Page 93 of Don't Tell Me How to Die

The next day I took the train to New York City to see Esther.

“I am so sorry,” she said when I told her about my coffee date with Misty. “But she’s still your best friend. There’s no reason you can’t ask her to look after your family when you’re gone.”

“I know, but it’s not the same thing. My plan was for the caretaking to spark something bigger, but now that she’s going to marry a zillionaire, I doubt if she’ll jump at the chance to take over all my middle-class cash and prizes,” I said. “So, it looks like I’m back to square one.”

Esther gave me one of her signature Jewish grandmother shrugs. “Fine. If that’s where you want to be.”

“Oh God, Esther, I don’t have the patience for that cryptic shit. What do you mean if that’s where I want to be?”

“Square one for you means you’re going back to looking for the perfect woman to replace you.”

“And what’s wrong with that?”

“There are other options.”

“Like what?”

“Like stop tilting at windmills. Don’t spend the rest of your days in search of the impossible dream. Give up the quest for what you don’t have and enjoy the things that you do.”

“I have never in my life admitted defeat. Why should I start now?”

“Because winning takes time, and that’s the one luxury you don’t have. You are an exceptional woman, Maggie, and you have had an exceptional life. An outstanding student, a successful lawyer, a wonderful marriage, a happy family, the mayor of your town, for God’s sake—you’ve packed more into forty-three years than most people could accomplish in a dozen lifetimes.

“You will not depart this earth defeated. You’ll be remembered as a winner, a leader, a champion. As for not being able to orchestrate what happens to your husband and children after you’re no longer running the show, I have news for you. Nobody can. The world has a mind of its own. Alex and the kids will have a strong support team when you’re gone—your father, your sister, your friends. The thing they need from you most is what you can give them now while you’re still alive. To hell with square one. Better yet, redefine it. Go home, and be the best damn wife, mother, daughter, sister, friend, and mayor you can be. And by the way—if your mother were here, I bet she’d back me up every step of the way.”

I sat in that ancient leather wing chair, my fists clenched, my heart stampeding in my chest, my breathing shallow, my eyes locked on hers. And then the clarity came.

“Good advice,” I said.

She gave me a dubious look.

“No, I mean it,” I said. “You’re right. I gave it my best shot, and it didn’t work out. All those not-so-subtle Don Quixote references made me realize that I’ve become the knight-errant of Heartstone, New York. Quixote was certifiably nuts. I’m just a control freak who got a little crazy when she knew she was losing control. But my quest is over. I’m done. I mean it. Thanks.”

“You promise?”

“I swear on my life,” I said, a shit-eating grin on my face.

She stood up, spread her arms, and I melted into her, sobbing. Not out of sadness, but out of relief. It was over. I was no longer CEO of my life, my family, or my world. Alex and the kids would go on, just like my father, Lizzie, and I had done years ago.

Esther and I talked for another two hours, mostly about how and when to tell Kevin and Katie. They were twins, but they were polar opposites, and Esther gave me her insight on how to deal with each of them, and what to expect once they found out they were losing their mother.

“And Maggie,” she said when we were done. “They’re going to need a good shrink.”

I smiled. “You know any?” I said.

She got up, and we hugged. We both knew it might be our last, but neither of us said a word.

It had been a long session, and even though it was only 2:00 p.m., I was exhausted when I left her building.

It was a typically hot August afternoon in the city, and I found a Starbucks, bought an iced coffee, and flagged a cab down on Second Avenue.

I had just slid into the back seat and was about to close the door when it hit. A wave of nausea swept over me, the world started spinning, and the coffee cup tumbled out of my hand and splattered to the hot roadbed.

“Are you all right, lady?” the driver asked me.

“I may not be,” I said.

“Hospital is right around the corner, about three blocks. New York Presbyterian. You want me to take you there? No charge.”

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