Zimmerman Eilene - Smacked: a story of white-collar ambition, addiction, and tragedy

July 11, 2015

I PLUG IN THE code to the gate at Peters house and the door swings open to an expansive, rectangular backyard. The grass is mostly brown, the $20,000 fountain in the center no longer burbling, its white stones covered in algae. I go to the front door and put my key in the lock. Its made of heavy glass and makes a whooshing sound as it opens, like the door to an office building.

Theres a staircase immediately in front of me that leads to the main floor, and to my right is the only room downstairs. It was intended to be a family or rec room, and has a glass wall facing the yard. I always thought it would be a great place for a party. Now its been converted to a bedroom for our daughter, Anna, who is home from college for the summer. She stays here at her dads house a few nights a week. Down here she has more independence, as well as her own bathroom. The bed is unmade, clothes and a bath towel litter the floor. Anna hasnt been here in two days. Neither has our son, Evan.

I hate the smell of this house. Its the smell of Peter, the smell of our divorce and all the heartache that came with it. His affair, his lies, his law career with its enormous pressure and salary and all the expensive things he buys with it. I also smell my own fearof his relationships with various women, of his family life with our children, a life in which Im no longer involved. Its the smell of Southern California and the ocean half a mile away, an expensive, privileged smell, but musty, too, like the inside of a refrigerator that hasnt been opened in a while.

I always feel like an intruder here. Its clear this isnt my house. Mine is a one-floor, mid-century home near the state university.

I call out, Peter? No answer, no sounds from upstairs. Peter, are you here? I climb the stairs to the main floor. Its perfectly quiet and still. I take a minute to look around. The house is an architectural trophy, made of steel, wood, and glass, all sharp angles and sunlight. Through the windows I can just make out a white line of sea-foam hitting the beach. I turn toward the kitchen. On the counter immediately to my right, Peter has set up a 25-inch digital frame displaying a series of family photos, him and our children. The images play in an endless, silent loop. There is also a large, nearly empty take-out soda, the kind you get at a convenience store, and some candy wrappers on the counter, piles of work papers, an asthma inhalator.

Peter has been sick for more than a year with some kind of ongoing, low-grade flu, constantly exhausted and weak. Hes lost thirty pounds, maybe more, since we split up five years ago. But in the last six months, its gotten worse. My kids say he sleeps the whole weekend when they are here, forgets to grocery shop, never makes meals. He doesnt seem to be going into the office much. The last time Anna and Evan were here, two days ago, their dad could barely lift his head off the pillow. Evan tried to take him to the hospital, but Peter refused, got angry and snapped at him. Then he vomited onto the bedroom floor, threw a washcloth over it, and went back to bed.

I turn back to survey the loft-like living area, with a kitchen that morphs into a dining area that morphs into a living room, all of it filled with stylish modern furniture. The long table made from one piece of wood, splits and knots included, surrounded by six white leather and metal chairs. A side wall is covered in wallpaper that depicts trees in winter, gray renderings of trunks and branches against a white background.

No one has been able to reach Peter since Thursday morning, when Anna and Evan left to come back to my house. What if they are exaggerating? What if hes just sleeping? Or not here at all and Ive just let myself into his house without permission? I have come here to check on him, to make sure hes okay and take care of him if he isnt.

I turn down the hallway where the bedrooms are located. Peter? I call again. Peter, Im coming down the hall to your bedroom, okay? His bedroom is at the end of the hallway. Its door faces me and its open, but I cant see anything except a corner of the bed and a cluttered night table. I walk past my sons bedroom, with its one orange wall and IKEA bed, past Annas old bedroom, one wall painted deep pink and another wallpapered in a forest of black trees with little blackbirds resting on branches. Someone has cut out a silhouette of a rat and pasted it onto a branch.