Several weeks ago, I holed up in my bedroom, determined to figure out who the murderer was. Nothing else mattered, not even eating, as I reviewed all the facts mentally. Food is always secondary to murder, and Flash knows that when I’m immersed in a Mary Higgins Clark book, conversation will be sparse. While reading her most recent tale that night, I thought, I wonder how Mary’s doing and how old she is. I’ll be so sad when she dies.
I put down the book, and crawled into bed at 1 a.m. But sleep didn’t come; I was too excited about my first writing boot camp starting in a few hours. I kept checking my email to see if my Day One assignment had arrived in the wee hours. Not that I would’ve been writing that late; my muse was sound alseep. But still, curiosity kept the cat awake.
While waiting, I swiped over to Facebook. There, staring me in the face, was an article lamenting the death of my dear Mary Higgins Clark. I was stunned. Just a few hours prior, I wondered about her; now, the Queen of Suspense was gone. Just like that. It’s a shame I hadn’t been pondering how I would spend lottery winnings instead; perhaps she’d still be here, and I’d be making plans to add on that extra room Flash and I have been discussing for 24 years. I’ll have to be more careful with my ponderings from now on.
I’d never told Mary what she’d done for me, and now it was too late. I’d lost a friend I’d never met.
When my son, Cowboy, was very young, there was little time for reading. Every waking moment was filled with frenetic energy – his, not mine. Any residual energy I had after he went to sleep was spent on looking for ways to help him with his autism. I read a few books about autism, but never delved in like many other parents, who collected a veritable library on the subject. Years earlier, through helping a friend with emotional issues, I’d lost myself in a desperate quest to save someone else. I’m not that powerful, and I’m happily recovering from a serious savior complex.
So, most of my learning about autism came from other parents, conferences, and the occasional brief article given to me by a therapist or a friend. One day, five years into my autism education, I realized it had been far too long since I’d read any fiction. In my younger years, I’d read Danielle Steele – but in my current life, I needed something far more attractive than romance. I needed something that would be such an escape, I wouldn’t want to return to reality anytime soon.
I needed murder. I often tell my husband, Flash, after I watch anything political or attend a funeral, “I need some murder to cheer me up.”
He looks a little concerned about his own welfare, until I clarify, “I’m talking about a murder mystery.”
And so, I started looking for mysteries without gore, without sex scenes interrupting the suspense, and without expletives used prevalently. I found Mary Higgins Clark, often affectionately referred to as MHC. I fell in love at first read. The first chapter smoothly ran to the next, and my sleeping and eating were of little importance as I absorbed each chapter like a woman obsessed. There were no sex scenes – both in my bedroom and in her book – as I read as quickly as possible, from Cowboy’s bedtime until the early morning hours, to see whodunit. Even now, I’m not a romance fan, unless someone dies in the process.
Perhaps I need therapy.
Indeed. And MHC was my therapist. She brought reprieve from the throes of autism; it was refreshing. With each block of time I spent with Mary, my hope reawakened. Indulging in her books, I wasn’t “Cowboy’s mom” or “the parent of a special needs child.” I was simply Kim - the Kim I’d shoved to the back burner for too long. Of course, Mary never knew any of that. She didn’t even know my name. But she was a wonderful friend during times I’d rather forget.
And similar times occurred again last year. It was one of those years I’d like to rip out of the Calendar of Life. Well, parts of it; I’d save the life-changing truths I learned, and toss the excruciating pain into the garbage. Pain that was worse than my losing Mom the year before. Because, as happened eight years prior, my Cowboy regressed horribly, with evil anxiety ripping away my hope, again. It was even too much for MHC for awhile. I couldn’t concentrate enough to read suspense. Watching Friends episodes brought some relief, because hitting the “back” button for a DVD was easier than reading a sentence over and over.
Finally, at the merciful end of 2019, I was ready to read. And there she was - Mary was waiting patiently on my bedside table. As I delved into Kiss the Girls and Make Them Cry, I was again impressed at how she remained relevant, tackling the hard subject of sexual assault and the MeToo movement.
I don’t know how she managed to write, and to write well, as a young widowed mother raising five children, and more recently after the death of her beloved second husband. But she kept on. Year after year, with fresh ideas. My admiration grew more after I learned she died at 92 years old. I often find myself vocabulary challenged now, at almost 57. But she remained eloquent. And classy. Years prior, I’d read her memoir, Kitchen Privileges, which further cemented our friendship and my respect.
Three weeks after her death, as I strolled through Walmart, I took a sharp right turn into the book department, thinking, I wonder if Mary’s next book is out yet. That’s what I need. Then I remembered. There would never be a “next book.” I wish a new manuscript had been started, that could be completed by her Under Suspicion series co-author, Alafair Burke. But even if that wish comes true, I know I’ll want yet another book, and another. It’s like forever wishing I could have one more conversation with my parents.
Somewhere, there must be another mystery author for me. Not to fill Mary’s shoes, of course. But to offer a different friendship and a new escape from the real world. I don’t know who it is yet, but I’m determined to find him or her.
Last week, as I sadly thought about a world without MHC, I thought, What do writers do in heaven? Edit the Ten Commandments? Help poor souls like me fight the evil one – The Dangling Participle? Edit their earthly histories to make themselves look better for Celestial Group Share time? I don’t know. But I’d like to think that Mary is hanging out with Mom, and Mom is telling her, “Thank you for helping my daughter through some rough times. She admires you, and would’ve loved to have had coffee with you and chatted.”
We will meet, eventually. Not today or tomorrow, probably. But one day, we’ll have eternity to talk about writing and murder – although the latter subject may be taboo up there – and what it means to reach into the hearts of our readers and become friends. That’s one of my blessings that comes from writing for an audience – forming friendships with people I’ve never met, and strengthening bonds with friends I had prior to writing for them. Every time I sit at my laptop, and put my life into words, it’s about relationship more than anything else.
Thank you, dear reader, for being a friend.