ChapterOne
AsIsitherewithonefootoneithersideoftheledge,lookingdownfrom
twelve stories above the streets of Boston, I can’t help but think about
suicide.
Notmyown.Ilikemylifeenoughtowanttoseeitthrough.
I’m more focused on other people, and how they ultimately come to
thedecisiontojustendtheirownlives.Dotheyeverregretit?Inthemoment
afterlettinggoandthesecondbeforetheymakeimpact,therehastobea
littlebitofremorseinthatbrieffreefall.Dotheylookatthegroundasit
rushestowardthemandthink,“Well,crap.Thiswasabadidea.”
Somehow,Ithinknot.
Ithinkaboutdeathalot.Particularlytoday,consideringIjust—twelve
hoursearlier—gaveoneofthemostepiceulogiesthepeopleofPlethora,
Maine,haveever witnessed. Okay,maybe it wasn’t the most epic. It very
wellcouldbeconsideredthemostdisastrous.Iguessthatwoulddepend
on whether you were asking my mother or me. My mother, who probably
won’tspeaktomeforasolidyearaftertoday.
Don’tgetmewrong;theeulogyIdeliveredwasn’tprofoundenoughto
makehistory,liketheoneBrookeShieldsdeliveredatMichaelJackson’s
funeral. Or the one delivered by Steve Jobs’s sister. Or Pat Tillman’s
brother.Butitwasepicinitsownway.
I was nervous at first. It was the funeral of the prodigious Andrew
Bloom, after all. Adored mayor of my hometown of Plethora, Maine.
Ownerofthemostsuccessfulreal-estateagencywithincitylimits.Husband
ofthehighlyadoredJennyBloom,themostreveredteachingassistantin
allofPlethora.AndfatherofLilyBloom—thatstrangegirlwiththeerratic
red hair who once fell in love with a homeless guy and brought great
shameuponherentirefamily.
Thatwouldbeme.I’mLilyBloom,andAndrewwasmyfather.
As soon as I finished delivering his eulogy today, I caught a flight
straightbacktoBostonandhijackedthefirstroofIcouldfind.Again,not