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What Remains: A Memoir of Fate, Friendship, and Love [Paperback]

Carole Radziwill
4.6 out of 5 stars  See all reviews (766 customer reviews)

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Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

Here's a very sad story: a middle-class girl is working as a reporter at ABC, where she meets a handsome man from a famous family. They court, marry and become best friends with the husband's first cousin and his new wife. Abruptly, the reporter's husband is diagnosed with cancer. He dies, but not before the cousin and his wife (and her sister) die, too, in a senseless plane crash. This would be a heartbreaking story even if it weren't about Anthony Radziwill, nephew of Jackie Kennedy Onassis, and about his and Carole's friendship with John and Carolyn Bessette Kennedy. But because its publisher (and, presumably, the author) have decided not to market it as a "Kennedy book" but "a memoir of fate, friendship and love," it begs consideration on its literary merits. So here goes: Radziwill is a serviceable, if sentimental, writer. She is brave, especially when she describes how cancer became the third party in her marriage, and how she briefly flirted with infidelity. She also knows how to convey the essence of a person with small scenes and quotes (JFK Jr. holding his dying friend's hand and softly singing a song from their childhood; director Mike Nichols not calling but just coming to the hospital and handing out sandwiches to the nurses). Still, perhaps in Radziwill's effort to further the myth of its non-Kennedyness, much of this already short book feels padded—with scenes from the author's childhood and medical details about Anthony's treatment. Otherwise, much of Radziwill's writing approaches melodrama, particularly when she recounts that July 1999 night when the plane crashed. At one point, Radziwill scoffs at the "tragedy whores" who luxuriate in Kennedy trauma, and yet she seems to have been unable to resist contributing some crumbs to their feeding frenzy.
Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved. --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

Review

"A moving testimony to the tenuous nature of love and life."
-- USA Today

"Stunning...Radziwill gets at the essence of what matters -- friendship, compassion, destiny."
-- Oprah Winfrey, O, the oprah Magazine

"A riveting and heartbreaking journey."
-- Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle

"A stunning memoir of love and loss...Carole Radziwill is a natural storyteller."
-- O, The Oprah Magazine

"One of the best memoirs...a small masterpiece...devastating and beautifully written."
-- New York Post

"Powerfully affecting...a highly compelling read."
-- Vogue

"Bittersweet and tender."
-- The New York Times Book Review

Review

"A moving testimony to the tenuous nature of love and life."

-- USA Today



"Stunning...Radziwill gets at the essence of what matters -- friendship, compassion, destiny."

-- Oprah Winfrey, O, the oprah Magazine



"A riveting and heartbreaking journey."

-- Jeannette Walls, author of The Glass Castle



"A stunning memoir of love and loss...Carole Radziwill is a natural storyteller."

-- O, The Oprah Magazine



"One of the best memoirs...a small masterpiece...devastating and beautifully written."

-- New York Post



"Powerfully affecting...a highly compelling read."

-- Vogue



"Bittersweet and tender."

-- The New York Times Book Review

--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

About the Author

Carole Radziwill worked as an award-winning journalist with ABC News for fifteen years. She is writing a novel and lives in New York City.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

Prologue

Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.

--F. Scott Fitzgerald

Friday, July 16, 1999

Three weeks before my husband died a young couple smashed their plane into the Atlantic Ocean, off the Massachusetts shoreline, well after the mid-July sun had set. It was reported in the news as 9:41, but I knew the general time, because I had spoken to the woman less than an hour before. The pilot was my husband's cousin, John Kennedy. His wife, Carolyn Bessette, was my closest friend. She was sitting behind him next to the only other passenger, her sister, Lauren. A still, hot summer day had melted into a warm and sticky night. A quiet night, unremarkable except for the fog, which rolls in and out of New England like a deep sigh.

While we were still making plans, before they took off from Caldwell, New Jersey, she called me from the plane.

"We'll fly to the Vineyard tomorrow, after the wedding. We can be there before dinner."

It was a short conversation, because I was going to see her the next day. I was staying in her house, their house, on Martha's Vineyard, with my husband, and they were taking a simple trip. One they'd made many other weekends, from a small airport in New Jersey to the islands off Massachusetts--a well-worn ninety-minute path up the coastline.

I hung up the phone and opened the book I was reading and an hour later she was dead. Afterward I tried to find something to explain what had happened--was it cloudy, were the stars out? But the night was ordinary. It usually is, I think, when your life changes. Most people aren't doing anything special when the carefully placed pieces of their life break apart.

They flew a lot that summer, from the city to the Vineyard, and we called each other every day if we weren't together.

"We're getting a late start. I'll call you in the morning."

It takes seconds to plunge into an irrevocable spin in a small plane--into what the Federal Aviation Administration calls a graveyard spiral. According to the accident report, the plane broke the surface of the ocean three minutes after the pilot sensed a problem. At 9:38, he made a curious turn. One hundred and eighty seconds later, the last thirty of them aimed directly at the water, their stories ended abruptly.

I wonder if he felt the awkward motions of the plane in those minutes, the changes in speed or direction. It's likely he did not. If you close your eyes in an airplane, you don't feel up or down. You don't feel yourself tilting right or left. You don't feel anything, really, and your senses tell you it doesn't matter. Clouds were hiding the familiar strings of lights that paint the coastline. He might as well have been flying with his eyes closed.

"I need to talk to you," I said.

My husband, Anthony, was dying and we were all trying to pretend that he wasn't, that everything was fine.

"I can't hear you, Lamb. I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

The accident report shows the pilot made a turn after passing Point Judith, Rhode Island--he turned east, away from the coast, away from where he was going. And then another turn, and then another. It was puzzling to everyone, including the investigators, and after months of plotting radar signals, studying twisted pieces of wreckage, constructing maps and charts, and speculating about state of mind, they confirmed what they had suspected--the pilot was disoriented. He may have turned, some suggested, hoping to spot something familiar. A landmark like the lighthouse at the tip of Gay Head, blinking a steady twenty-mile stream of light, muffled that night by thick, black air. He might have scanned the dark sky for Noman's Land--the empty island you can see clearly in daylight from the beachfront of their Martha's Vineyard home.

Perhaps he felt a slight tilt of the plane, but it was more likely that the instrument panel caught his attention, his compass shifting slowly. He may have tried to correct it, turning the rudder slightly--or adding pressure to the controls. But when it doesn't feel like you're turning, it feels wrong to correct it. He wouldn't have corrected it enough. He wouldn't have corrected it at all. He would have followed what his senses were telling him to do--an overwhelming feeling of what he should do--and it would be exactly the wrong thing.

It's possible that nothing felt unusual in the plane as his altimeter began to unwind, marking a perplexing descent. Slowly at first, then at a sickening rate. It is likely he was watching this helplessly. His senses, of no use to him, telling him to ignore, even then, irrefutable evidence. The handful of controls all showing deadly readings. She may not have noticed any of this. She wouldn't have seen the airspeed on the control panel, pegged in the red, reflecting the quickening pace of the ocean rushing up to them.

We were staying in their house because Anthony wanted to be on the Vineyard that summer, and I went along with it. In June when we arrived I gave the ambulance drivers a paper with directions to the house, and they taped it to the dashboard. "It's the chance of a lifetime," Anthony had said to me in a restaurant in New York before we left. "I don't know why you can't see that. We have the summer off, we can spend the days on the beach, have margaritas at sunset."

There were sunsets that summer, and when I noticed them I was grateful. But he was dying. It was likely, but unmentionable, that he wouldn't be going back to the city, and for everyone but Anthony it was hard to think of margaritas. It irritated him when I didn't play along.

One hundred and eighty seconds. John might have felt annoyance, perhaps, before panic. Frustration, and then fear. His pulse accelerating as one replaced the other. The water would be as black as the sky--like concrete, at their rate of descent. It is possible that he thought for the entire three minutes that they were going to crash, probable that he thought it for thirty seconds.

It was a new plane and I wasn't familiar with it. It bothered me that I didn't know where she was sitting. The accident report recorded passengers in the aft-facing seats, but I couldn't picture her there. When I rode along, we settled down on the back seat and read magazines under the small light. If there were other passengers she sat up in the front. One weekend a year before, there were five of us going to the Vineyard. Carolyn was sitting next to John and her door popped open over the ocean. She stretched her arm into the clouds to grab the handle and clicked it shut. It was quick and smooth and insignificant to her.

But in the dark, on this night, did she sense his frustration and impatience? Did she dismiss it? We were all frustrated and impatient that summer. She was sitting directly behind her husband, the backs of their seats touching. He could have, if he had wanted, reached a hand around his seat to her. Her sister was beside her.

I sometimes mark time now in three-minute intervals. When I am talking on the phone, or walking around the city, or sitting on a plane, I glance at my watch and reflexively mark the time. There is so much that can happen in three minutes. It's enough time to think you can fix things.

I'm sure she was reading magazines. She always took a pile of them because she scanned them quickly and she didn't like to run out. She sounded tired when I spoke to her. Her voice was soft. She was trying to distract herself. We were all trying to distract ourselves. It was a bad day, if you had to choose one, to die. There had not been enough time.

"I love you," she said before she hung up. And then again, "I love you." We always said this to each other, but I didn't want to love anyone that night. I was tired, and I didn't say it back. "I know," I said instead.

You never know when something is going to happen to change your life. You expect it to arrive with fanfare, like a wedding or a birth, but instead it comes in the most ordinary of circumstances. The Roman goddess Fortuna snaps her fingers and changes the channel--click. I was sitting in a chair, reading, preparing for one death, and then click. It was silent. Was there a noise? I always thought tragedy had a sound. I always thought there was something you would hear. We were holding our breath until Anthony died. Believing that everything else would wait.

Carolyn had a theory about relationships.

"You're much happier when you wait," she used to tell me. "The ones that come to you are the only ones worth anything, Lamb. It's like standing on the shore and spotting something in the water. You can splash around to try to get it, or you can wait and see if the tide brings it in."

I was thinking this while I stood on the shore one day, dreading what the tide would bring. Her makeup bag, a luggage tag.

The weekend before, we were all at the house. She came early in the afternoon, and John flew in later. Effie made a big dinner of grilled fish and roasted potatoes, pie for dessert. John had arranged for him to be there that summer. He cooked for us and maintained our routine--dialysis in the morning, the beach during the day. A table set for dinner at a planned time each night. We welcomed diversions. We'd have dinner, linger at the table, play Bartlett's if we were up for a game.

We had friends staying for the weekend and we were all sitting in the backyard, waiting for John, and suddenly a plane was right above us. He flew low, buzzing over the house before he landed, a fun thing. He broke up tension. He always knew to. A sort of childish but innocent thing to do, flying over us, dipping the left wing. Just like him. We all looked toward the sky.

"Hey!" We waved. Except Anthony, who just shook his head, a reflex after so many years. Anthony's eye roll and John's sideways smile. I got you, Principe.

"He's here!"

Carolyn looked up, smiling, squinting, her arm in front of her to block the sun.

"He's crazy," someone said, laughing. He brought people to life. He could relax a room, and we counted on him for it. He flew over the house and drop... --This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

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