Her apartment was the second floor of a New Jersey beach house, up two flights of outdoor wooden stairs. A small deck led the way into her kitchenette and the kitchenette led into a modest living room with a little television. At the far end of the living room were two more rooms on opposite sides, her bedroom and her bathroom. I didn't make it out of the kitchen quickly. Her table had only one chair. I guess she never expected company.
Everything that was in her pockets at the hotel where they found her was laid out, organized and orderly--$8 and change in a Ziploc bag, medical cards, an emergency tag, the note she had left on the bed. It was dated December 2, 2000.
Then I noticed her pictures on the wall above the table, all marked with notes: notes explaining where she got them, who gave them and why she loved them so much. The materials that surrounded her. Things. Just things.
Into the living room. Here lay her life, everything organized and orderly and labeled. The two little white Gund teddy bears sitting on the back of the love seat that didn't look sat in. When I was little, she wouldn't let me touch the bears because she wanted them to stay perfect. They were still perfect.
On the wall a painting I knew well. I had spent hours staring at it when we still used to visit. A Dzigurski seascape, the only thing of real value. Waves battered the sand, but beyond that, the sky was clear. Peace on the horizon. Had been in our family for a long time. It meant something different when I saw it then. This is not a statement on life.
I made my way to the other side of the room to touch the leaves of a parched plant. A note attached to the pot: "Please take care of this for me." I went into the kitchen, filled up a mug with water and took it back to the dying plant that would die anyway.
I walked over to her recliner and sat facing the 13" television. On the small table to my right I found a TV guide open to the day she put the gun in her mouth. According to the little red stars marking the program listing, she had watched a golf tournament that afternoon. On the next page, a large ad read, "ARE YOU READY TO MEET GOD?" in large print. Below the words was a picture of Billy Graham. "8 p.m. December 2, 2000," the ad listed. The same time she killed herself. 8 p.m. Uncanny. And knowing her, probably not a coincidence.
