Compliments of a Friend
On a chill and sodden Tuesday in March at one in the afternoon, the awesomely slender Vanessa Giddings, founder and CEO of Panache, the largest employment agency on Long Island, slipped into a chair in the designer shoe department at Bloomingdale’s in the Roosevelt Field mall. She cradled a black snakeskin Manolo Blahnik sling-back in her hands. A moment later, her eyes closed. When Roberto, her usual salesman, gently tapped her shoulder and murmured “Ms. Giddings? Seven and a half, right? Ms. Giddings?” he got no response. She was comatose.
Before the gray dawn of the following morning, Vanessa Giddings passed from the world.
The Nassau County medical examiner ruled her exit self-inflicted—an overdose of Alprazolam, the generic name of Xanax, an anti-anxiety medication. The Nassau County Police Department’s spokesman (elbowing aside the M.E. so he could stand squarely in front of the microphone) announced that a suicide note had been found among her personal papers. When I came home from work that Wednesday evening and heard the first of four messages about her death on voice mail: “Judith, did you hear … ?” I wasn’t simply surprised; I was shaken.
Vanessa, of all people! So alive! Now, when I say “alive,” I’m not talking about lively or, God forbid, perky. I mean alive as in appearing strong, spirited, close to invulnerable. Dressed for success in a Prada suit and Gucci shoes, though I admit my grasp of fashion is a little iffy. It could have been the other way around.
Anyway, some well-bred customer snapped a cell-phone photo as the EMTs were hoisting Vanessa onto a gurney. It appeared two hours later on the New York Daily News website and showed Vanessa’s feet in those chunky-heeled platform shoes that make most women’s legs resemble Minnie Mouse’s. Not hers.
And even in a coma, she looked great. Vanessa’s hands were elegant, poised like a ballerina’s. Her lithe legs seemed artfully arranged. Her hair, impeccably casual, was a glistening blonde, that expensive color that emits glints of platinum and gold. The masterfully applied lipstick on her now-slack mouth demonstrated a skilled hand and a perfectionist soul.
Whenever I’d seen Vanessa at the quarterly meetings of the Long Island Heritage Council Board of Trustees, a group dedicated to preserving the region’s historical sites, she was not only chic, but all business. The woman never wasted a microsecond. She’d stride around the Peconic Deutsche Bank’s conference room where we met exchanging strong, but not bone-crushing, handshakes and networking with her fellow and sister hot shots.
I was not a natural networker in that group, as my idea of lively conversation—“What are the historical errors of Boardwalk Empire?” or “Do you have a favorite flowering perennial?”—isn’t the sort that animates mini-moguls. Besides me, the only other academic on the board was a pleasant-enough anthropologist from Southampton College. Except during pre-meeting chitchat and coffee break, he was usually engrossed in finding a way to wrap the raisin-glutted muffins and monster bagels on the hospitality table into napkins and stuff them into his backpack without anyone noticing. (Everyone did.)
Periodically, Vanessa would spot me standing alone. She’d come over and shepherd me into whatever conversation she was having. So even if I didn’t fit into her preference for the power elite, she was nice to me. Those who viewed her as a stereotypical hard-ass career crone—tight-lipped and mean-spirited in pursuit of success—were wrong. In fact, her looks told a sweeter story: peaches and cream pretty, with all-American apple cheeks. Her eyes were true blue. And her voice! Lovely. If a pink rose petal could talk, it would sound like her. Further, she was unfailingly polite.
Still, I could understand why people called her aloof. She seemed to hold back not from shyness, but as if getting to know you too well
On a chill and sodden Tuesday in March at one in the afternoon, the awesomely slender Vanessa Giddings, founder and CEO of Panache, the largest employment agency on Long Island, slipped into a chair in the designer shoe department at Bloomingdale’s in the Roosevelt Field mall. She cradled a black snakeskin Manolo Blahnik sling-back in her hands. A moment later, her eyes closed. When Roberto, her usual salesman, gently tapped her shoulder and murmured “Ms. Giddings? Seven and a half, right? Ms. Giddings?” he got no response. She was comatose.
Before the gray dawn of the following morning, Vanessa Giddings passed from the world.
The Nassau County medical examiner ruled her exit self-inflicted—an overdose of Alprazolam, the generic name of Xanax, an anti-anxiety medication. The Nassau County Police Department’s spokesman (elbowing aside the M.E. so he could stand squarely in front of the microphone) announced that a suicide note had been found among her personal papers. When I came home from work that Wednesday evening and heard the first of four messages about her death on voice mail: “Judith, did you hear … ?” I wasn’t simply surprised; I was shaken.
Vanessa, of all people! So alive! Now, when I say “alive,” I’m not talking about lively or, God forbid, perky. I mean alive as in appearing strong, spirited, close to invulnerable. Dressed for success in a Prada suit and Gucci shoes, though I admit my grasp of fashion is a little iffy. It could have been the other way around.
Anyway, some well-bred customer snapped a cell-phone photo as the EMTs were hoisting Vanessa onto a gurney. It appeared two hours later on the New York Daily News website and showed Vanessa’s feet in those chunky-heeled platform shoes that make most women’s legs resemble Minnie Mouse’s. Not hers.
And even in a coma, she looked great. Vanessa’s hands were elegant, poised like a ballerina’s. Her lithe legs seemed artfully arranged. Her hair, impeccably casual, was a glistening blonde, that expensive color that emits glints of platinum and gold. The masterfully applied lipstick on her now-slack mouth demonstrated a skilled hand and a perfectionist soul.
Whenever I’d seen Vanessa at the quarterly meetings of the Long Island Heritage Council Board of Trustees, a group dedicated to preserving the region’s historical sites, she was not only chic, but all business. The woman never wasted a microsecond. She’d stride around the Peconic Deutsche Bank’s conference room where we met exchanging strong, but not bone-crushing, handshakes and networking with her fellow and sister hot shots.
I was not a natural networker in that group, as my idea of lively conversation—“What are the historical errors of Boardwalk Empire?” or “Do you have a favorite flowering perennial?”—isn’t the sort that animates mini-moguls. Besides me, the only other academic on the board was a pleasant-enough anthropologist from Southampton College. Except during pre-meeting chitchat and coffee break, he was usually engrossed in finding a way to wrap the raisin-glutted muffins and monster bagels on the hospitality table into napkins and stuff them into his backpack without anyone noticing. (Everyone did.)
Periodically, Vanessa would spot me standing alone. She’d come over and shepherd me into whatever conversation she was having. So even if I didn’t fit into her preference for the power elite, she was nice to me. Those who viewed her as a stereotypical hard-ass career crone—tight-lipped and mean-spirited in pursuit of success—were wrong. In fact, her looks told a sweeter story: peaches and cream pretty, with all-American apple cheeks. Her eyes were true blue. And her voice! Lovely. If a pink rose petal could talk, it would sound like her. Further, she was unfailingly polite.
Still, I could understand why people called her aloof. She seemed to hold back not from shyness, but as if getting to know you too well
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