Sarah Pettit died five years ago today. Those who spoke at her memorial service attested to her vibrance, her quick wit, her strength. And to this: they had all fallen in love with her.
As had I. When I met her, nearly 20 years ago—it doesn’t seem possible that it was that long ago, but it also doesn’t seem possible that she is gone—she had just been hired as an editorial assistant at St. Martin’s Press. She had to get by my space, in a small open area around the corner from reception, to get to her office, really more of an office suite that was walled off from the rest of the 18th floor, since her boss and his senior assistant, Keith Kahla, were smokers.
I’ll never forget how she took in my little area—the cluttered desk, the hinky filing cabinets, the typing table with the IBM Selectric on it, the shelves upon shelves of manuscripts, books, and other such things—her first day. Although I had been working there for two years, the look she gave suggested she had seen it all; her eyes flashed with intelligence, her half-smile was ironic and knowing. She was no doubt judging me. Not coldly, though. Sympathetically, kindly even.
We were all smitten. None of us had ever met anyone like her. Her language was different, for one thing. She was the first person I knew how added “from hell” to her conversation. Soon we were all doing it. Reading the newspaper could make her “head explode.” People who were particularly anal or nerdy were “pointy-headed freaks.” Gay men were “ponces.” “Hello ponces!” she greeted Keith and me one morning. It thrilled me to be included, just to be a part of her world.
If she liked you, you got a nickname. Keith was “Keithly Keith.” I was Jessela. To be perfectly honest, “Jessela” would not have been my first pick. Which no doubt she knew. She was wise about people’s defenses. But it was funny, too. And she would pronounce it with such affection that it was irresistible.
We became fast friends. We lunched together, went out together, gossiped, sat together at company functions. There were rumors that we were having a romance, which shows how far people will allow romantic fantasy to re-organize their apprehension of the most fundamental facts.
After she left St. Martin’s we stayed close. She was always good for a reality check. Sarah was addicted to truth. Like Pamina in Zauberflöte, she would have said, “Die Wahrheit! Die Wahrheit! Wär sie auch Verbrechen!” (“The truth! The truth! Even if it were a crime!”) Sometimes her candor could be bracing. It was never unkind.
It never occurred to me to ask anyone else to be my son’s godmother. She took the responsibility seriously. She visited shortly after he was born. She babysat. It amazes me still that she babysat. She had an important job at the time, at Newsweek.
It was when she babysat that turned out to be the last time I saw her before her illness. She wanted to know what heartburn medication I was on, as she had been having pains in her chest. She was in some discomfort. None of us could have guessed it was a tumor.
A little over a year later, she was dead. I still cannot believe it. She is still the most remarkable person I have ever met.
I think about her every day. Every day I miss her. She set a high standard for herself, and for those of us fortunate enough to be counted as her friends. It is a standard I have yet to meet. Five years later, I am still trying to be worthy of her love, of the gift of her friendship, of her courage and honesty. Compared to Sarah, though, we all must be found wanting.
As had I. When I met her, nearly 20 years ago—it doesn’t seem possible that it was that long ago, but it also doesn’t seem possible that she is gone—she had just been hired as an editorial assistant at St. Martin’s Press. She had to get by my space, in a small open area around the corner from reception, to get to her office, really more of an office suite that was walled off from the rest of the 18th floor, since her boss and his senior assistant, Keith Kahla, were smokers.
I’ll never forget how she took in my little area—the cluttered desk, the hinky filing cabinets, the typing table with the IBM Selectric on it, the shelves upon shelves of manuscripts, books, and other such things—her first day. Although I had been working there for two years, the look she gave suggested she had seen it all; her eyes flashed with intelligence, her half-smile was ironic and knowing. She was no doubt judging me. Not coldly, though. Sympathetically, kindly even.
We were all smitten. None of us had ever met anyone like her. Her language was different, for one thing. She was the first person I knew how added “from hell” to her conversation. Soon we were all doing it. Reading the newspaper could make her “head explode.” People who were particularly anal or nerdy were “pointy-headed freaks.” Gay men were “ponces.” “Hello ponces!” she greeted Keith and me one morning. It thrilled me to be included, just to be a part of her world.
If she liked you, you got a nickname. Keith was “Keithly Keith.” I was Jessela. To be perfectly honest, “Jessela” would not have been my first pick. Which no doubt she knew. She was wise about people’s defenses. But it was funny, too. And she would pronounce it with such affection that it was irresistible.
We became fast friends. We lunched together, went out together, gossiped, sat together at company functions. There were rumors that we were having a romance, which shows how far people will allow romantic fantasy to re-organize their apprehension of the most fundamental facts.
After she left St. Martin’s we stayed close. She was always good for a reality check. Sarah was addicted to truth. Like Pamina in Zauberflöte, she would have said, “Die Wahrheit! Die Wahrheit! Wär sie auch Verbrechen!” (“The truth! The truth! Even if it were a crime!”) Sometimes her candor could be bracing. It was never unkind.
It never occurred to me to ask anyone else to be my son’s godmother. She took the responsibility seriously. She visited shortly after he was born. She babysat. It amazes me still that she babysat. She had an important job at the time, at Newsweek.
It was when she babysat that turned out to be the last time I saw her before her illness. She wanted to know what heartburn medication I was on, as she had been having pains in her chest. She was in some discomfort. None of us could have guessed it was a tumor.
A little over a year later, she was dead. I still cannot believe it. She is still the most remarkable person I have ever met.
I think about her every day. Every day I miss her. She set a high standard for herself, and for those of us fortunate enough to be counted as her friends. It is a standard I have yet to meet. Five years later, I am still trying to be worthy of her love, of the gift of her friendship, of her courage and honesty. Compared to Sarah, though, we all must be found wanting.
