CHAPTER FOUR: BYE-BYE LOVE
AS THE DOUBLE-DECKER TRAIN lurched to a stop, Carrie peered out the window, preparing herself to see somebody who looked like an extra from The Walking Dead.
When she did spot Sarah, she gasped so loudly that the businessman next to her spilled his mug of coffee. Only two months had passed since they’d last chatted and schemed over bowls of soup, but this Sarah looked like a different person.
Not only was her hair combed, but it was dyed an attractive shade of red, glamorous, and healthy. Her thoughtful gray eyes were bright and alive. Her cheeks had acquired a glow that Carrie hadn’t seen since college and, to top it off, Sarah was smiling.
Sarah jogged up to Carrie the moment she stepped off the stairs of the train, gave her a big hug, then handed her a steaming cup of French Roast—something she had never done before. Sarah was always the last one to reach for her purse, and her penny-pinching had long been a running joke between them.
“Hey, Stubby,” Sarah said.
“Back atcha, Sunshine,” Carrie said. “You look like you’ve gained a bounce or two in your step since we last met.”
“I’ve gained a whole suitcase full of bounce,” Sarah said. “All thanks to Rob’s magic pills.”
“Listening to Prozac?” Carrie smiled. “So where to . . . back to the hideous land of excess?”
Sarah grinned and said, “I know how much you love shopping for clothes, but I was thinking today maybe we could wander out to the Baylands and see if we can snatch ourselves an egret or two.”
The Baylands? Carrie wanted to ask this gorgeous creature what she had done with the real Sarah.
Driving up University Avenue, they didn’t speak—but it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence like the last time at the mall. It was a friendly, contented silence, the type only old friends can enjoy. Sarah hummed along to an imaginary song while Carrie mused at the stark difference between the overstated opulence of Palo Alto and the dilapidated decay of East Palo Alto—yards away in distance, thousands of miles away in reality. Sarah parked across from a run-down urban ranch with three horses and a dozen hungry-looking steers.
“You’re not worried your car will be broken into?” Carrie asked, concerned that her work computer, which contained irreplaceable data, might be stolen.
“Nobody knows this place exists,” Sarah said. “Besides, a rancher is bound to call the police if the alarm goes off. But if you’re worried, you can stick your computer in the trunk.”
Carrie placed her computer underneath a San Francisco 49ers picnic blanket. Sarah placed her own purse on top of it.
They walked side-by-side fifty steps to the south and entered another world. In front of them, across the Bay, were the urban lowlands of the East Bay. Overseeing the sprawl of homes was Mount Diablo, the jewel in the Diablo Range fifteen miles away, second only to Mount Kilimanjaro in the amount of the Earth’s surface that can be seen from its four-thousand-foot peak. The hills were a golden toast brown from the rainless summer. It reminded Carrie that California was the golden state for many reasons. They walked single file down the gravel path to the paved trail heading south.
“I once looked up the history of the Baylands,” Sarah said. “It’s a gift from the Nixon Administration with two hundred miles of contiguous levees and man-made ponds between the stinky marshlands and the Bay. The levees were originally built by the Leslie Salt company over a hundred years ago. In 1972, many of the salterns were purchased by the Bureau of Fish & Wildlife and allowed to return to marshlands with the levees graded for recreational use.”
The paved flat-topped levees were straddled first by a dirt track for runners and then by dry, knee-high wheat-colored grasses. There were gray-green boutonnieres interspersed into the straw-colored landscape.
“What’s going on with Rebecca and the pizza guy?” Carrie asked, not taking the Baylands bait.
“They’ve had a couple of dates,” Sarah grinned. “He has too many tattoos and is a certified moron at best. Not husband material, but Becky can probably squeeze a few more dinners out of him.”
“And Reese?”
“Ruling the world,” Sarah beamed. “Yesterday she nabbed the lead in Annie Get Your Gun.”
“Can’t wait to see it.”
Carrie did care about what was going on with Sarah’s daughters, but she wanted to talk about the other stuff that mattered more—her treatment and any lingering suicidal thoughts, Rob and his big-breasted post-doc, and any prospects of saying good riddance to him.
“Oh, look.” Sarah grabbled Carrie’s arm. “Over there, the flock of white pelicans. They’re feeding.” Sarah pointed to the big-beaked birds with the floppy lower jaw floating in the middle of a gray pond.
They stopped for a minute to watch a red-tailed hawk dive-bomb a hapless rabbit.
“Tell me about these wonderful pills of yours,” Carrie said, once the hawk had soared over their heads, the struggling rabbit clutched in its talons.
“It’s the definition of ‘wonder drug,’” Sarah said. “It’s given me back my energy and my optimism. I don’t feel like drowning myself every time I take a bath . . . but it does have a few side effects.”
“Such as?” Carrie asked.
“I’ve put on five pounds,” Sarah said. “For me, that’s some sort of record.”
Carrie said nothing—she’d learned long ago not to engage Sarah when she was talking about how much weight she’d gained or lost.
“It’s also put a clamp on my sex life,” Sarah added. “Though to be fair, Rob hasn’t touched me in months, so I’m not sure whether the pills are totally to blame.”
“Do you sleep in the same bed?”
“Yes, but Rob comes home late most nights,” Sarah admitted. “It got awkward when Reese found him sleeping on the couch.”
“Anything else?”
“Oh, a tremor here and there,” Sarah said. “I get dizzy spells and have trouble pooping. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”
Carrie laughed.
“Sorry about the constipation, but I was talking more about things with Rob.”
“Well,” Sarah said, “I did go talk to a lawyer.”
“Praise the Lord!” Carrie screamed and raised her fluttering hands skyward. “After twenty years of marriage and God knows how many affairs, you’re finally going to take that sonofabitch to the cleaners?”
“I’m going to make him cry,” Sarah said. “My lawyer says I should be able to keep the house and get paid child support for Reese and maybe maintenance to boot.”
“Not a bad deal!”
“Rob’s position at Stanford will pay for the girls’ college tuition,” Sarah said, “and I’ll get half of his retirement. The lawyer says if I can figure out what he’s spent on other women over the years, I’ll get half of that as well.”
“Sounds like justice to me and a lot of paperwork. But you’re good at that.”
“We’ve just started putting it together,” Sarah said. “At only $400 an hour.”
Carrie raised an eyebrow; it was insane how much lawyers charged.
“We’ve entered the fennel section. Don’t you love the smell?” Sarah asked. She stopped and picked the flower of a plant and found the seed pods. “Here, try some seeds. They taste great.”
“Thanks.” Carrie chewed the five oval green seeds. “They taste like licorice or the anise seeds in Indian restaurants. What’s your plan? When are you breaking this lovely news to Rob?”
“Once I’ve gotten everything documented and Becky’s tuition is taken care of,” Sarah said. “It shouldn’t take more than a few weeks.”
“I guess being an obsessive-compulsive record-keeper is going to pay off.”
“I’m hoping to pull the trigger in September,” Sarah said. “The annual party of the Northern California Psychiatric Association in San Francisco is in September. There’s nothing I’d like more than to yank the rug out from under him on his own turf.”
“I’d pay a million to see his face.”
Sarah said nothing more about divorce. While they walked, Carrie stole sideways glances at her cheerful best friend and prayed that her feisty optimism wasn’t simply another side effect of the antidepressant. Either way, Carrie hoped Sarah had the strength to go through with it. She doubted she would but decided to be optimistic for Sarah’s sake and to offer help.
“Want me to come for moral support?”
CARRIE HAD ATTENDED PLENTY of professional conferences, but parties weren’t her thing. She put on an orange-and-black silk dress she had found on the sale rack at Nordstrom with a black gaberdine tailored sportscoat. She hoped this was colorful enough to pass in a party of professionals. Next, she fluffed her bob-cut straight brown hair to give more breadth to her narrow oval face and feathered her bangs to allow bits of white forehead to peek through. Her last decision was to wear her clear plastic-framed glasses. Comfort would be more important than looks. It did annoy her that the strong correction in her lenses made her temples and eyes look disproportionately small. One last look in the mirror and she was satisfied, concluding that she was attractive but not pretty.
She met Sarah in the lobby of the Ritz Carlton up on what she called Snob Hill. She arrived late to miss the cocktails but in time for the main course—Sarah’s serving of Rob on the half-shell.
“Thank you for coming,” Sarah said. “You were right, I’m going to need all the moral support I can get. At least a hundred psychiatrists and neurologists are here, plus their spouses. It’s a big deal. Some come from as far away as Sacramento and Monterey. It’s a great excuse for a tax-deductible reunion with old friends and a decadent weekend in the City.”
“I’m impressed,” Carrie said as she clipped her badge to her tailored jacket. “I hadn’t expected that everyone would be so dressed up.”
“I should have warned you. I hope you can suffer through the small talk,” Sarah said as they approached the ballroom where the dinner would be served.
“How do you feel about arriving separately from Rob?” Carrie asked.
“At this point, I don’t care. I told him I was bringing you as our guest. I don’t care if people whisper and gossip. Besides, when we hand him the divorce papers after the speeches, they’ll have something even more delicious to talk about.”
When they passed through the cocktail area, Carrie couldn’t help but notice that every man Sarah passed turned his head to follow her. She looked spectacular, the hottest woman in the room, with her short blue sequined dress showing abundant cleavage and toned legs.
“The number of erections in this room just increased exponentially,” Carrie whispered.
Sarah blushed and accepted a glass of wine from a gorgeous waiter making the rounds.
“Look at Rob’s expression,” she said. “He can’t believe this is me. He thinks I wear only sweatpants and oversized T-shirts. He never thought I’d morph into Jessica Rabbit! I bet he’s glad now he’s sitting next to me at dinner.”
CARRIE WATCHED SARAH FROM across the circular table for eight, covered in a white tablecloth with bottles of red and white wine and still or sparkling water in the middle. They were seated in the third row of tables in the nondescript hotel ballroom. Sarah appeared to enjoy the evening. She devoured the buttery lobster and enjoyed flirting with the doctors who stopped by to say hello to Rob. She seemed to like being the center of attention. Carrie was relieved to see that Sarah had limited herself to two glasses of wine and drank mostly water during dinner. Giving Rob the unwelcome news while drunk would not have had the right impact.
The speeches began and the lights dimmed. Carrie watched as Sarah fidgeted in her seat, clearly oblivious to the speeches and the robotic applause that followed. The moment of truth was upon her. Carrie hoped Sarah wouldn’t lose her nerve and saw her inhale deeply and clench her fists. This had to be the moment. It was now or never. Sarah whispered to Rob and got up. Still seated, he pointed to the stage, indicating he wanted to hear the speech. Sarah gave him the look.
Rob shuddered. Sarah walked out of the room and Rob followed. Carrie trailed discreetly behind, getting close enough to overhear their conversation in the cocktail area.
“You look like a million bucks,” Rob said.
“In more ways than you know,” Sarah said.
“What does that mean?” Rob said.
“I’m filing for divorce tomorrow,” she said and looked at Carrie who was now standing behind Rob. That was Carrie’s cue. “Here are the papers.” Carrie handed them to Rob and waited around the corner.
Carrie couldn’t hear a sound for what seemed like forever.
“That’s your response?” Sarah said. “Silence and a smirk?”
Rob laughed loudly.
“I can’t say I’m surprised,” Rob said. “But it does explain why you’re dressed like a hooker.”
“I’ll see you in court.”
“You’ll regret it,” Rob said. “And if I were you, I’d prepare your scrawny ass to lose.”
Sarah slapped him—and although many more words passed between them, Carrie had heard enough. As she returned to their table, she could still hear the couple arguing.
The speeches were still droning on when Sarah snuck back into the room. She tapped Carrie on the shoulder and announced she was leaving. Carrie was happy to leave as well, especially since the speeches were numbingly dull.
“I did it,” Sarah said, as they were waiting for the valet to deliver her car. “I told Rob I’m divorcing him, and I gave him the papers—well, you did,” Sarah said with a laugh.
“Good for you.” Carrie hugged her. “You’ll be fine. In fact, you’ll be better than fine. You’ll be great.”
Sarah’s car arrived.
“Thanks. I’ll see you soon, but right now I feel awful. I just want to get home and sleep.”
“Get a good rest and I’ll call you tomorrow,” Carrie said. “Love you. Good night.” Carrie waved as Sarah closed the door and drove off.
IT WAS THREE O’CLOCK IN the morning when the phone rang. Groggily, Carrie remembered what her mother had said—Good news never calls after midnight.
“Carrie? It’s Rebecca!”
Carrie had known Rebecca since the day she was born, and she had never called her on the phone.
“What’s wrong?”
“Mom’s really sick,” Rebecca sobbed. “The ambulance is on its way—Mom’s body is rigid, and her eyes are trembling. Her body’s contorted and she’s burning up.”
A dozen horrible images popped into Carrie’s head.
“It’s awful,” Rebecca added. “She doesn’t look like Mom.”
“Where’s your dad?”
“Dad’s not here,” Rebecca said. “Mom said they had a huge argument tonight, so he didn’t come home. I called him and he said he’ll meet us at the hospital.”
“Put ice in three baggies,” Carrie instructed. “Put one on her forehead and the others under her armpits. Try and get her temperature down . . . when the ambulance arrives, they’ll know what to do. Have them take her to Stanford. I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Okay,” Rebecca said. “I’ll see you then.”
“Your mom will be fine,” Carrie said, but she wasn’t sure she believed her own words.
Carrie took off her nightgown and put on yesterday’s casual clothes—the white polo shirt and brown cotton pants—draped neatly on the back of the armchair. She found a small canvas duffel bag and stuffed it with things she might need for a couple of days—nightgown, change of clothes, underwear, assorted toiletries, wallet, computer, and chargers.
Less than ten minutes after she’d hung up with Rebecca, Carrie backed out of her driveway and sped through the streets of Berkeley across the Bay Bridge and down the peninsula toward Palo Alto.
Once safely on the I-280 freeway, she floored the gas pedal. When the speedometer read ninety, she kept it there and scanned for the Highway Patrol in her rearview mirror.
The possibilities were numerous. Food poisoning? An infection? Some sort of aneurism? Or had Rob done something sinister after she arrived home or before the party or even during the party before Carrie arrived? By the time she walked into the Stanford Hospital Emergency Room, Carrie was a sweating, hyperventilating mess. After badgering the ER receptionist, she was directed toward a small enclosed waiting room to the right and ran toward it, hoping, somehow, she could save the day.
“Carrie!” several people said at once.
Rebecca, Reese, and Rob were all standing inside the door.
“Mom’s dying,” Reese said, sounding momentarily more composed than her older sister. “They don’t know what’s wrong with her . . . but they said she’s too far gone.”
“They won’t even let us be with her,” Rebecca said.
Carrie gave Rebecca a hug then turned her attention to Rob.
“What happened to her?” she demanded. She didn’t trust him, but he was a physician. “What do the doctors think is wrong with her?”
“They say it looks like poison,” Rob answered with a calm air of authority. “But her toxicology screens are negative. They think it might have been a suicide attempt from a Prozac overdose.”
That scared Carrie. She remembered how Sarah had mentioned suicide earlier in the summer.
“Bottom line, they have no idea,” Rob said. “They’ve tried to reverse her symptoms, but it might be too late. And there’s no way to diagnose serotonin poisoning.”
“The doctor said if they can’t get her fever below 106 that Mom . . . Mom could . . . Mom could . . . die,” Reese said.
“Your mom is at the best hospital in the area,” Carrie said, then returned her attention back to Rob. “You told me what the doctor said, but what do you think?”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was poisoned,” Rob said. “It does look like serotonin poisoning, but they tested her blood for drugs that interact with Prozac and found nothing.”
“Did you have the lobster?” Carrie asked.
“Of course, it was the best entrée offered. I left a message with the organizer to see if anybody else was sick,” Rob said. “Plus, Becky said the bottle of Prozac was mostly full, so she didn’t overdose.”
There were a thousand more questions Carrie wanted to ask but figured for the girls’ sake, the best thing was to wait in silence.
The girls made a space for Carrie to sit between them—Rebecca held her hand while Reese put her head in Carrie’s lap. An eternity later, the attending physician entered the waiting room. He was a short Midwestern-looking man with perfectly straight teeth and a discomfiting facial tick.
“Doctor Newsome,” he said, addressing Rob. “Now would be a good time for you and your family to visit Mrs. Newsome. She’s in cardiac arrest, and we’re unable to reverse it.”
Rebecca once again exploded into a spasm of tears, while Reese looked like a deer in the headlights.
“Let’s go,” Rob said, taking each of his daughters by a hand.
Carrie followed the family members as they shuffled along the bright linoleum floor toward Sarah’s room. Before they could enter, the visitor quartet was required to put on caps, gowns, face masks, and booties. Once dressed in the thin baby blue protective uniform, they were escorted into the inner sanctum of intensive care. Entering the room, Carrie was overcome by the sheer number of tubes and monitors that were attached to Sarah. She watched Sarah’s vital signs racing out of control: heart rate 150 beats per minute; temperature 107 degrees. Sarah’s battle for life was nearly over.
Reese was the only one who spoke. “Mommy!” she said, sounding more like a scared child than a composed teenager. “Please don’t die. Please God, don’t let Mommy die!”
Through the maze of tubes, Sarah opened her eyes briefly and looked blankly at her visitors. Rebecca and Rob moved to the other side of the bed, but Carrie’s eyes remained fixed on Sarah and Reese.
Sarah tried to speak, but no words managed to escape. Instead, her body lurched with one final spasm and her eyes closed for good.
Two minutes later, the monitors flat-lined.