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.
