She turned to looked at him, her face hollow.
“But Elizabeth, you couldn’t swim—that’s why he jumped in after you. You have to understand, suicide isn’t like that. Suicide is lot more complicated.”
“Wakely,” she said. “He didn’t know how to swim either.”
* * *
—
They stopped talking, Wakely despairing because he didn’t know what to say, Elizabeth depressed because she didn’t know what to do. Six-Thirty pushed through the screen door and pressed himself against Elizabeth.
“You’ve never forgiven yourself,” Wakely finally said. “But it’s him you have to forgive. What you need to do is accept.”
She made a sad sound, like a tire slowly losing air.
“You’re a scientist,” he said. “Your job is to question things—to search for answers. But sometimes—and I know this for a fact—there just aren’t any. You know that prayer that starts ‘God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change’？”
She frowned.
“That’s definitely not you.”
She cocked her head.
“Chemistry is change and change is the core of your belief system. Which is good because that’s what we need more of—people who refuse to accept the status quo, who aren’t afraid to take on the unacceptable. But sometimes the unacceptable—your brother’s suicide, Calvin’s death—is, in fact, permanent, Elizabeth. Things happen. They just do.”
“Sometimes I understand why my brother left,” she admitted quietly. “After everything that’s happened, sometimes I feel like I want out, too.”
“I get that,” Wakely said, thinking of how damaging the Life article was. “Believe me. But that’s not really your problem. It’s not that you want out.”
She turned to look at him, confused.
“It’s that you want back in.”
Chapter 41
Recommit
“Hello,” Elizabeth said. “My name is Elizabeth Zott, and this is Supper at Six.”
From his producer’s chair, Walter Pine closed his eyes and thought back to the day they’d met.
She’d stormed past his secretaries in her white lab coat, hair pulled back, voice clear. He remembered feeling stunned by her. Yes, she was attractive, but it was only now that he realized it had little to do with how she looked. No, it was her confidence, the certainty of who she was. She sowed it like a seed until it took root in others.
“I’m starting today’s show with an important announcement,” she said. “I’m leaving Supper at Six, effective immediately.”
From the audience came a gasp of disbelief. “What?” people asked one another. “What did she say?”
“This will be my last show,” she confirmed.
From a ranch house in Riverside, a woman dropped a carton of eggs on the floor. “You can’t be serious!” someone in the third row shouted.
“I’m always serious,” Elizabeth said.
A wave of distress filled the studio.
Taken aback, Elizabeth turned to look at Walter. He looked back with an encouraging nod. It was all he could do without falling apart.
* * *
—
She’d driven over to his house last night, unannounced. He almost hadn’t answered the door; he’d been entertaining. But when he looked through the peephole and saw her standing there, Mad asleep in the car at the curb, Six-Thirty wedged behind the steering wheel like a getaway driver, he’d thrown open the door in worry.
“Elizabeth,” he’d said, his heart pounding. “What’s wrong—what happened?”
“It’s Elizabeth?” said a worried voice just behind him. “Mother of god, what is it? Is it Mad? Is she hurt?”
“Harriet?” Elizabeth said, drawing back in amazement.
* * *
—
The three of them said nothing for a moment, like in a play when no one can remember the next line. Finally Walter managed, “We were trying to keep this quiet awhile longer,” and Harriet blurted, “Until my divorce comes through,” and Walter reached for her hand, and Elizabeth cried out in surprise, startling Six-Thirty, who accidentally pressed hard against the horn—repeatedly—which in turn woke up Madeline, then Amanda, then every other person in the neighborhood who’d made the mistake of going to bed early.
Elizabeth remained glued to the doorstep. “I had no idea,” she kept saying. “How could I have had no idea? Am I that blind?”