6 You’ve Murdered the Best Parts of Me

6

you’ve murdered the best parts of me

Danielle

Inside my large walk-in closet, I slithered down the wall, gripping the chardonnay to my chest like it was a dying friend. Alex always gave me a hard time for hanging out in my closet even though it was the size of a small apartment. I would joke that I was a closet drinker because I liked the peace and quiet inside the closet while enjoying a glass of wine here or there, on the floor no less. For years, it was simply a mommy break, and then it became a safe place. A place to imagine. A place to explore myself. A place I didn’t feel judged or critiqued by everyone in my life, including the strangers who saw the television shows I wrote.

When you begin the divorce process, which for us started years ago, you immediately look for the answers. In the beginning of the disintegration all you have is “why?” No because . At the stage we are at, everything is a because . Because he exists and I am stuck co-parenting with him until the end of time. That’s how it feels. Because he has brown hair and sharp toenails. Because his mom smoked while she was pregnant with him.

In the safe haven of my closet, I checked my phone and found a text from my agent to call her. It had been a year since I was fired as a staff writer on the religious family drama Happiness Road. Who came up with that title anyway? I’ll never know. The creators had all quit by the time I signed on. I got fired for telling the new, much younger head writer that I thought the show presented a sense of false moralism. I was fired on the spot and I didn’t even care. My career was a towering inferno by that point anyway, and writing a religious drama was a last-ditch effort to salvage it and save face after being accused of pandering to the male showrunner on a different series.

It was the popular streaming series Litigators . And by pandering to, I mean sleeping with. I hadn’t done anything of the sort. Lars was a fan of my writing before I even started working for him. We were great friends, but that was all. Litigators was a dramedy about a fabulously dysfunctional family of lawyers in Seattle, which happens to describe my best friend’s family. I also grew up in Seattle. I had a lot of material. Lars assigned many of the episodes to me, which won us both three Emmys. Lars didn’t deserve the slimy reputation he got because of it. He was always all about the work and he got blacklisted too.

The accusations were made by Beth Zinn, a jealous female co-writer who couldn’t pitch the idea of water to people on fire. Every episode pitch she gave involved someone stealing a dog. It just became a stupid joke. No one wanted her ideas or writing, so of course she found a way to ruin everyone else’s career because of her wounded ego. I wasn’t the only one who didn’t want to research court cases involving K-9 theft in Seattle, but I got the brunt of her wrath because we were the only two female writers on the show, and exactly the same age. In retrospect, the whole dog-theft thing could have made for some much-needed funny moments on the show, but it didn’t happen, and it wasn’t entirely my fault. If I could go back, maybe I would have fought harder for her.

I can’t believe I actually feel sorry for a person who was so vindictive and terrible to me, but that’s the thing…pity can make you have unreasonable feelings. In my mind she is the scum, desperate at the bottom of the sludge, trying to claw her way up. It’s more heartbreaking than unnerving. Once my back-to-back miscarriages were public knowledge at work, I overheard Beth telling another co-worker that I was full of dead babies and spiders. Maybe if she could have written with the same zest and detail of her shitty comments, she would have had some success.

I stared at the phone for another beat, then dialed my agent, Connie.

“Dani, hi.”

“Hi.”

“I haven’t heard from you,” she said in a concerned voice.

I jerked my head back. Was I supposed to call her to remind her I still didn’t have a job? “Well, nothing is new really, so—”

“What happened to the pilot?”

I had told her a year ago I was going to create a show and write a pilot that no one could take away from me. I had basically given Connie and the agency a Braveheart speech. It was very dramatic. I yelled over a conference call, “They may take my Emmys, but they will never take my pride!” No one actually took Emmys away from me, but it felt like it when the accusations were swirling.

I had said I planned to write a new, better dramedy that was going to be like Parenthood meets The Ice Storm with a sprinkle of Thirtysomething . Connie was totally behind me on it and said she would sell the shit out of it. That was a year ago, and so far I had only written twelve nonsensical pages.

“The pilot is happening. I just went in and tweaked it a bit yesterday.” That wasn’t a lie. I deleted a comma the day before, then instantly shut the document down.

“Meaning you still only have twelve pages?” She took a deep breath and went on. “You told me in the beginning, eight years ago when I became your agent, that you never wanted me to do the rah-rah bit.”

“Yeah, I don’t need an ego boost.”

“About five years ago, Dani, you told me you don’t respond whatsoever to tough love either.”

“Exactly, I want a straight shooter, but I don’t need to be reminded that I am broken-down, unemployed, almost divorced, and aging at hyper-speed.”

“Is that all you are?”

“Connie, are you serious?”

“What are you doing right now at this very moment?”

I looked down at myself. I had taken off my blouse to blow my nose into it, so I was sitting in my slacks and a bra only, on the floor of my dark closet drinking chardonnay from the bottle at two in the afternoon.

“I’m talking to you. That’s what I’m doing,” I said.

“What were you doing just before you called me?”

“What’s your point?”

“You’ve told me many times not to agent you, but I think it’s time to agent you.”

“I meant I didn’t want you overwhelming me with your endless idioms.”

“Your behavior is beyond the pale, Dani.”

“Oh my god!”

“Listen to me, you are the most talented writer I know. You’re prolific, brilliant, clever. Do not waste it. You are not a dime a dozen. I feel like I’m beating a dead horse here, so I’ll stop beating around the bush—”

“No more horses, no more beating bushes, no more cats and dogs!”

“You’re sitting in your closet, aren’t you, Dani?”

“So what?”

“Danielle?” came Alex’s voice from outside the closet door.

“Hold on, Connie. What is it, Alex?”

“I’m going to pick up the boys.” His voice was quiet…worried. I wished for a moment I could see the expression on his face. It had been a long time since he showed concern for me.

“Okay,” I said. I felt the tightening up of my throat and welling tears in my eyes. Whenever Alex acted like he cared even just an ounce, it made me emotional.

Connie spoke up. “Dani, I have to jump on another call. Listen, I’m going to a luncheon thingy tomorrow for one of my clients and Eli Abrams is going to be there.”

“Okay,” I said, not sure what she was getting at.

“Eli is working for Gina Edwards, who has that big overall deal with Apple right now. They’re looking for an episodic dramedy.”

“Wow. I know Eli. We had a great working relationship.”

“Well, he’s producing content for her now. Why don’t you shoot me over the twelve pages tonight so I can talk about it tomorrow with him?”

“Okay,” I said in a much higher voice. I instantly had the simultaneous thoughts, very common among writers, where you hear your own voice say, “I can write award-winning television in my sleep. I’m going to write the whole pilot tonight,” and “I’m a fraud, a hack, a talentless impostor.”

“We have a plan, then, Dani? ”

“Yeah, I’ll send the pages over tonight.”

It wasn’t until an hour later and a half a bottle of ten-dollar chardonnay in my gut that I decided to actually leave the closet. I threw on a pair of sweats, twisted my hair up in a bun, and made my way downstairs to the recycling bin, passing my thirteen-year-old son, Noah, as he sat at the kitchen counter reading. He’s the brainy one whose curiosity and interests overshadow the turmoil going on around him, thank god.

“Hi, Mom. I just read that Elon Musk developed a video game at the age of twelve and was paid five hundred thousand dollars for it.”

“Wow. I guess that explains why billions to him now must feel normal.” I paused and looked over Noah’s shoulder at the iPad he was holding. “What site are you reading?”

“An article in Popular Mechanics . I could probably develop that same game, except so could half the kids I know.”

“Innovation and skill are different things.”

He smiled and looked up at me. “Are you saying I’m not innovative?”

“You are innovative, the most innovative person I know. You just have to figure out how to develop that thing that no one has created but that everybody wants or needs.” I bent and kissed the top of his head. “How was school?” Noah was growing up. I noticed for the first time he had peach fuzz on his upper lip. Alex and I were too swept up in our drama to notice that our boys were becoming men right before our eyes.

“Do you think I’m more innovative than Ethan?”

I blinked, contemplating how to answer. The boys were too old now to pull one over on them. I instantly regretted using the superlative “most,” even though it was true. Noah was the most innovative person I knew, but he was still a kid with normal sibling rivalry tendencies .

“Ethan is innovative, but his strengths are different than yours.”

“Explain.”

“Noah, you and your brother are different. I’m actually surprised at how different you are, considering you are brothers so close in age.” My voice was starting to rise with irritation. “Ethan has that flexible kind of brain that makes it possible for him to adapt to any situation.”

“I’m flexible,” Noah said.

Ethan walked into the kitchen as we were talking about him and it didn’t even faze him. He glanced at the empty yogurt container in front of Noah and said, “Did you really eat the last yogurt even though I told you I wanted it?”

“I thought there was another one in there.”

“No, you didn’t. Whatever.”

“Hi, Ethan, nice to see you,” I said, trying to divert his attention.

“Hi, Mom. Why did Dad pick us up today?”

It took great self-restraint to not blurt out something snarky, like “ Because he’s your father, for god’s sake—and furthermore, I just argued about how adaptable you are, Ethan. ”

“Because he was here and…I asked him to,” is what I actually said.

“He made a scene at school because he didn’t want to park in the parking lot, so he just waited for us in the drive-through area, holding up the line. People were honking, it was embarrassing. Why didn’t you tell him that on Wednesdays we walk all the way from the other side of campus?”

Even when I’m not involved, everything is my fault.

“Well, now he knows, doesn’t he? He didn’t intentionally make a scene. He probably just thought you’d be looking for my car.” I was still always defending him. “Where is he, by the way? I have a lot of writing to do and I need to get back up there,” I said, referring to my desk upstairs.

“He went back to work,” Noah said without looking up from the iPad.

I shook my head and tried desperately to hide my disappointment. He avoided me even though he told me we needed to discuss things. He couldn’t even give me an hour to cool off.

“I’m making salmon tonight. I’ll start dinner around five-thirty. Can you guys get your homework done, clean up your rooms, and throw the ball for Louie Louie before dinner? I need to go upstairs and write.”

“Sure, Mom, no problem,” Noah said.

Ethan looked at him and rolled his eyes.

“Ethan, don’t antagonize. For being a punk, you can pick up dog poop in the backyard.”

Noah smirked at him. Ethan didn’t have much impulse control. When he felt slighted, hurt, or irritated, he let it be known. “That’s so unfair. Just because I’m not kissing your—”

“Stop, Ethan, before you get yourself into actual trouble. Noah picked up the dog poop last time. It’s your turn. I’m going upstairs. I have to focus.”

When I got to my computer at the desk in my room, I opened the twelve-page script document and stared at a blinking cursor. Writer’s block is a tricky beast. To overcome it, you have to actually write, which seems obvious, but the block isn’t an easily definable state of mind where words and ideas escape you. The block, and succumbing to it, is more like an exaggerated form of attention deficit disorder, where everything is a distraction.

Plucking your eyebrows or getting the mail takes precedence over your work in progress. It’s also cyclical in that it feeds and starves itself. You subconsciously look for diversions. You convince yourself that learning to make a key lime cheesecake from scratch is a pressing matter.

I could feel myself slipping into avoidance. My focus had shifted from writing the script to writing Alex an email, but I knew I had to redirect my attention. For several minutes, I chanted over and over: Avoiding this script, Danielle, will only make the state of your life worse. Finish it, then write Alex the email.

It would be my reward. I would allow myself to tell him exactly how I felt, but only once I finished. I knew writing an entire script in one sitting was probably impossible, therefore telling Alex how I really felt would be successfully avoided, but I lied to myself anyway.

Against all my internal will, I shut the twelve-page heap-of-crap writing down and opened a new blank document. Ditching even that small amount of material to a writer is painful, but I knew it was trash. I began writing the script from the beginning. After twenty minutes, I had twelve new pages. Page twelve represented some kind of mile marker in my head, like it was the beginning of that last grueling five-mile climb of the Tour de France. It’s just the beginning of the climb, but your position is still everything.

I set my alarm for five-thirty on the off chance that I would actually get into a writing groove and need reminding that the kids were hungry. I opened Spotify to a writing playlist and put it on random. It only took thirty seconds of the loud music to push me over the giant block of procrastination. Finally, I was in the story.

Writing can be like a coma, a blackout, or a time suck, where you produce very little, yet still feel emotionally and mentally drained. But when it’s good, there’s just enough light for awareness. You’re aware that you’re writing, that words are flowing. You’re telling a story, watching it happen while your fingers are recording it. It’s euphoric…better than any other high.

“Mom? It’s seven-thirty. I’m gonna make grilled cheese for me and Noah.”

I looked up at Ethan as tears were steadily streaming down my cheeks. He looked over my shoulder and read the last words I had typed… The End .

My smile was an obvious tell for him. “You finished it?” For me, finishing a story is equal parts relief, pride, and sadness. It’s the final coming down.

“Yeah. I did. I’m sorry I forgot about dinner. I got caught up. Dad’s not home?”

“Don’t worry about it, Mom. We didn’t really want salmon anyway. Dad texted us and said he’d be home around nine. I’ll make a grilled cheese, it’s no big deal.”

I nodded.

“Good job, Mom. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, E.”

What I didn’t… couldn’t tell Noah earlier was that while his younger brother may not be the innovator of the two, he was definitely the feeler. He had a greater emotional intelligence than most adults I knew. He possessed a true empathy and emotional maturity that is so uncommon in boys his age. Though Noah had the accolades, I somehow knew Ethan would also do well in life. You can’t be that aware of the world and the workings of interpersonal relationships at age twelve and not do something good for mankind.

Ethan put his hand on my shoulder. “Love you,” he said.

“I love you too.”

He smiled. “Want me to make you a grilled cheese? ”

“No thanks, buddy. You know, you remind me so much your uncle when you smile like that?”

“I wish I could have met him,” he said.

“Yeah, me too,” I replied, as the tears welled up again.

Ethan looks and acts just like Ben, my younger brother, who died at nineteen in a car accident. Ethan has Ben’s crooked smile that was almost always a smirk, and eyes the exact color of a perfectly cloudless sky. Ethan is beautiful, cherubic, but his baby face is fading fast, being replaced by sharp edges and peach fuzz. He’s growing up, but not out—yet—but when he does, I’m going to have to pry girls off of him. Ben was the same.

I was twenty-four years old when Ben died. It was six months after I had met Alex. Only a short time into our relationship, Alex and I were forced together by the seriousness of life. I hadn’t thought about that fact in a long time. What if Ben hadn’t died? Or what if he had died before I met Alex? Would Alex and I have been glued together so tightly from the beginning? I doubt it. “Enduring hardships side by side,” or is it “overcoming adversity”? Maybe it’s “experiencing tragedy”…whatever that saying is, it’s not true. Alex and I have had it all and we couldn’t be further apart.

I was still thinking about Ben as I stared at Ethan. Ben was a bright light, lit from within by some otherworldly source…something off-limits to the rest of us. He was an easy son and good brother to me. My goofy baby brother for so long and then it was as though he hit sixteen and instantly became a man, wise beyond his years, but somehow still seraphic. He skipped the awkward phase overnight and…at nineteen, Ben became who he would always ever be. Perfectly frozen in time.

I wonder if that’s how it works…if the brevity or expansiveness of our lives is predetermined and we grow emotionally at a relative rate. I stared at Ethan with this thought in mind. That can’t be how it works. I won’t allow it.

Ben died alone, driving to meet one of his college professors. He was killed instantly, hit head-on by a drunk driver who walked away from the accident. Ben never had a girlfriend. I wondered sometimes if he had even kissed a girl. He was quiet about that side of his life. These things, experiences that seemed to be delayed for him, didn’t have any effect on his emotional literacy. He was brilliant and well-rounded. I know he would have been the kind of person who waited for the exact right partner, and then made it all the way to the end with them. I obviously wasn’t that kind of person. I didn’t. We, Alex and I, didn’t make it.

When Ben died, it was the most tragic event in all of our lives, and would forever be…I hope. I think about him daily and miss him desperately. I miss who he was, but I also miss the idea of him…the idea of having someone to walk beside me in life whose love is unquestionably unconditional. Not having anyone to share my childhood memories with makes them feel obscure and fictive. Losing Ben made me feel utterly alone. I’ve had a sense of vague loneliness looming over me since he died.

I could feel myself weakening again at the reminder of him. It had already been a rough day, but I needed to write the email to Alex. I needed to say what I had wanted to say in mediation.

Finally snapping out of my trance, I noticed Ethan was trying to read my script. “You need to go eat, babe,” I said to him. “Will you make sure you clean up your mess down there? I’ll be down in a bit.”

“Sure, Mom.”

Once Ethan left the room, I opened a new email and began typing.