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By Root 487 0

Vivienne was buried in the Galliano dress. She looked beautiful. In fact, the entire funeral was stunning, and also touching. Why not? Vivienne had planned it down to the tiniest detail. I wore pink. Yves Saint Laurent pink. The service was held on Park Avenue, at St. Bart’s, of course. Two pianists played Brahms flawlessly, as if Vivienne were standing over them. Then a soloist performed show tunes from several of the musicals my mother had produced. A couple of times, the audience burst into song. Finally, as the service ended, on a very warm spring day, we all stood and sang my mother’s favorite song, “Jingle Bells.” Which was so incredibly not Vivienne that it was perfect too. Just as she knew it would be. And I was happy for her. My mother had produced one last hit. As we walked out of St. Bart’s to the waiting limos, Michael said to me, “If they had served cocktails, this could have been a Vivienne Margaux reunion party. As it should be.” “I loved it,

Seventy-eight THE SUN WAS WARM AND BRIGHT, and it lit the cemetery as though it were a stage set. The greens of the trees, the vibrant colors of the flowers, everything seemed so crisp and light and right. So why was I shivering? “Gorgeous day,” I said. “Even God wouldn’t mess with Vivienne.” Michael smiled. He had loosened his tie and removed his jacket. The jacket was hooked on his index finger and slung over his shoulder. Very Michael, who was always true to himself. “So we know why I was sent back to New York,” he said. “And why I had those feelings about New York Hospital, and all the rest of it.” I nodded but didn’t say anything. “I was here to help your mother. I’m almost sure of it, Jane.” I stopped walking and looked at him. “But you’re still here.” He smiled. “Yes, I seem to be. Unless I really am your imaginary friend. It’s possible.” I poked him in the stomach. “Did you feel that?” “Oof. Yes, I did. And I cut myself shaving, quite regularly now.” There was a pause. Michael’

Seventy-nine MICHAEL ROLLED his eyes, which made me feel slightly — only slightly — better. Then a grimace crossed his face, and he put his hand to his chest. “Jane?” he said, sounding confused. “Jane?” And then he crumpled onto the stone pathway where we had been walking. “Michael!” I dropped to my knees beside him. “Michael, what’s happening?! What is it?! Michael!” “Pain . . . my chest,” he managed. I began to yell for help, and fortunately a few people from my mother’s funeral were still there. They came running. “Call nine-one-one!” I shouted, unable to believe this was happening. “I think he’s had a heart attack. Please call nine-one-one!” I looked back at Michael and saw that he had lost color and was perspiring heavily. I loosened his tie and opened his shirt’s top button, which popped off and fell onto the path. How could this be happening, how could it happen now? I thought I was going to lose it, get hysterical, and be completely useless. I wouldn’t let that happen. “Michael

Eighty NOW, I HAVE TO TELL YOU that what happened next couldn’t have happened, which, I know, must seem crazy given what has happened already. But here goes. An ambulance brought Michael to Northern Westchester Hospital. I followed close behind in a police car. A very kind doctor named John Rodman told me that Michael had blockage in all four arteries to his heart and that he would be going in for an immediate angioplasty. Heart surgery was also a possibility. The doctor wanted to know things about Michael that I simply didn’t know, like how old he was and whether he had had trouble with his heart before. Then the doctor was gone, and I was alone in the waiting room. Soon other people started to drift in, looking as nervous and uncomfortable as I was sure I did. Now here’s where it gets really strange. One of the other women in the room — sandy blond hair, midthirties, very likable, even at a glance — got up for a drink of water from the fountain and then came over to me. “May I sit?”

Eighty-one MICHAEL WATCHED JANE as she walked into the recovery room with his doctor. Now this was another new one — his