It’s as if it’s a sign.
Shutting myself away into the bathroom with an excitement so fizzy that I fumble the lock for several seconds, I dive straight into his Facebook profile, only slightly dampened by the fact that he has accepted about seventy-five other friend requests at the same time. The number of his friends is now maxed out at 5,000. I go through all of his photos, and there are no personal pictures of him with friends orfamily, nor are there any pictures of Linda or any other romantic interest. Ted is mainly using Facebook to promote his work, the movies, the theatre productions, and any particularly glowing article that has been written about him. Worryingly, they are starting to pile up. I want Ted to be an uncut gem, a best-kept secret, someone I share with only a few people, so I feel uneasy looking at the comments from dozens of people telling him he is amazing.
I climb into the dry bath, letting my legs dangle over the side. I pull up a message box and think long and hard before composing an email that I’m hoping will separate me from every other fan looking to catch his attention.
‘Dear Ted,’ I write.
Apologies if this email comes across as forward. Unsolicited. But it’s not easy for me doing this!
I have pondered long and hard as to whether I should contact you. To be honest, I still don’t know whether I am doing the right thing. But I am going to take a chance here. I realize that I really know nothing of you, nor you of me. All I know of you is from your magnificent screen work, which genuinely brightens my day. You’ve taken me through some very challenging times. And for some reason, I’ve been thinking of you.
As I send the message, a calmness creeps over me. I have been able to say my bit, and he will read it. At the very least he knows he makes some kind of difference to me. I visualize him reading it, scanning over my profile picture and admiring both my candour and my articulacy.
Ted has posted a link to the article in which there’s a mention of his step-sister, Naomi, the paediatrician, anda woman whose online family albums I am already familiar with. It reminds me to google ‘Naomi paediatrician Toronto’, and, there she is, the same soulful brown eyes, except her name is not Naomi Levy, but Naomi Stein.
A search of ‘Naomi Stein Toronto’ leads me to a heart-breaking revelation, because I find that the very same Naomi Stein is currently running bereavement meetings in Toronto. ‘We run peer-to-peer grief meetings and support services to allow you to start healing,’ is the header on her website, GriefCare.ca.
The forum is busy and filled with people who have lost people for any number of reasons: parents, relatives, partners, children. It’s an indescribably sad place; everyone washed up ashore, broken after the worst ocean storm of their lives.
‘All we can offer is an ear for those who are ready to talk, as well as assurances that you will not always feel this way,’ the website reads.
After more googling of Naomi, I let out an audible groan when I find the following newspaper article.
Toronto Press, 20 April 2007
Father and three children die in car accident in London, Ontario
The funerals of David Stein (45) and his daughters Elizabeth (10), Catherine (6) and Victoria (4) took place amid heart-breaking scenes at the Beach Hebrew Institute at Kenilworth Avenue Friday April 12. They are survived by Stein’s wife Naomi, who also sustained extensive injuries in the head-on collision with anothercar. Dozens of friends and family members wept outside as the four caskets were carried into the synagogue. Several school friends of Elizabeth, Catherine and Victoria also attended the joint funeral, some of them carrying lacrosse sticks in tribute to Elizabeth, a promising player of the sport.
Local police said they are still investigating the cause of the crash and are seeking witnesses or anyone with dashboard camera footage, or those who may have been in the area during the collision.
The coldness of the damp bathroom feels suddenly fitting. I look at the accompanying picture of the three young girls, which appears to have been taken on the same sun-kissed day they were jumping from the yacht at the Beaches, in front of Ted. The sadness of this, the enormity of what this family has had to endure, takes my breath away. To think Ted has never mentioned this loss in any interview makes my chest ache. He must be carrying this awful burden alone. Imagine, too, being the mother of three girls, deep into that kind of life and rhythm and then somehow, suddenly…
Elizabeth, Catherine and Victoria. How I want to wrap my arms around them all. How I want to hold Naomi until she can no longer stand being held. Suddenly, being me and having a husband with a possibly wandering eye and a mother incapable of a nice word doesn’t seem so bad after all.
Johnny’s footsteps outside the bathroom door throw me back into the here and now.
‘What you been doing in there this long?’ he says, entirely without suspicion as I follow him into the kitchen.
‘Oh, you know, having a luxury shit,’ I tell him. ‘You’re familiar, no doubt.’
I walk back in as Johnny empties out his pockets on to the kitchen table, laughing, I notice a small baggie with white powder in it. He goes to clear it, glancing over in my direction. He sees I’ve seen it. We have never been Drug People. A girl called Leanne Mills died on our road in Dublin when she was sixteen, and not long afterwards, my mother took my thirteen-year-old self by the shoulder and intoned very slowly, so I wouldn’t miss it, ‘If you die of a drug overdose like that, I will follow you into the afterlife and kill you properly there.’
‘What was that?’ I ask him, trying to be cool.
‘I dunno, just some stuff someone gave me at a work thing,’ he mumbles.
‘Some stuff.’
‘Mate, just… Look, just chill.’ He shrugs.
‘Oh my God,’ I explode. ‘You honestly sound like you’re thirteen. You are talking like you have three pubes to call your own.’
He scoffs a bit more, three-pubes-styley.
‘What is it, coke or something? Or Meow Meow?’
This makes Johnny laugh. It makes me feel like someone has whipped me on the back of the legs.
