Page 187 of Jackie

I smile. “Well, I only recently learned about it, so in that sense at least.”

Tucky studies the draft. “We could say apparently early.”

“Yes, that’s good. I like that. Apparently.”

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The world has divided my life into three:

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Life with Jack.

Life with Onassis.

Life as a woman who works because she wants to.

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My life is all of these things, and it is none of these things. They continue to miss what’s right in front of them. What has always been there. I love to work. I love books. I love the sea. I love horses. Children. Art. Ideas. History. Beauty. Because beauty blows us open to wonder, and wonder is what allows us to shift and love and ache and grow and change. Even the beauty that breaks your heart.

…

I am in the shower when the first strands of hair fall out. A slight dark nest in my fingers. I put my hand to my scalp and pull.

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I go to work with Band-Aids on my hands and arms. Once there is a bruise from the infusions that I watch bloom and fade—a lopsided exploding star.

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John has moved from his downtown apartment into a hotel down the street from me. He visits every day. I ask if he remembers me teaching him to ski when he was a child. He fell and started to cry. Bobby skied up and said sternly, “Now, you stop that. Kennedys don’t cry.”

“This Kennedy cries,” John had lashed back at him.

“Do you remember that?” I ask John, even knowing that he must, whether or not he does, because it’s a story I’ve told so many times.

“How happy you made me that day,” I say.

…

The proofs of Peter Sis’s new book are in. The Three Golden Keys. It has the kind of magic I love, the story of a balloonist who lands in the ancient city of his childhood and goes home. The streets of the city are empty and dark, and he comes to a locked door where a cat is waiting for him.

The art is extraordinary.

“Just let it be dark, Peter,” I’d said to him before he started. “Because every good fairy tale—no matter how lovely—has a dark, violent shard at its heart. That’s where we learn who we are. Be as free as you want with this book. If it’s going to be dark or scary or strange, you do it.”

And he has. It’s a haunting story, lit with an unruly, luminous flare.

I start to write him and find I don’t quite know how to say what I want to say. I’ll call instead, I decide. But then he’ll ask how I’m doing. They all ask now: How are you? How is it going? These are questions I learned to answer without really answering years ago. It’s harder now.

I’ll tell Peter we must start thinking about his next book.

I start to dial, then hang up. I’ll try another day.

…

It snows, a blizzard, ten-foot drifts. The office is closed. The snow tapers off. The wind shifts and blows off the clouds; the sky rushes in. Caroline comes over, and we take the girls outside to play, their little selves stuffed into snowsuits. We cross the street to the paths through the park. We tramp through the drifts and pack snowballs. “GrandJackie, catch!” Rose shrieks.

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