“How odd to see Ashley reduced to a footnote to someone else’s meteoric rise. She was not the story people cared about here; to this magazine’s audience, she existed only in reference to Ashton [Kutcher]”
She was found by her roommate in the hallway of their split-level bungalow at 1911 Pinehurst Road in the Hollywood Hills at approximately 9 a.m. and pronounced dead by paramedics at 9:28, February 22, 2001.
An external examination of the body revealed 47 stab wounds, 12 of which were later deemed fatal. Defense wounds were also observed on her right forearm and hands. Ashley’s neck organs had suffered extensive trauma, and her windpipe and right artery had been cut in two. I felt detached, numb. I wondered if my parents expected some sort of emotional display from me and how they’d handle it if I produced one, or if I didn’t. Should I cry? Should I drop my head into my hands and wait for my mother to say something? Should I excuse myself ? Nothing seemed appropriate, so instead I stayed silent.
For our first piano recital, we chose dresses that were the lightest shade of pink. Mine was cotton and hers was silk, but when we sat side by side on the bench to play our duet from a book called The Pleasure of Your Company, the colors matched perfectly. In the spring, something weird came up. Suddenly my searches about Ashley brought pages upon pages of celebrity gossip sites. They were in a variety of languages, German, Spanish, French — it was initially hard to make sense of what was the actual news and what was part of the internet’s circular game of telephone.
“Ashton Kutcher’s TRAGIC NIGHT” read the cover line. Looking at it made me feel annoyed. Poor, poor, rich, gorgeous, living celebrity Ashton. Did any readers actually feel empathy for him? The story inside was a doozy. I learned that Ashley and Ashton had met through friends, and they were set to attend some Grammy Awards after-parties that night. Ashton had arrived at her house around 10 p.m. but had gotten no answer when he knocked on the door.
We lost touch, as had happened with so many other people so many times before. How exactly had it happened? Gradually, then suddenly, but also in fits and starts, confusions and forgotten birthdays, faded memories and rituals. The scales tipping toward more important moments lived among other people in other places in other rooms far away from each other.
In our last weekend together, the intangibles were front and center. Ashley had come to visit me at college in New York, and I put her up on my pull-out couch in my dingy railroad apartment. We hadn’t seen each other in what must have been three years, that gap between the end of high school and the middle of college when most of my other teenage friendships had slowly become obsolete.
I tried to appear blasé, to take it in stride, but what I really felt was utter confusion. Was I angry at her? Was she telling me this to brag? Should I be wearing my concerned hat now, or would that be unfairly judgmental? I hadn’t yet seen any comparable life developments in a friend and didn’t know what it all meant, for either of us or the two of us. Maybe this was good, cool, right — To each her own? You go, girl? — and I was the one with a problem, a prude.
I took Ashley to Port Authority on her last day in town. She’d be catching a bus to her grandparents’ in Pennsylvania, and after that — who knew? She was still next to me on the C train, but already I was taking stock of the aftermath: The girl I’d used to paint pictures and play piano duets with was now a stripper and an escort. I felt as though my self-esteem were at an all-time low. There was still glitter on my bathroom tile.
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