The next morning, Angie opened her living room curtains to reveal a cold, clear February day. When her brother rang her buzzer at 10:10, she grabbed her coat and emerged from her building in boots, jeans, and a baggy oatmeal sweater. Scott, his wife, Sarah, and their two kids, five-year-old Michelle and three-year-old Brendan, were waiting in their SUV, ready to head out to Naw-naw and Pop-pop’s on Long Island.
“Hey, guys,” Angie said as she climbed in the front. Sarah was in the back between the kids who were strapped into their car seats. “Thanks for getting me.”
“Good to see you,” Sarah said.
“Thanks, Sarah.” Angie knew her sister-in-law was making an effort in spite of the late-night call to Scott.
“We have muffwins, Aunt Angie,” Michelle chirped. “Do you want a muffwin?”
Angie pivoted to smile at her niece, who clutched a bakery bag in one hand and a stuffed llama in the other. “Why, yes, Michelle, I would love a muffin.” She turned to the little dark-haired boy on the other side of his mother. He held fistfuls of Star Wars Lego figures. “Hi, Brendan.”
“Hi.” He was focused on his toys.
“How are you?” Sarah asked. She was a nurse practitioner, very practical and adept at juggling patients with the parenting of young children.
“I’m well.” Angie didn’t feel like talking or explaining herself. And what was there to say, anyway?
Thirty-five minutes later, they pulled up in front of the manicured garden that framed the Norrises’ colonial in Farmingdale. Angie’s father, Gerry, was an English professor who taught at Fordham University. Her mother, Ellen, was a museum curator, a forensic anthropologist by training, who’d taken a leave after Scarlett died. She’d recently told Angie that, although she missed work, she wasn’t sure she would ever return—she still didn’t feel up to facing people. She volunteered once a week at a women’s shelter. Other than that, she spent hours in her garden, culling daisies and tending to climbing clematis vines, losing herself in dirt and seeds, flowers and greenery.
Gerry Norris was methodical. His immaculate library was alphabetized, and he read several newspapers each day, plus The Atlantic and The New Yorker, and skimmed online news sites and political forums. He was possessed of a withering eye and could be wryly funny. He lacked patience for sloppy thinkers and messy emotions and when he drank too much at dinner parties or family gatherings, he grew belligerent. Ellen usually had to intercede before an ugly argument ensued.
The front door opened and Angie’s mom stepped onto the portico, smiling broadly in welcome. To Angie, Ellen never seemed truly happy after losing Scarlett, but she very clearly put on a brave face for others. A teen beauty queen and high school cheerleader—Angie and her siblings were all familiar with the photos from Ellen’s youth, and the stories about her and her father’s early days. They met when she was studying for her master’s and he was working toward his doctorate in rhetoric and writing. They married and bought the house in Farmingdale shortly after Angie was born.
“Hello, hello, my darlings!” Her mother beamed at the children as they scurried up the walk with cries of “Naw-naw! Naw-naw!” She started to tear up as she embraced them. There was always so much emotion just under the surface, as if any of them could tip into grief at any moment.
“Hey, Mom.” Scott put an arm around her. “You look beautiful, as always.”
Ellen wore green linen trousers, a white blouse, and patterned V-neck sweater, her champagne-colored hair arranged in a chignon. A thick gold chain lay against her collarbone. She was ever chic, even though the past year had etched lines in her face.
“Hi, dear.” Ellen kissed her son on the cheek. “Hello, Sarah! And, Angie, sweetheart, look at you, that sweater’s darling. Come in, come in.”
By then, Gerry had appeared in the doorway. “Well, well, look what’s blown in! Come here, you rascals!” he called to his grandchildren. “You get bigger all the time, do you know that?” He crouched and gave them each a tickle that prompted squeals of laughter.
Sarah led the two children toward the backyard as Angie, Scott, and their parents went inside. Angie sat at the kitchen table while her mother arranged the pastries on a plate. The antique butcher block on wheels Mom had found a few years before at a specialty shop sat in the middle of the airy room. Through wide, clear glass panes they could see Sarah playing with the kids. The backyard, which included Ellen’s garden and a swing set (the same one Scott, Angie, and Scarlett used to play on), was expansive, the grass still covered in a white frost from the night before.
“So, how are things?” Gerry asked.
“Oh, you know, fine,” Angie dodged. She loved her father, but he could still make her nervous, even as a grown woman.
“How’s work?” he pressed. “Has Rita found the next literary wunderkind? Honestly, I don’t know why she insists on keeping her own shop. She could have sold to one of the big houses years ago, made a small fortune.”
“Well, maybe she likes being her own boss,” Scott offered.
“Not everyone likes being told what to do, Gerry.” Ellen’s voice had a brittle quality.
“Oh, for the love of God. She could have made her life a dozen times easier, but never mind. Scott, what’s new in the engineering world?”
Scott and Gerry grabbed their coats and drifted out the sliding doors into the backyard, leaving Angie and her mom alone in the kitchen.
“So, really, how’s life these days?” Ellen asked.
Angie looked into her mother’s clear, green eyes and thought she would always be beautiful but would never seem young again. Ellen had become much more prone to distraction. One minute, she would be mixing tuna salad for lunch, and the next she would be staring into space, her knife poised over a stalk of celery, lost in thought.
“Things are well,” Angie replied after a moment. “Well enough. I’m reading a decent manuscript by an established writer. It’s a fantasy-adventure-romance and it’s pretty engaging.”
“Well, that sounds promising. Are you sleeping? And eating?”
“I had . . . Last night was . . . I had a few bad moments.” She didn’t want to go into detail. Her mother was much easier to talk to than her dad, who had an answer for everything. He didn’t understand how others lived in the gray spaces between absolutes and, even worse, made decisions different from what he thought they should. “But it passed.”
“Good,” her mother said. “Did I tell you, the Tuckers are selling their place and moving to Scottsdale? Their son is out there, and one daughter is in California, so they’ll be closer to their grandchildren. I don’t know, it sounds awfully . . . barren or something. Not sure I’d like it.”
Angie had caught sight of the For Sale sign when they’d pulled up. She and her siblings had grown up across the street from Chris, Charlotte, and Amanda Tucker. They’d walked to school together, shared birthday celebrations, and confided first crushes. They’d drifted apart in high school, when the Norris siblings went to the local public high school while the Tuckers went to Our Lady of Divine Salvation. The Tuckers had sent flowers when Scarlett died, and Ellen mentioned how kind Mrs. Tucker had been, knocking on Ellen’s door a couple of times a week to see if she wanted company.
The days of hanging around with the Tucker kids seemed like eons ago. So much time gone by. So much is different.
They fell silent and Angie joined her mother in slicing kiwis and oranges for a fruit platter. Once they had filled the plate, Angie carried it to the table where she set it down. “Mom . . . Have you heard from the Academy Awards?”
Ellen finished washing her hands and reached for a dish towel. “Yes, we got a call when they announced the nominations. I’m so proud of all that she was able to accomplish.”
They both fell silent. The first anniversary of Scarlett’s suicide was coming up in a month—March 20.
“What’s that?” Gerry asked.
They both turned with a start. They hadn’t heard him and Scott come back in. Ellen cleared her throat. “Angie was just mentioning the Oscars, Gerry, and—”
“Angie, why would you bring that up and upset your mother?”
“I’m not upset, Gerry, for heaven’s sake. Scarlett is nominated for Best Actress. It’s hardly a secret.”
“There’s no need to talk about any of that,” Gerry snapped. “As if we would all head out to Los Angeles. We don’t want anything to do with the movie industry, or Hollywood, or their fake award nonsense. For the love of God, that place killed your sister.”
“Dad,” Scott started, “don’t blame Angie just for—”
“I’m not blaming Angie, I’m blaming Hollywood. This is still my house, and I’ll decide what we do and don’t bring into it, and we are not bringing in Hollywood, or those goddamn awards, or any of that film industry crap here. None of it comes in here.”
“Gerry, Angie was just—”
“Ellen, you know how I feel about this!” her husband shot back. “Enough.” He looked at each of them, swallowed hard, turned, and strode out.
Angie’s throat was tight, but she wasn’t going to cry. “I’m sorry, Mom, I should have known better.”
Ellen put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders and leaned in, pressing the side of her face against Angie’s. “There is no need to apologize, dear.” She pulled back and looked her square in the eye. “You did nothing wrong. He’s just . . . He can’t face it.”
With that, she let go of Angie’s’ shoulder, grabbed a jacket, and drifted out to the yard to join her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Angie squeezed Scott’s hand and then went down the hall to the stairs that led to the second floor. Looking up, she felt a stream of childhood memories rush toward her.
She pushed past them, through them, until she stood at a pale-yellow bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall. She hesitated, girding herself, then gingerly crossed the threshold.
Scarlett’s many high school awards still stood in place on top of a white bureau, heavy under the weight of her accomplishments. Her brass bed gleamed, dolls still piled high in a corner rocking chair. Ellen said she was saving them for Michelle who had yet to express much interest.
The walls held a framed photo of Scarlett on the opening night of her first major movie. Angie opened the sliding door of the double closet. Much had been given away since Scarlett moved out, but there were still a few sweaters hanging there, an old denim jacket, a cowboy hat Scarlett wore one Halloween when she was Annie Oakley, a pair of ice skates in a corner. Angie reached into the far recess and felt the stiff tulle of the blue gown Scarlett had worn to her prom. They’d all laughed when her date, handsome Doug Jenkins, asked if her fairy godmother had conjured up the dress.
Angie closed her eyes, allowing the memories to wash over her, inhaling deeply.
In, two, three four. Out, two, three, four.
A knock at the door roused her and she opened her eyes to find Scott poking his head in from the hall. “Sorry,” he said. “Didn’t realize you were . . . having a moment?”
“I was just . . . Nothing. What’s up?”
Scott stepped inside. “We need to talk about Dad.”
“About what a dick he is to Mom?”
“He’s suffering too. He just doesn’t show it much.”
“Uh, I think he is showing it.”
Angie lay down on Scarlett’s bed, and Scott lay next to her. They stared up at the ceiling in silence for a few moments, ruminating in their separate thoughts.
Finally, Angie turned to her brother. “How did we get here?”
“The Long Island Expressway?” he joked, and she couldn’t help but laugh. “I think about her, too, you know. A lot.” He suddenly sounded sad. “And I don’t know what happened in California. She seemed happy. She was certainly successful. I wondered sometimes why she never talked much about her personal life, who she was dating, that kind of thing, but I figured she was just busy making movies. It’s gotta be a lot of pressure. I had no idea she was depressed, or whatever.”
“Did anyone call you about the Oscars?” Angie asked.
“Yeah. And I thought about going, but I’ve got a conference that week, in Taipei of all places. And Sarah’s got a few shifts at the hospital, so we’re going to bring the kids here to Mom and Dad’s for a few days. It’s already complicated without me trying to get to LA in the middle of it. And, like, what are they going to do, anyway? Introduce me to Ryan Reynolds? I mean, I wouldn’t know what to do. I’d like to go for Scar, in a way, but it’s not like it’s going to change anything.”
It was hard to know how much attention Scarlett’s career and tragic death would get at the ceremony. She’d be included in the traditional tribute to film notables who’d died over the past year, of course. And the Academy had reached out, which Angie supposed was something. Attitudes were changing, but dying of a horrible disease was seen as somehow noble, while killing yourself out of misery and desperation from your mental illness wasn’t. Angie could never understand it.
“I sort of feel like someone should go,” she said. “I mean, if none of us shows up, isn’t that, you know . . . like we don’t care?”
“Well, Dad sure as hell ain’t going. Mom probably wouldn’t go without him, considering she’d never hear the end of it. We’ve been through my schedule. That leaves . . .” He turned to her and pointed both index fingers.
“Yeah. I know, I know. But what if I have a panic attack? It’s so unpredictable. I can’t fall apart when E! TV starts asking me about Scar and who designed my dress.”
“Actually, that alone would be worth it. Just picture it, some size-two fashionista wearing fourteen pounds of eyeliner shoves a microphone under your nose, flashes her blinding smile, and says, ‘Miss Norris, thank you so much for being here. Now, do tell us, who designed the dress you’re wearing tonight.’ And you could look at her and say, ‘Um . . . T.J. Maxx?’”
“Cut it out!” They both laughed, Angie playfully shoving Scott, and then she thought a moment. “I’d like to do it, for Scarlett, but, God, all those people watching . . .”
“Yeah, I know. You don’t have to go. No one has to go.” He got up and straightened his pants. “I’m gonna go find Sarah and the kids. You coming?”
“Yeah, I’ll be along.” Angie was picturing herself on the red carpet, totally panicked, cameras flashing and celebrities slinking by in hundred-thousand-dollar gowns. No one wants to look at me. The thought dredged up the memory of the time she was about to pop into Rita’s office to deliver a manuscript but stopped just outside the door when she heard her boss on the phone.
“She’ll be there tonight, at the launch, instead of me. Irv, she’s fantastic!” Rita had enthused. “She’s been with me years, and, man, oh, man, did I hit the lottery with her.”
Angie had realized she must be talking about her, and her cheeks grew hot.
Rita paused, clearly listening to whomever she was speaking with. “She’s cute, slender but not skinny. Bobbed hair, dark blond. Intense gray eyes. And, oh, boy, has she got style. But, understated, you know? Flair. She’s got flair.”
Angie had stepped into the doorway with a sheepish smile. “Hi. Just dropping off this manuscript.” She set it on Rita’s desk.
“Hi, doll. Just singing your praises to Irv Winkelman. You remember him.”
“Uh. . .”
“She says hi, Irv.”
The conversation had stuck with Angie, who had never once considered she had style. And she’d always been self-conscious about her thinness. She kind of liked the idea of slender instead of skinny. Still, the thought of being scrutinized at the Oscars twisted her stomach.
She shook off the feeling of terror and left Scarlett’s room.
She found everyone in the living room. Her mother sidled up to her. “So, my dear. Anyone interesting in your life these days?”
“No, Mom. I’m not really up to meeting anyone just now. It’s not been the best year. Obviously.” It came out sharper than she intended.
Ellen sighed. “My friend Jean has this very smart son. He’s a writer and lives in Brooklyn, and we just thought, wouldn’t it be nice if you two could get together and just have a coffee? I mean, it couldn’t hurt, honey.”
“Mom, I’m really not interested in having coffee with some guy I’ve never met.”
“Sweetie, people have been going on blind dates for years. I just think it might make you feel better.”
“Feel better?”
“Honey, we’ve all been through a lot. Too much. I just think you might be happier if you had someone in your life. I wouldn’t worry about you being sad all the time . . .”
Angie understood. Her mother had only so much bandwidth for worry and anxiety. And if Angie was happier, it was one less thing for her to stress about. “I don’t mean to sound so . . . ungrateful. I’ll meet . . . Who is it?”
“Matthew. He’s Jean’s son. Jean Mandelbach. From the museum.”
“You can give Matthew, Jean-from-the-museum’s son, my number. He can call me. Who knows, maybe he’ll turn out to be a literary genius and Rita can make millions off him.”
“Honey, I’m not trying to force you into anything, I just think it might add something to your life, that’s all.”
“It’s fine. I get it.” She tried to speak more gently. “I do.”
Scott sauntered up behind them. “Has Mom got you all sorted out to meet the love of your life, Ange?”
Angie could tell he’d been listening. Why couldn’t he have swooped in sooner to save her from their mother’s matchmaking?
“Yes, Matthew Mandelbach is going to be the love of my life, for sure. I can’t wait to have coffee with him and plan our wedding.”
“Oh, now, don’t be silly,” Ellen admonished. “I meant nothing of the sort. I only mentioned it—”
“No, Mom, honestly, it’s fine.” Angie caught her brother’s eye. “I’m happy to meet Matthew, really.”
“And I’m sure Matthew is going to love meeting you,” Scott said. “He’ll probably turn out to be some nerd desperate to get in your pants—”
“Jesus, Scott!” Angie chastised. But they both burst out laughing.
“Oh, my goodness, now I’m really sorry I mentioned it.” Ellen was flustered, her cheeks pink, but she smiled just the same.
When they got ready to leave later that day, Angie went to the closet to get her jacket and stopped short. Posters of Scarlett’s movies hung in the front hallway. Every Christmas, she’d had one framed for their parents as a fun memento of her success, something they could show off to their friends. But now . . .
Angie went slowly, one by one.
Even Steven, an early film that had gotten Scarlett some recognition, was a black comedy about a group of college girls who come up with creative ways to get back at their exes.
Then she had made the thriller, Danger Zone, a murder whodunit, and Every Time I Kiss You, in which she was cast as a lonely young wife in the 1960s. She realizes she’s a lesbian and precipitates a scandal by embarking on a damaging affair with one of her kid’s teachers. The film had marked Scarlett’s emergence as a serious actor, and better scripts soon came her way. Then she starred in a well-received series for three seasons to rave reviews.
But her biggest coup ended up being her last. Angie remembered the big announcement, some two and a half years ago, that DreamWeaver Studios had signed Scarlett Norris to star as Chloe in their upcoming drama, Catapult, about a heroin-addicted prostitute who inadvertently saves a congresswoman’s life and gets pushed into a high-powered political career. Scarlett had been so excited about landing the role and told her family all about DreamWeaver. Though not the biggest studio in town, she had said, it was among the hottest, thanks to the virtually unerring eye of founder Charles Weaver for making films that were as excellent as they were popular.
Catapult was no different. The film opened in November to critical acclaim, eight months after Scarlett was found dead on the set the final day of shooting. It was a tragic detail that only served to magnify its allure. Theaters were packed.
In spite of herself and the pain of her grief, Angie followed the movie’s ever-growing success. DreamWeaver orchestrated a no-holds-barred publicity campaign: the director gave interviews everywhere from Hollywood to Cannes. Cast members appeared on talk shows. Enormous ads featuring images of Scarlett popped up in Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, the LA Times, The New York Times, and more. No one was surprised when the movie garnered numerous Oscar nominations, including Best Picture and a posthumous Best Actress nod for Scarlett.
What went wrong, Scar? What?
“Ange, you coming?” Scott called from the front door.
She snapped to and turned from the tunnel of memories. “Yeah. I’ll be right there.”
***
Angie’s dread mounted as the days ticked by, the anniversary of Scarlett’s death looming. Over the next week, Angie focused on work to keep her mind busy and her body calm. She got through three more manuscripts and wrote up some pitch ideas, successfully keeping her panic attacks at bay. By the time Friday night rolled around and she found herself fiddling with a plate of seafood pasta while Matthew Mandelbach made a fervent effort at conversation, she was utterly drained. But she hadn’t wanted to cancel on the son of her mother’s friend, who had called the day he got her number.
How do clams breathe anyway? Angie wondered as she considered the bivalves in the yellow dish. Do they even have a central nervous system? She remembered how she and her siblings would dig for clams on family outings near East Hampton every fall. She could picture Scarlett, laughing in her bright green bathing suit at low tide, holding out her shovel to Angie, urging her to get in on the action. Angie smiled at the memory. That was how it always went. She would hang back while Scarlett was out front, trying to bring her along. God, without Scar, I probably never would have done much of anything.
“Do you know what I mean?”
She looked up.
Matthew appeared animated. “I mean, it’s crazy how many different types of operating systems they had to go through before they found one that wouldn’t crash if you had a smaller hard drive.”
“Oh, yeah, crazy, right.”
“Gosh, I’m boring you.” Matthew was cute and a writer, just like Ellen had said. He wrote technical manuals for setting up home computer networks.
“No, it’s not that, Matthew. I’m just a little wiped out. You know—Friday night after a long week. I’m sorry I’m not very good company.”
“No way, I really like your company. Let’s finish up here and get the check.”
As they walked a few blocks in search of a taxi, Matthew took Angie’s hand. It was pleasant, if not exhilarating, and she didn’t pull away. As they rode, she took a leap of faith. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
Maybe her mother was right, that she had to give dating more of a chance.
Over steaming mugs of mint tea, they talked about publishing. Angie told him about Rita and her work.
“Wow, that sounds so interesting,” he enthused, seemingly earnestly. “Working with real writers and all.”
“I mostly enjoy the reading, but some of the writers are cool.”
When they had endured a comfortable silence, she cleared the mugs to the kitchen sink. When she turned back, Matthew was standing there. He took both of her hands and, gently, leaned in and put his lips to hers. She kissed him back, at first hesitantly, but then with more intensity. Then she led him to the bedroom. Why not? she thought. This is what people do. Go out. Have sex. Get to know one another.
In Angie’s small bedroom, Matthew began unbuttoning her blouse. They kissed, pressed up against one. Slipping his hand under her bra, he unhooked it, and then unbuttoned his shirt. She wriggled out of her slim black pants as Matthew unbuttoned his jeans. Angie didn’t have any particular sense of desire, but she didn’t particularly mind, either. It was almost as if she were having an out-of-body experience, watching herself as she and Matthew ran their hands over one another’s bodies before falling onto the bed, naked, until Matthew got on top of her. Afterward, as they lay there, she stared at the ceiling as Matthew, one arm slung across the top of her pillow, twirled a strand of her hair.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
“I should probably get some rest. It’s late and I have work to do this weekend. For Rita—my boss. I’m behind on a book.” She knew she was being distant. She didn’t want to hurt him. He was sweet and obviously interested in her, but she just couldn’t face awkward morning small talk.
“Oh, okay, then, um, should I go?”
“Do you mind?”
“Yeah, no problem.”
So Matthew Mandelbach got dressed and left. Angie felt bad, knowing he was disappointed. As for the sex, it was much like the last time she’d slept with someone, over a year ago, when, after a reading, she’d gone home with a big-shot agent. The sex wasn’t great—she didn’t have an orgasm—but the guy was interested. Angie felt detached. Does twice make a pattern? She was still thinking about that when the intercom buzzed. It was nearly 1:00 a.m.
“Who is it?” she queried into the speaker when she’d approached the door.
“It’s me, Matthew. I have a package for you. Someone just dropped it off.”
Confused, Angie buzzed him back in. What would someone be dropping off in the middle of the night? She waited until there was a gentle knock, and she opened the door to find Matthew standing there with a manila envelope with her name in typeface.
“I was waiting downstairs for my Lyft,” Matthew explained, “and this guy on a motorcycle pulls up. I guess he’s a messenger, but I didn’t think they worked this late. Anyway, he asks me if I can receive a delivery. I look down and it’s addressed to you, so I said sure. I figured I should come up and give it to you. I mean, it’s so late. So, maybe it’s important?”
“Oh, yeah, thanks.” She took the envelope from him. A pause. Matthew still stood there. “Is your Lyft close?” she asked. She just couldn’t deal with anyone else at the moment, not even nice tech writer Matthew.
“Yeah, I’d better get back down there. Take care. I’ll call you.” He gave a sweet grin then headed back to the stairs to the street.
Angie sat on her couch and studied the envelope. Too thin to be a manuscript. She had a strange feeling as she opened it and pulled out a single sheet of lined paper.
Your sister was the bravest woman I knew
Make this right
Scarlett deserved better
CD-1447789 1st Precinct