Ghost Story

We see dead people

I was going to write about the gorgeousness of this episode, a total stunner of depth and poetry. We learn about Josh and his sister Joni. We feel the love between POTUS and Toby—the thorny respect, navigated like a father and son. We feel the heat, yes we do, rising between Josh and Donna. (How could they not know!?) We are walloped again and again by the emotional journey of these fine people figuring out what matters to them and how to be their best selves, their greater angels.

But with all of this excellence going on everywhere as I watched the fifth episode of the first season— The Crackpots and These Women—all I can think about is this: what the actual fudge is goin’ on with my hair? It was weird. Super weird.

Last week, a silly guy DM’d me. He told me that while he loved the show and me in it, I should, he suggested, stop living in the past. And like my hair, it bugged me, hovering all week in my mind like an uninvited guest.

I certainly don't want to live in the past—how, as my 13-year-old son often says, embarrassing. But I’m pretty sure it's not Donna’s ghost that is picking up my dry cleaning or quizzing my son on his French homework. And as we get older—and hopefully if we have done anything interesting with our lives—the past is ever more present, taking up the space once held by our shimmering futures. It's not so fun to consider, but it’s the truth, isn’t it?

So what can we do? Like Josh’s sister Joni, who we learned was killed in a fire, our pasts abide, infiltrate, stubborn in their requests for occasional attention.

My mom died in December. She was my end of every day. Me at the stove, the phone propped up on the shelf with her on FaceTime. We would talk about raising teenagers.

"Don't worry," she would reassure me. "This is all temporary. Things always change."

She would make me laugh and feel strong enough to fight another day.

Last month, my siblings and I packed up her house in California. The boxes filled with what I chose to keep are still downstairs in my Brooklyn family room, stacked and unopened. Etched wine glasses, vintage sterling pins she wore on her shirts when she dressed up, her worn leather purse with her wallet and ID still inside. I stood with my sisters in my mom’s kitchen that day, running my hand against the soft leather bag, thinking.

"Is it weird to take Mom’s purse?" I turned and asked.

My sister Carey was folding a quilt. "Take it. Why not?"

I couldn't bear to leave it behind, alone in some pile with moth-eaten clothes and scratched Teflon pans. She brought it everywhere for years, even when sick—the oils of her fingertips, the scent of her perfume now in every fiber. It felt alive. I wouldn't carry it, for Pete's sake—I’m not that nutty—but I might put it in my closet with Sunshine Bear and Mr. Fuzz, other relics of my childhood, and visit when I need a hug.

I think we are all living with the past—not in it. Because, silly man, that's impossible.

This is an unbearably tender episode. When Josh realizes his “staff” (um, Donna obvs) was not invited into the bunker, if the bomb were to drop—the look on his face, the realization and continued contemplation throughout the show—is so fragile and beautiful. He is wrestling with his past, the apparition of Joni rattling her chains in his subconscious. He doesn't want to leave anybody behind and decides ultimately not to.

I don’t recall much about making this one, although weirdly I do remember the last scene I was in—sitting at the center, talking to Allison, feeling so lucky to be there in the middle of things. I was sure that as we began to film, they would move me from the center, assuming they would want to feature a more significant character—but they didn't. There I sat, amongst my friends and colleagues, tragic hair and all, forever and ever and ever and ever.