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Retrieving my clog, I picked up my bag and left. There was a bus to New York City that stopped across the street. I would be home in a few hours. My friend Palmer had invited me to her parents’ house in the Adirondacks. This would be better than sitting in my tiny house wondering why I had refused to go to Tortola. Palmer had a friend, an actress friend, who also came. She sat in the back seat and talked about auditioning. When she stopped, I talked about Catherine.

I told Palmer about the couple who came to Beckman's house expecting dinner and instead were told my sister was dead. Laughter came from the back seat. I turned around. The actress was giggling. “I'm sorry, but you're so intense. Seriously, I can't handle how intense you are.”

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Meanwhile, there were shrinks. I visited several psychiatrists who listened while I described the previous months and then recommended several treatments. Three wanted me to voluntarily commit myself to a locked ward, while two gave me generous Valium prescriptions and said I had the saddest story they had ever heard. One doctor actually cried. I didn't return to see any of them. I decided to wrap myself in cotton wool woven by the linen man’s workers, drivers, restaurant meals, the Hamptons, my birthday with a tumble of expensive gifts, chocolates from the most expensive store in New York City, a new pair of running shoes and a state-of-the-art electric typewriter.

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