Then there’s the hush as I enter an examining room. The pity in the eyes of my patients’ parents. Pity—from them, who are going through so much themselves. There’s probably even a slight sense of schadenfreude there. I don’t blame them. I have to leave the hospital by a side door to avoid the reporters and photographers. I push through hordes and protect my face against the flashing bulbs when I get home to my condo in the evening. I stop seeing friends. I spend longer in the hospital every day so that all but the truly tenacious of the reporters have gone home by the time I emerge.
These reporters are damn good at their jobs. They’ve found quite a number of people willing to talk. All anonymous, of course. Sources say. A source close to the subject. That some of my colleagues have no qualms about discussing me, dissecting me and my habits down to the tiniest minutiae, shouldn’t be as much of a shock as it is, given human nature. The reporters have ferreted out our favorite restaurant on Broadway. The vintage of the red wine we drank. That we occasionally attended the opera. Compared to what is being printed about MJ—Wife No. 2—what’s written about me is positively flattering. Highly respected. Quiet and hardworking. Can be a bit standoffish. But still, I flush when I read the purple prose describing our relationship, when I see how nothing has escaped scrutiny. Clearly deeply in love, they were often seen holding hands at the Three Roses coffee shop in the early morning before reporting for duty at the medical center. And: They were once caught kissing passionately in the parking lot. And: She drives a Prius, which was a little too small for his bulky frame, but they didn’t seem to mind being so intimately close with one another.
It hurts to find out things about John from these media reports that I hadn’t known before. I was astounded to discover he had once been a passable jazz pianist. The photo used in the obituary was from an actual professional gig. He’d played in jazz bars throughout Chicago. Birdhouse. The Velvet Lounge. Andy’s. The John I knew eschewed music, turned off the radio when he got into my car, shook his head when I asked him if he’d like me to put on a CD at home. I thought he was tone deaf, even teased him about it. I offered to share some of my favorite recordings with him. Classical stuff. I never acquired an ear for anything but the music my father played. Beethoven. Bach. Brahms. In retrospect, I’m ashamed at my glib assumptions about John, about my certainty that I had a grip on the situation. Clearly, I’d been had on all sorts of levels.
The day after the New York Times article is the worst. The biggest crowds ever are waiting at the side exit to the hospital—they’ve discovered my trick—and at the entrance to my condo. I finally reach the safety of my apartment, double lock the door, and lean against it in relief. I have half a bottle of red wine left over from John’s last visit. I pour a small amount in a water glass and open the large sliding doors onto my wraparound balcony. I had especially wanted this end unit for the views of both the hills and the city. John had loved it, too. Especially the mature palm trees that edge the street on this part of the property, leftover from an old-style 1930s apartment block that had been torn down to make way for the condo complex. I settle into a deck chair with my wine when I smell smoke. Cigarette smoke. It seems to be coming from the balcony next door, which is odd because I haven’t been troubled by that in the three years since I’d moved in. Our condominium association’s bylaws forbid smoking outside the walls of the individual apartments, especially on balconies, where secondhand smoke can drift into other units. Through the plants I’d deliberately placed upon the stucco divider for privacy between my balcony and the next, I can see a young woman sitting with her feet up. As I watch, she releases a lungful of smoke into what is essentially my face, given the direction of the breeze. Rather than simply call out, I decide to be civilized and knock on her front door.
After thirty seconds, the door opens. The young woman stands there, cigarette in hand.
Feeling awkward, I introduce myself as her neighbor. I don’t mind being authoritative in places where I have actual authority, but this is a gray area. I can hardly tell her not to smoke in her own condo, and it seems petty to begrudge her the use of her own balcony. But before I can begin she says, “come on in,” without asking what I want. Afraid of being thought rude, I step inside although I would have preferred to have the conversation in the more neutral territory of the hall.
“Excuse me,” she says, and fumbles with her phone, then puts it in her pocket. Holding her cigarette in her left hand, she sticks out her right hand to shake. “Beth,” she says.
“Helen,” I say in return. There is an uncomfortable silence, then I gesture toward her cigarette. “If you don’t mind not smoking on the balcony,” I say. I hesitate a moment before adding, “It comes right into my living room.”