Page 64 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

“Look who’s talking,” she said. “You look fantastic.”

“As long as I hide the stretch marks.”

We’d never been great friends growing up, but that night on Crystal Avenue surrounded by police and emergency vehicles had created a bond that neither of us could forget, and within minutes, we were yakking like two boozy schoolgirls driving down that winding mountain road on our way home from a midnight rave at the Pits.

She’d been right. It took her hours to catch me up. The short version: Four years of waiting tables, lots of acting lessons, and a few acting jobs that didn’t last very long or take her very far.

“And then I met Ross,” she said. “He was a set decorator, and he offered me a job as his assistant, which in show business translates to a lot of late-night sessions without any clothes on, but it was great. He taught me the craft—how to turn each set into the perfect environment for the characters who inhabit them. The furniture, the lamps, the curtains, the art on the walls, the sculptures in the garden—I loved it. I decided to hell with acting. I wanted to be in production—on the other side of the camera. Six months after I met Ross we got married. Turns out he was not only a brilliant decorator; he was also a serial wife beater.

“I gave it a few years, but I’m not cut out to be a battered wife, so one night when he was passed out in a drunken stupor, I went all Lorena Bobbitt on him. I cut off his dick and ran for the hills.”

“Oh my God, you didn’t.”

“Well, not in real life, but I did put it in a script I’ve been working on.” She laughed. “I finally ditched him, found a school in Seattle that would accept me, and got a degree in interior design. I got a job with a great firm that specializes in designing commercial space, and I just moved to their New York office. How about you?”

“Married to a doctor, we have six-year-old twins—a boy and a girl—and I’m an assistant DA for the county.”

“Jesus, Maggie... that sounds like what you’d say if you were a contestant on a game show. Go deep, girl.”

I dug deep. Deeper than I’d gone with anyone but my sister. My hopes, my dreams, my fears, my resentments—I let it all out, and she listened with a passion. No judgment. Just empathy. I had no idea how much I had missed her, needed her, trusted her.

After dinner we went back to her apartment, and we talked into the night. Somewhere around 3:00 a.m., when we finally went to sleep, I realized that Misty Sinclair was the best friend I never knew I had, and I was overjoyed to have her back in my life.

THIRTY-EIGHT

two years before the funeral

“I was adopted,” Alex informed me one evening at dinner.

“I believe you may have mentioned that the first time we slept together,” I said. “The Dillon’s basket, the fire station on North Plum Street, the note from your birth mother—riveting story, although my fascination may have waned after hearing it a few hundred times.”

“Ah yes, but I’ve been adoptedagain. Dr. Theobald took me to lunch today.”

“Oh my God, that’s incredible.” Alex was a surgical resident at Heartstone Medical. Theobald was a world-renowned surgeon. Every few years he would take some young doc under his wing, and their career would take off. “So does that mean you have a mentor?”

“Not just any mentor. Justin is one of the most respected?—”

“Justin?”

“I know... it sounds weird. The man is a rock star, but I kept calling him Dr. Theobald at lunch, and he finally said, ‘For Pete’s sake, man, call me Justin.’”

“He actually said, ‘For Pete’s sake’?”

“He and his wife, Lydia, are devout churchgoers. I think Pete’s sake is about as blasphemous as they get.”

“Well, Jesus H. Christ, man,” I said. “This is great goddam news. I can’t wait to meet those fuckers.”

Alex’s face lit up in a smile, and he leaned across the table and kissed me. “This is why I love you, Maggie McCormick-Dunn.”

“And would you like to know why I love you?” I said, kissing him back. “Because nothing makes me happier than someone whogetsme. And you, Alex Dillon Dunn, really, really, really get me.”

Alex flourished under Justin Theobald’s tutelage, and as the years went by, the older man went from teacher to father figure to trusted friend.

And then one night, Alex, who had never been much of a drinker, came home reeking of alcohol. I didn’t have to ask him why. The words tumbled out of him in a flurry of sobs.

“Justin is giving up surgery. He’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s. He’s only fifty-two years old, Maggie. Everything he’s worked for—a brilliant career—over.”

“Over?” I said, trying to make sense of the news. “But his whole world revolves around his work. What will he do?”

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