Page 2 of The Last Days of Marilyn Monroe

TWO

“MEN DON’T SEE ME. They just lay their eyes on me.”

Mrs. Murray never understood what Marilyn meant by those words—until now. The housekeeper can’t scream, she can’t shout, she can only stare.

Has Marilyn overdosed again? Is she simply asleep? Or is she actually dead? There have been other nights Marilyn took too many pills. Times she’s been rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped, only to return, phoenix-like, hours later, like nothing had happened.

She looks so peaceful. Her eyes shut, her lips slightly parted. Lying on the bed. Naked. The alabaster skin. The bleached-blond hair in loose curls around the famous face. The sheets are wrapped around her calves. Her hand still clutches the telephone, which hangs off the hook.

The silence is oppressive. There’s no wind blowing through the trees, no cars driving this secluded lane. It feels like the world has stopped spinning. Surely, its brightest star, and its most photographed, cannot be dead at only thirty-six years old.

Where is Dr. Greenson?

The silence is broken by the high-pitched sound of Marilyn’s dog barking from the guest house. Maf normally sleeps in the main house. How did he get out?

Mrs. Murray listens to his anxious barking. Can the dog sense what’s going on?

A car comes screeching down Fifth Helena Drive. The front gate slides open and a man dressed in a dark suit and open-collared shirt—no time to put on a tie—runs across the lawn. “Is she breathing? Has she moved? Can you see her?”

Dr. Greenson sees the poker in Eunice’s hand. “Give me that,” he orders, using the tool to smash the bedroom window. The sound of shattering glass makes Maf bark even louder.

“I’m going in,” Dr. Greenson announces, swinging his leg over the windowsill. “Get Dr. Engelberg! I need to know what drugs he’s given her.”

Dr. Hyman Engelberg is Marilyn’s personal physician. He and Dr. Greenson have been coordinating Marilyn’s care.

Dr. Greenson hauls himself through the window and into the bedroom. He stops in his tracks at the bed, where Marilyn lies on her back. His patient, whom he adores. So beautiful. So young. So talented. The scene is almost too painful to witness.

He leans over her. He presses gently on the side of her slim white neck. Please, God, let there be a pulse . He presses harder. The flesh feels tepid, not as warm as he would like. Maybe there is something? There! A little …

Then he realizes his error. It’s his own pounding heartbeat that he feels.

“We’ve lost her!” he cries out, his knees buckling beneath him.

What to do? Who to call? An ambulance? The hospital? Where’s Engelberg?

The dog barks. Eunice weeps, removing her spectacles to dab her eyes with a handkerchief.

Ralph Greenson has unlocked the door. His face is white with shock as he counts the pill bottles on the nightstand.

Eight. Ten. Twelve. Some fifteen. All opened.

There’s a trail of white pills scattered across the carpet, but there’s a fifty-capsule bottle of Nembutal that is completely empty.

Is this what she wanted? Greenson can’t believe it.

She was in a low mood when she called him yesterday evening. She complained about her personal life, she complained that she couldn’t sleep. But she wasn’t suicidal. He’s sure of that.

The front door slams. Running feet hammer across the terra-cotta tiles in the hall. “Where is she?!” demands Dr. Engelberg as he bursts through the bedroom door.

“Is she breathing? Have you checked for a pulse?” he asks Greenson, bending over. “Are you sure she’s not still alive?”

“She’s gone,” replies Greenson, with a slow shake of his head.

Dr. Engelberg inserts the earpieces of his stethoscope and places the instrument on Marilyn’s chest to listen for breathing sounds. He pauses. He then checks the pulse points at her wrists and listens to her lungs.

“There’s no sign of foul play, no blood or wound,” he declares, examining the body. “But she is gone. Most certainly.” He sighs, removes his stethoscope, and picks up the empty bottle of Nembutal.

The customary dose is one tablet per night.

“I gave her that prescription only three days ago,” Engelberg says. “And only after she begged me.”

“I thought we agreed that we were weaning her off medication?” Greenson raises his voice for emphasis. “That’s what we said. No more drugs. No more. Enough.”

“We had,” acknowledges Engelberg. “And we were doing well. I’d got her usage right down.

Until her last appointment when she wouldn’t let me leave without prescribing fifty capsules.

” He starts picking up the bottles on the nightstand, his eyes scanning the labels.

“Chloral hydrate. Jesus,” he whispers. “Knockout drops … Where did she get fifteen bottles of medicine?”

“I thought it was you,” Greenson says, glaring at Engelberg.

“Me? No. I’d never prescribe that. Mix it with alcohol and Nembutal …” He looks down at Marilyn on the bed and checks the empty bottle again.

“Fifty …” He shakes his head. “I think we should cover her up, don’t you? Or at least roll her onto her front?” He looks around the sparsely furnished and frankly inelegant room of the world’s most famous movie star. “Give the place a little decorum.”

“I can’t face it,” Greenson replies, his voice barely audible, “but shouldn’t we call the police?”

It is 4:25 a.m. when Engelberg makes the call.