I made my way toward the kitchen. The dispatcher said it was likely a leaky appliance, so I’d check the dishwasher, and the washing machine after that.
I stepped into the breakfast nook. The kitchen was spotless, and nothing was running. I peeked in the cabinet under the double kitchen sink. It was bone dry. I was just about to head into the laundry room when I saw the pill bottle, open and on its side. Next to it was a CorningWare dinner plate. Six pills formed a perfect line across the center of it.
I picked up the bottle. It was Vicodin. And it was empty.
“Holly!” I said loudly. I raced through the dining room, living room, office, and den. Like the kitchen they were all spotless.
I charged the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. By the time I reached the top, my pulse was as hard and fast as a drumroll.
“HOLLY!”
I didn’t hear the water running until I was halfway down the hall. The shower was on in the master bathroom. I sprinted toward it.
The bathroom door was open. What I saw shattered my heart like a hammer on glass.
Holly was lying facedown in the shower. Water rained down on her lifeless body, soaking her hair, spattering violently against her waterlogged jeans. She was barefoot but otherwise dressed. The one eye that was visible was closed. Her face was ashen pale.
“No, no, no . . .”
I bolted over to her and put two fingers to her neck. The icy-cold water pummeled me as I searched and prayed for a pulse.
And there it was, faint and uneven under my fingertips.
“Holly, stay with me,” I pleaded as I kicked off the water and dialed 911.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon,” I barked at the phone. We were both soaking wet now. I fumbled for a towel and patted her face.
“Hey, I’m going to get you out of here, OK?” Her head rolled lifelessly to one side. Her lips were blue. Panic rose up the back of my neck. I couldn’t wait for paramedics. She needed medical attention now.
“I’m going to lift you up, OK?”
I squatted down beside her and wedged my arms under her body. Her arms and legs drooped toward the floor as I hoisted her up and out of the shower.
Adrenaline pulsed through my body as I galloped down the hall. By the time the 911 operator picked up, I was already halfway down the stairs.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
The phone was in my back pocket. I couldn’t reach it, so I shouted.
“I need an ambulance!”
Somehow I’d reached the bottom of the stairs. Holly’s wet jeans were slippery, and I struggled to hold on as I beelined for the door.
“You’ve dialed 911, what’s your emergency?” the voice repeated.
“Forget it, I’ll take her myself!” I yelled to the dispatcher who couldn’t hear me as I balanced Holly on my raised knee to unlock the front door.
A moment later I was out in the searing hot sunshine, charging across the lawn toward my car. As I wondered how the hell I was going to get her in the back seat, a figure came running out of the house across the street. It was the woman who had brought us cookies. This time I was glad to see her.
“Oh my God, what happened?” she said, hurrying over to me. Holly was blue-lipped and soaking wet. I didn’t answer, and she didn’t ask again.
“Open the car door!” I ordered, and she hurried over to my side. The car was locked, but the smart key in my pants pocket chirped it unlocked when she pulled on the door handle.
“I’ll go around and grab her feet,” the neighbor said, and in a flash she had the other door open and was easing Holly’s legs across the seat.
We clicked a seat belt around Holly’s torso and slammed the doors closed.
“What else can I do?” she asked as I jumped behind the wheel.
“Find her daughter, Savannah,” I said. “Tell her to meet me at the hospital.”
Then I put the car in gear and floored it.
ANDY
Three months ago
We got ready for bed in silence.
Letting go of that diamond felt like someone had died. Not a human being with skin and bones and blood in her veins, but a complex persona that had been meticulously crafted and shaped for almost forty years.
Libby came from money, and had a specific vision for her life—our life—that included a showpiece home, luxury cars, first-class travel. These were things she’d always known and assumed she would always have. Having money for ski trips and beach houses and fine jewelry was part of her identity. These things shaped not just how other people saw her, but how she saw herself.
It’s not that she was a snob or bought stuff to make her feel superior. She simply had always been surrounded by nice things, so she didn’t recognize herself without them. She came to the marriage with a rich portfolio: family heirlooms to furnish our apartment on the Upper West Side, a brand-new Land Rover for weekend getaways, generous wedding gifts from family friends. My income from the Times was enough to sustain us in the historic, one-bedroom walk-up her dad secured for us at below-market rent, and her network of friends provided enough dinner parties to satisfy our cravings for nightlife. Our future was secure—bright, even.