“You’re on in five,” the producer calls into the room. I barely hear her, but I nod and stand up, walking robotically in my heels to the green room. I scan the note cards that my assistant gave me earlier. The Horseshoe Ranch at Yosemite, with horseback riding for families. The Canyon Lodge in Wyoming, where every child gets her own private ski lesson. And . . . I feel a lump in my throat when I see the words on the next card. How could they? “Just a short jaunt to the coast of Maine, the Waterbrook Inn is nestled beside one of the most magnificent yet lesser known waterfalls in the world.”
The room feels like it’s spinning when the producer waves me into the studio. Matt Lauer is wearing a red tie and sitting on a high stool. “I’m so sorry to hear about your family,” he says. “It’s good to have you back.”
I nod automatically, the way I’ve done a hundred, a thousand times since the accident, then take my seat on the stool beside him.
I hear music in the distance, the scuffling of producers and cameramen, and then the lights brighten, and Matt Lauer sits up higher on his stool. “Welcome back to the Today show,” he says. “We’re joined now by Sunrise magazine’s Ada Santorini, who’s here to share her picks for the top five family vacation destinations this year.”
Pain pulsates in my chest, but I try to ignore it. I answer Matt’s questions and even tell him about the trail that leads up to the waterfall at the Waterbrook Inn. I smile and nod. I get through the interview. I fake it. And then when the segment ends and my mic comes off, I run backstage, down the long hallway to the restrooms in the distance. I can hardly breathe. And when I look into the mirror, I despise the woman who stares back at me.
I wipe away the tears on my cheeks and look out at the overcast Seattle morning. I take a deep breath. I can’t fall apart. Because if I do, I fear I won’t be able to put myself back together. But how do I keep going without a reason to wake up every morning? And then it hits me: I need to give myself an assignment. I think of the memoir I began writing months ago and remember why I came here. I stopped at twenty-five pages because the process was too painful. But now, after Joanie has uttered James’s name—James—I feel the urge to click open the folder again and pull up the document. I feel like writing.
I reach for my laptop and lift it out of my bag and onto my lap. I pull open the untitled memoir. A large boat must have traveled through the lake while I was on the phone, because its wake rocks the little houseboat gently; I feel like a duck bobbing on the water. I stare at the blank cover page, and I type.
Floating
A Memoir by Ada Santorini
Chapter 5
PENNY
Stay here as long as you like, honey,” I say to Jimmy. I want to be sure to offer Collin the muffins when they’re still warm. They’re much better that way. “I have to run over to a neighbor’s house for a sec.” He nods and dips his feet into the lake.
I step back inside and self-consciously check my reflection in the mirror beside the door before stepping out front. The muffins, wrapped in the tea towel, are still warm in my hands. I straighten my pale blue dress and fasten the top button of my blue cardigan before walking ahead. I look up when I hear heels clacking toward me on the dock.
“Look at you,” Naomi croons. “Dressed so pretty for a Tuesday morning.” She gives me a once-over. “Where are you off to? It’s too early for lunch.”
She speaks to me as if I’m a child, the way most of Dex’s friends do. It’s true, I’m twenty-two, and she’s at least ten years my senior and a practicing psychiatrist with an MD, when I didn’t even officially graduate from Miss Higgins Academy.
I glance down at the muffins and feel a pang of guilt. “I was just going to offer—”
“For me?” She reaches out and takes the muffins from my hands. “How kind. You know I don’t have time to bake with my crazy schedule.” She’s wearing white pants and a blue sweater with a belt cinched tight to show off her narrow waist. She’s beautiful in a sophisticated, literary sort of way. Her long, manicured fingers are rarely without a cigarette, stuffed into a long, jewel-studded holder. She opens up the tea towel and smiles, amused. “Oh look, muffins.”
I think of Collin, then nod. “Dex never eats them. I don’t know why I bake.”
Naomi rewraps the muffins. “Well, he does like French pastries,” she says. “You ought to take a class at the culinary school. I bet he’d love that.”
I want to ask her how she knows that my husband likes French pastries. I want to tell her that muffins are just as nice as any fussy croissant, but I don’t. I smile, and I thank her for the suggestion. Naomi is the only psychiatrist I’ve ever known, and she frightens me a little with that sharp gaze and that perfect dark hair cut to a blunt bob and angled down across her face, every strand obedient. I once tried to emulate her hairstyle, spending two hours hovering over an ironing board, burning my thumb in the process. But it looked wrong on me. Dex came home that night and said, “What happened to your hair?”