Then—the commotion of EMTs arriving with their equipment. The sound of the gurney’s squeaky wheels rolling across the hardwood floor, the clanking of the metal, the technicians trying to jump-start Jay’s heart. They passed information back and forth in shorthand as they lifted him, strapped him down, and swiftly rolled him into the elevator.
Out on the street, they loaded Jay into the back of an ambulance. I wanted to be with him, but instead they had me ride in a waiting police car, sirens blaring the 20 blocks to Lenox Hill Hospital.
I don’t know how long I was sitting in the empty waiting room in my Gap sweatshirt and jeans, barely able to breathe, before a doctor walked in. I knew what he was going to say. All I remember is “I’m sorry.” I felt like my spirit had left my body too.
I thought we’d have more time. Time for me to lie next to him. Time for him to tell me he was scared; to tell me his hopes and dreams for Ellie and Carrie. Time to say goodbye.
“Can I see him?” I said.
The doctor brought me in. Standing over Jay’s pale, lifeless body frightened me. Tentatively, gently, I kissed him for the last time.
I called my parents.
My mom made a quiet ululating sound I’ll never forget, an “Oh-oh-oh-oh” so redolent of love and despair, so helpless and sorry she couldn’t protect her child from this pain. As for Jay’s parents, it turned out they’d already received a call about their son’s death—from the tabloids, looking for a comment. I cannot put into words how that sickened me.
Jeff Zucker and his wife, Caryn, came to the hospital. After I left to be with the girls, they stayed until Jay’s siblings arrived.
Back at the apartment, I knelt down so I could be eye to eye with Ellie. “Honey,” I said softly, “Daddy died.”
She giggled. At 6 years old, Ellie was unable to process what I was saying.
When Clare arrived, Carrie shrieked, “Clare’s here!” and ran and leapt into her arms—a joyful, oblivious toddler.
For the three of us, it was all so new.
38
Ashokan Farewell
WENDY HAD PICKED up my parents and flown with them from DC. She quickly became the head of operations—fielding calls, keeping track of who sent flowers, and making room in the refrigerator, which would soon be packed with casseroles and honey-baked hams and pasta salads in giant Tupperware tubs. There was an influx of bagels and brownies and cookies that I would have feasted on for weeks if only I had an appetite. Our doorman called to say that Sarah Ferguson, the Duchess of York, was in the lobby. I’d interviewed her on the show, but I didn’t know her nearly well enough to see her now. She had come bearing white tulips that the doorman brought up. Bob Wright, the CEO of NBC, and his wife, Suzanne, sent over a giant stuffed Mickey Mouse that Ellie would use as a chair.
Matt came by. He looked so sad, so serious, so sorry—there wasn’t much either of us could say. Our conversation turned to the interview I was supposed to do in a few days with Hillary Clinton, that now fell to Matt.
I could tell he was nervous—the Monica Lewinsky scandal had just broken, and he’d have to ask the First Lady about it. I gave him a few pointers—listen carefully and have a range of follow-ups at the ready for every possible answer. Matt would do fine, providing a pivotal moment in the impeachment saga when Hillary railed against a “vast right-wing conspiracy.”
SITTING AMONG THE tony shops and restaurants on Madison Avenue, Frank E. Campbell has been New York’s funeral home to the stars for over a century, preparing luminaries like Judy Garland, George Gershwin, and Ed Sullivan for their final act. Clare and I were greeted by a mortician who was born for the role, with his jet-black hair and large, hooded eyes.
He guided us to the second floor, where a variety of caskets were on display, sitting on platforms and opened to show you the plush, tufted comfort in which your loved one would rest in peace. Each had a name—Renaissance, Promethean, Lincoln, Embassy, Ambassador. We were looking at the Concord, classic and masculine, just like Jay.
While we attended to this grim task, the funeral director approached, his tone urgent and serious. “Hillary Clinton is on the line—your office put her through. She wants to express her condolences,” he said. Clare gave me a look. A bit later he was back. “Al Gore is calling.” My public and private worlds were colliding like never before. I felt both touched and embarrassed.
Before we left, the funeral director convinced me that I needed to buy the Monticello—a concrete vault that would protect the Concord—for an additional $2,000. When my dad learned of the purchase, he was over the undertaker, furious he had upsold me. But all I could think of was that song I’d learned in Girl Scouts: The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout…the Monticello seemed like a small price to pay.