t anything I could do, and in another few minutes, Noah would realize what was happening, and—

“Good boy, Bear!” he shouted. The dog was swimming toward the rock, the stick clenched between his teeth.

Bear climbed up onto the rock, Noah threw the stick again, and the dog dove into the water.
Dove
. When he finally broke the surface, Bear was fifteen yards away from where he’d entered.

“Told you he could swim like a fish,” Noah said as Bear spotted the stick and went under again.

I sat there in the dirt, rubbing my sore kneecap through the fresh tear in my jeans as Noah clambered over and stuck out a hand that hadn’t been acquainted with soap and a running sink in a while. He helped me to my feet, and I brushed myself off. It was impossible to be mad at this kid. Freckles danced around his cheeks and nose, and his lips curved up even when he wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t cute in a traditional sense—no one would ever hire him to pose for a Pottery Barn Kids catalog—but there was something immensely appealing about him. He reminded me of someone I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

Bear climbed back onto the rock, then raced over to me, planting two muddy paws on my pants and almost knocking me back down.

“Down!” Noah commanded. The dog ignored him and tried to French-kiss me.

“It’s fine,” I said, and in a way, it really was: at least Noah and Bear had distracted me from the mess of my life.

“Do you want a chip?” the kid asked, holding out a crumpled bag.

I shook my head and recoiled from the evil carbs like he’d offered me a sample of nuclear waste. The boy reached into the bag and pulled out an oval chip, just slightly brown around the edges, and bit into it. It looked greasy and salty and crisp. I’d skipped lunch, I realized as my mouth watered.

Oh, hell. I’d probably burned off a few hundred calories in the last five minutes from stress alone. “I’d love a chip,” I said, climbing onto the rock again.

Noah passed me the bag, and I pulled out a few, greedily shoving them into my mouth. I hadn’t had a potato chip in forever. They were even better than I’d remembered.

“I’m always hungry, too,” Noah observed as I licked the salt off my fingertips.

I plopped down next to him. Maybe his upbeat mood would be infectious, and it wasn’t like I had anything better to do today.

“I can’t stop eating potato chips,” he confided. “I’m already on my second bag today. Isn’t it funny that salt makes you feel thirsty, but when you’re thirsty, you crave salt because it helps your body hold on to water? I learned that in science class.”

“Interesting,” I lied again.

“It’s this circular thing,” Noah said. “I can’t figure out which came first.”

“Yep,” I said, because Noah didn’t seem the type to let a conversation end until he’d wrung it dry. “Kind of like the chicken or the egg.”

“What do you mean?” Noah asked.

“Oh, it’s just this question that doesn’t have an answer,” I said, waving around my hand. “Which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

“Well, duh. The egg.”

I smiled indulgently, sensing a teaching moment. “Ah, but who laid the egg?”

Noah frowned.

“Don’t worry. Even adults can’t figure it out,” I comforted him. “That’s why it’s this famous question.”

“The egg came first,” Noah said impatiently. “Hens lay eggs. Adult male chickens are called roosters, but some people use the term
chicken
interchangeably for any adult fowl, so asking about the chicken or the egg might include males, who don’t lay eggs.”

I gaped at him.

“Now, if you’d asked me, ‘Which came first, the hen or the egg?’ That, I wouldn’t have an answer for.”

“But …” I couldn’t think of what to say. It was probably best to move on from this teaching moment.

“What are you listening to?” Noah asked, pointing to my iPod.

“Wagner,” I said, relieved to be back on more comfortable ground. “He was this German opera composer.”

“Do you like him?”

“I like his music, but no, I don’t personally like him.”

“Why not?”

I rubbed my finger over my iPod’s screen and thought about how to answer.

“Well, he was so anti-Semitic that Hitler loved him, for starters,” I said slowly. “I’ve always wondered how such a terrible human being could create such a thing of beauty.”

“Can I listen?”

I shrugged. “Sure.” I unwrapped the earbuds from around my neck and handed them to Noah. After a moment, he closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he was smiling.

“I like it,” he said.

“Me, too. Not everybody does, though. Hey,” I said as a thought struck me, “did you ever see the Star Wars movies? They’re kind of old, but—”

Noah cut me off. “It’s only one of my favorites. The special effects are kind of funny now, though. I mean, they’re so obvious. Like when Han Solo’s ship goes to warp speed? It’s just these lines of white on the screen, and they’re supposed to make you feel like you’re flying.”