Page 56 of Don’t Tell Me How to Die

FIFTY-FOUR

one month before the funeral

Surprisingly, I wasn’t afraid of dying. But I was supremely pissed off about the inevitable finality of it all. A hundred times a day, no matter where I was, no matter what I was doing, no matter who I was with, I found myself thinking, How can these people go on without me?

Maybe even more difficult than coming to grips with the death concept itself was agonizing over when to share the news with everyone else. Misty, of course, was at the top of the list, but once I’d decided she should be the one to wear the crown if I could not serve out my entire term as Mrs. Alex Dunn, I felt no pressure to give her the bad news/good news.

Then there was my father, Beth, my grandfather, my children, my friends, everyone I worked with, and that was just the inner circle. It had never dawned on me how many people might actually care. But it added up.

Some nights I would lie in bed wide-awake, Alex sweetly slumbering at my side, and instead of counting sheep, I’d make a mental list of People I Really Should Tell One of These Days . Even though I never came up with the same number twice, I’d always get past a hundred before I drifted off.

And yet I told none of them.

It eased my conscience to keep them in my thoughts, but I wasn’t ready to spring it on them. I did, however, have some fun rehearsing for the moment.

Hey, guess what? I’ve got this terminal disease, and I’ve only got a few months to live. I know, I know, it really sucks. Anyway, I just wanted to say a quick goodbye forever and give you a heads-up, because I really, really, really want you to come to the wake and the funeral. Well, hell, I can’t tell you exactly when. All I know is it’s coming up so fast, I stopped buying green bananas. LOL.

And then I’d do a mental rim shot and laugh—to myself, of course. There was no sense sharing this batshit-crazy thinking with anyone else.

I realized that the longer I kept my illness under wraps the less time I would have for farewells. But there was an upside to keeping it all on the down-low. It kept the early birds from circling my husband.

Life, so to speak, went on. I worked, I spent as much time as I could with my family, I went to the city once a week to see my shrink, and like my mother before me, I started writing long letters to my two children.

In mid-July, a groundbreaking ceremony was held, and construction on the new trauma center began. As mayor of Heartstone I requested that Magic Pond not be dredged until after Labor Day. First, so that the people of my fair city could enjoy it over the summer, and second so that I could soak up its healing powers in my remaining days. The head of the hospital graciously obliged. It was an unofficial meeting, and since we were both naked at the time, there were no witnesses.

The days raced by, and we rolled into August. Alex’s forty-fifth birthday was on the eleventh, a Friday. That morning the four of us climbed aboard our boat, regrettably christened the Dunn Deal , and set sail for Block Island.

Alex was euphoric. The kids—not so much, but they put on a good game face. Not because they cared about their father’s birthday, but because I had secretly promised them that if they went along without bitching and moaning, we’d buy them each a car on their sixteenth birthday. I, of course, was thrilled to be going anywhere, and I figured four and a half months down the road, when they turned sixteen, the car thing would be Alex’s problem, not mine.

I continued to ruminate over when to go public with my medical prognosis. One thing I knew for sure: I had to wait till after Labor Day. I loved the symbolism of telling people at a time when the engineers were draining the life out of Magic Pond, and it gave me an eerie sense of optimism knowing that when the dredging was done, Eleanor Majek’s gift to Heartstone would have a new life and bring its restorative powers to believers for generations to come.

Monday, August 14, was a beautiful summer day, and I still felt well enough to tackle the task of running my city. I was driving to the office when Misty called.

“I need to talk,” she said.

“What’s going on?”

“Not on the phone. In person.”

“Sure,” I said. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“I’m free now,” she said. “Can you meet me at Corky’s for coffee? Please.”

Ten minutes later I walked into the diner. Misty was sitting in a booth at the rear. “Thanks for coming,” she said.

“You sounded upset. What’s wrong?”

“Ever since we were kids, we’ve trusted each other like sisters. There are no secrets between us,” she said. “Until now.”

No secrets. Until now . She’d found out, and I held my breath, dreading what she’d say next.

“Remember Hunter Wilding?” she said. She didn’t wait for an answer. “The hedge fund guy. Wilding Capital. I completely redid their offices when they moved to the Freedom Tower last year.”

“Of course I remember.”

“I’ve been dating him for the past year. I desperately wanted to tell you, but he was in the middle of an ugly divorce, and if his wife knew that he was having an affair while they were still legally married, she’d have taken him for a couple of hundred million more than she got. As much as I wanted to share it with you, I had to keep it private.”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief. She was having an affair and keeping it hidden from her best friend. I completely understood.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t feel good about keeping secrets from you.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m just curious—why are you telling me now?”

“Because his divorce finally came through, and now I can open up. You’re the first person I had to tell about Hunter.”

“Wow. What is he like?”

“Kind, gentle, funny, thoughtful, super nice.”

And super rich . “How serious is it?” I asked.

“Very. That’s the other thing I wanted you to be the first to know.”

Her left hand had been on her lap, and she put it on the Formica tabletop.

“Jesus,” I said, staring at the diamond ring on her finger. “That rock is as big as a Steinway.”

“I know. It’s obscene, but that’s the way Hunter is. Generous to the max.”

“So, you’re... you’re getting married.”

“Yes. Next year this time,” she said. “And I want you to be my maid of honor.”