Even better, I liked him in the footage we'd shot, and I was sure that others would as well. He came across exactly the way I hoped-honest, competent, and likable-but more than that, he looked good on camera. Maybe it was the natural lighting, but it was a vast improvement over his previous commercials.
The footage for the second commercial was much more complicated. There were a lot of different scenes shot from varying angles-and a particularly gorgeous scene of a meadow with grazing horses-along with many different people, and that multiplied the way the commercial could eventually play out. Knowing it would take more time and energy than I'd be able to summon, I decided to simply work on the first commercial.
The software I used wasn't commercial grade, but that was okay; I'd already spoken to the best freelance editor in town, and slowly but surely I got to work. At lunch, I had to force myself to finish a bowl of soup I'd picked up from the deli, then went back to editing until it was time to pick up London from school.
It had not been an easy day. Whenever my concentration waned-even for a second-the emotional turbulence, and questions, would return. I'd get up from my desk and pace; other times, I would stand near the window, feeling as my chest grew tight and hands began to shake in what seemed to be an airless office. I would feel-deeply feel-my own loss in a way that made me believe there was no reason to go on.
But inevitably, because distraction was my only hope of salvation, I would return to the desk and try to lose myself in the service of Taglieri.
"What you're experiencing is normal," Liz assured me on the back patio later that night, after I told her what I was going through. She and Marge had shown up at my house yet again after work. Marge had brought Play-Doh and was sitting on the floor with London while they sculpted various items.
"You've suffered a profound shock. Anyone would be upset."
"I'm worse than upset," I admitted. "I can barely function."
While Liz and I had talked hundreds of times, it was the first time I ever felt that I needed to talk to her. The day had left me spent. I wanted nothing more than to run away or find a dark, quiet place to hide, but with London, I couldn't do that. Nor did I think it would help; after all, I would carry my thoughts with me wherever I went.
"But you told me you went to work," she said. "You got London to and from school and piano. And she's eaten."
"I picked up fast food on the way home."
"That's okay. You've got to learn to be gentle with yourself. You're handling this about as well as anyone could. Especially the way you're dealing with the emotions."
"Did you not hear anything I told you?"
"Of course I did. And I know it feels unbearable, but believe it or not, the fact that you're letting yourself feel the emotions instead of suppressing them is a good thing. There's an old saying that goes like this: The only way out is through. Do you understand what that I mean by that?"
"Not really. But then again, my brain doesn't seem to be working all that well. The next time I look at the commercial I edited together, I'll be depressed at what a terrible job I did."
"If it's that bad, you'll fix it, right?"
I nodded. I had to fix it. Because Vivian had opened her own bank account, it was up to me to cover all the bills, including, I assumed, the mortgage.
"Good. And that will be another step forward. And as to what I meant earlier-too many people think that suppressing emotions-or avoiding them-is healthy. And sometimes it can be, especially after the passage of time. But in the immediate aftermath of a traumatizing event, it's often better to simply allow the feelings to surface and to experience them fully, while reminding yourself that the feeling will pass. Remind yourself that you're not your emotions."
"I don't even know what that means."
"You're sad now, but you're not a sad person and you won't always be sad. You're angry now, but you're not an angry person, and you won't always be angry."
I thought about what she'd said before shaking my head. "I just want to stop the emotions from being so intense. How do I do that?"
"Keep doing what you're doing. Exercise, work, take care of London. In the end, it's just going to take time."
"How much time?"
"It's different for everyone. But every day, you'll feel a little less vulnerable, a little stronger or resolute. If you thought about Vivian every five minutes today, maybe next week, you'll think about her once every ten minutes."
"I wish I could snap my fingers and be done with it."
"You and everyone else who experiences something like this."
Later that night, after London had FaceTimed with her mom and had gone to bed, I continued to sit with Marge and Liz. For the most part, Marge was content to listen.
"In your experience," I asked, "do you think she'll come back?"
"I've seen both situations, honestly," Liz answered. "Sometimes, what someone thinks is love is just infatuation and after the shine wears off, they decide they've made a mistake. Other times, it is love and it lasts. And still other times, even if it is infatuation, the person comes to the conclusion that the love they felt for the first person is no longer there."
"What should I do? She won't even talk to me."
"I don't know that there's anything you can do. As much as you might want to, you can't control another person."
I wanted a drink, I wanted to forget and simply not care, if only for a little while, but even though there was beer in the refrigerator, I held off because I feared that once I started drinking, I wouldn't stop until the fridge was empty.
"I don't want to control her. I just want her to want to come back."
"I know you do," Liz said. "It's clear that you still love her."
"Do you think she still loves me?"
"Yes," Liz said. "But right now, it's not the same kind of love."
I turned toward Marge. "What happens if she wants London to move to Atlanta with her?"
"You fight it. Hire a lawyer and make a case that she should stay with you."
"What if London wants to go?" I felt the pressure of tears beginning to form. "What if she would rather be with her mom?"
At this, Marge and Liz were silent.
Friday, I took London to and from school and dance, but otherwise buried myself in work like the day before. I was barely surviving. I remembered that fourteen years earlier, on a horrible day I would never forget, the Twin Towers collapsed.
Then came the weekend. Liz's suggestions had become a mantra: work out, work, take care of London and though I wouldn't be heading into the office, I nonetheless wanted to follow her advice.
I woke early and ran seven miles, my longest run in years. I forced myself to eat breakfast and then fed London. While she relaxed, I finished my edits on the first commercial and started working on the second one. I brought London to art class, continued to edit while she was there, and learned that London had made a vase. She carried it to the car gingerly, careful not to bang it on anything.
"We have to bring this back next week so that I can paint it," London told me. "I want to paint yellow flowers on it. And maybe some pink mouses."
"Mouses?"
"Or a hamster. But hamsters are harder to paint."
I had no idea why that would be, but what do I know?
"Okay. Flowers and mouses," I said.
"Pink mouses."
"Even better," I agreed. "Are you ready to head to Nana's?"
I helped her into the car, knowing that it was time to tell my parents that Vivian had left me. Because Marge wanted to stay with me while I shared the news, Liz took it upon herself to take a walk with London. I called my father in from the garage, and he took a seat next to my mom.
I spilled it all in a single rush of words. When I finished, it was my dad who responded first. "She can't leave." He frowned. "She's got a kid."
"I should call her," my mom interjected. "She's probably going through a phase."
"It's not a phase. She told me she was in love with him. She's got her own place now."
"When is she coming back?" my mom asked. "If she comes next weekend, your dad and I will be out of town. We're going to visit your uncle Joe in Winston-Salem. It's his birthday."
My dad's younger brother by a couple of years, Joe was a mechanic who'd never married but had, over the years, gone through one long-term girlfriend after the next. Growing up, he was the cool uncle, and I can remember wondering why he'd never married. Now, I suspected he might have been onto something.
"I don't have any idea when she's coming back," I answered.
"The work must have been too stressful," my mom said. "She's not thinking right."