I couldn’t sleep now if I tried. Instead, I shoot an e-mail off to Syd’s assistant at Schiller Pierson, asking her to put me in touch with all the people Syd met with when he was working in New York earlier this year.
I jump in the shower, keeping my right arm clear of the water to protect the bracelet.
Joan’s retelling made me feel as though I were somehow reconnecting with the real Sydney. I experienced that rush, that high, that merciful reprieve from the sorrow. She took me through the whole night. There were gaps in her story any time she’d gone to the bathroom or lost focus, but it hardly mattered. What was included was so vivid and idiosyncratic as to create the sensation of reality. For seconds at a time, I felt that Sydney really was here, that we were, for the briefest moment, together.
According to Joan, it was Paige who first mentioned my name at that dinner back in 2008. Sydney had just gotten out of a poisonous relationship and Paige was determined to help him find a good man. She’s the one who looked to Ollie and said, “What about Gavin?”
I remember receiving the text from Ollie all those years ago. It must’ve been a few days after that dinner. Ollie wanted to gauge my interest in meeting Syd. I was tired of late nights in bars and clubs, of waking up next to strangers whose names I didn’t know, of struggling to stay young and desirable. A blind dinner date seemed refreshingly traditional.
Sydney sent me an e-mail from his work account that began Dear Mr. Winters. I wasn’t sure what to think about it. Did this guy want to hook up with me or sell me life insurance?
We met for sushi. He was almost entirely gray, making zero attempt to appear younger than he was. In fact, his hair made him look older than thirty-eight. There was just five years between us but it felt more like ten.
That same unabashed honesty he possessed about his age and appearance extended to all parts of his life. That first night, it was exhilarating, never off-putting, to hear him casually spill his guts about his family, his relationship history, and his career. I mentioned I had auditioned for a couple of commercials for his company, Schiller Pierson. Maybe he had seen me on tape at some point. He said it wasn’t possible; he would’ve remembered me.
He asked if I did any impressions. When I told him impressions weren’t really my thing, he said, What about your Benicio del Toro? How did he know about that? He pointed to the menu. The name of the restaurant was Kobayashi, a blatant reference to The Usual Suspects. I asked him, Does this mean you’re Verbal Kint? Should I be worried? He smiled devilishly.
Of course he had grilled Ollie and Paige about me. I had done the same. Joan didn’t reveal anything I hadn’t already known. But she did bring everything full circle, placing me right there at the Sully table as Syd vetted me.
I remember another thing from that first night. Syd asked me where I saw myself in five years. It was a question I might’ve laughed at if not for the gravity with which Syd asked it. At the time, I was close to quitting acting. Granted, I was always close, but at that point, after a series of painful rejections, I wasn’t feeling optimistic about my career and was pondering alternatives. But here was this guy, this self-confident gray-haired man, asking a trite question with absolute sincerity. And so I dug deep for a worthy answer.
As an up-and-comer in my early twenties I dreamed of splitting my time between challenging pieces with auteur filmmakers and the occasional big-money role in a summer blockbuster. Now that I was in my early thirties, I had just one modest career goal: to work. I told the earnest man sitting across from me that in five years I’d be thrilled to have a steady gig on a TV show. Sydney nodded and said, I can see that.
I’m realizing that it all panned out. Four years later I landed a TV role on The Long Arm. If he were here now, Syd would assure me that it was no coincidence. He believed you could visualize almost any dream into existence. He’d meditate first thing every morning, never missed a day. I keep wondering what might’ve been different if he’d decided to skip his routine that final morning, just that one time. If I had held him in bed and never allowed him to leave.
I push the thought away.
The shower water is no longer hot. It could be a result of the boiler problem Paige mentioned or the fact that I’ve been lingering in here too long. I shut the faucet and relax my outstretched arm. Time to face the day.
Back in bed, I reach for my phone and check my in-box. Syd’s assistant, Isabel, has already replied. For a moment, I consider deleting the e-mail without even reading it. Whatever buzz I felt before has now faded and with it my courage. To follow in Syd’s footsteps around New York is a pointless quest. At the end of it, I’m still left with nothing.
And yet, I open the e-mail.
Isabel must be confused. She says Sydney didn’t have any business in New York on the dates I mentioned. He took some personal days in February and again in April. She’s not sure why.
I read her e-mail a second time, struggling to grasp the meaning. And then, entering my brain like vicious malware, is my earlier conversation with Joan. She contradicted what I was certain I remembered.
Isabel’s phone number is listed at the bottom of her e-mail. I click it and soon she answers. “Gavin, hi.”
“I just got your e-mail,” I say. “This can’t be right. Are you sure there was no project in New York? Can you ask around the office? Maybe there’s some confusion. I know you guys hired some new people over there.”
“Gavin, I don’t know what to tell you. I’m ninety-nine percent sure. I can definitely double-check if you want, but—”
“How about travel? I drove him to the airport. He went somewhere. Did you book any flights or hotels for him during that time? Can you check on that too?”
“I did check,” Isabel says, her voice increasingly more delicate. “I couldn’t find anything. I’m looking at the calendar now and I have those days marked as personal days. He never said why he was taking them, and he didn’t mention that he’d be traveling anywhere.”
“He said he was going to New York. That’s what he told me.”
“That’s all I know. I’m sorry.”
“I don’t understand.” I didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“I heard about the fire. It’s been tough here too. Listen, if you ever want to get together, let me know, okay? Gavin? Hello?”
I move my lips, but this time nothing comes out.
Gimme Some Truth
11
I’m sitting on the edge of Harper’s pool with my journal in my lap and my feet in the water. I’m all the way at the deep end while the other girls splash and jump and laugh in the shallow end.