Страница 35 из 58
• Chapter 14 •
You were born together, and together you shall be for evermore… but let there be spaces in your togetherness. And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.
Kahlil Gibran (1883–1931), Lebanese-American artist, poet, and writer
“Here’s another one,” my sister Rose says, dropping the casserole plate down on the kitchen table in front of me unceremoniously. “I think it’s green bean. Or something green, anyway.”
My other sister, Sarah, looks up from the notebook into which she’s recording the names of everyone who has brought something over for us to eat, since we are supposedly so consumed with grief over Gran’s death that we can’t cook. For some of us, this is actually true. The kitchen table is covered with casserole dishes.
“Who’s it from?” Sarah wants to know.
“I don’t know,” Rose says crabbily as she digs through her purse, which she’s left on the kitchen counter next to the sliding glass door to the deck. “I found it on the front porch. Check the card, nimrod.”
“Suck my dick,” Sarah says, snatching the card off the top of the casserole dish.
“Do you kiss your husband with that mouth?” Rose wants to know. Then she lets out a tinkly laugh. “Oh, that’s right. He left you. So where’s Luke, anyway?” Rose turns her attention to me.
“Don’t talk to me,” I say to Rose.
Rose looks at Sarah. “What’s her glitch?” she wants to know.
“She’s not speaking to you,” Sarah says. “Because you called TMZ on her client. Remember?”
“Oh, please,” Rose says with a laugh. “You’re not still mad about that, are you? That should be water under the bridge. Our grandmother is dead. Now, come on. Where’s Luke? Your fiancé? Isn’t he going to come to your own grandmother’s funeral? Or is he too busy with school or whatever? As usual.”
“He’s in France,” I say from between gritted teeth.
“Oh, France,” Rose says with another laugh. “Sure. Why not. France.”
“He is,” I say. Why can’t I not speak to people I’ve resolved never to speak to again? “He’s helping his uncle set up a new investment office. Not that it’s any of your business. He wanted to come. He’s really sorry. But he can’t leave right now.” And besides. We’re on a break. I don’t mention this to Rose, who doesn’t deserve to know any of my personal business. But it’s true.
“Of course,” Rose says. “You know, we’re all starting to wonder if this Luke guy even exists, or if he’s just some guy you’ve made up to make us think you finally got a boyfriend. As if.” Still laughing, Rose opens the sliding glass door and steps out into the cool evening air, not bothering to close it behind her, so all the mosquitoes come buzzing in.
“I hate her too,” Sarah informs me matter-of-factly as soon as Rose is out of earshot. “Don’t pay any attention to her. You have no idea how lucky you are you got out of here. Seriously.”
I am sitting with my arms crossed in front of my chest, holding on to both my elbows. I have been sitting like this since I got home.
I just can’t believe she’s really gone. Gran, I mean. The thing is… I knew she was old. I did.
I just never thought she was that old.
“Well, she just died, Lizzie” is what Shari’s dad had said when I’d asked him how it had happened when he stopped by to drop off a plate of Mrs. De
“But—” I’d been going to ask if there was going to be an autopsy. But a warning look from my mother had stopped me. Mom doesn’t want people talking about cutting up his mother in front of Dad. Which I guess I can understand.
And okay, Gran was ninety, after all. I guess how she died isn’t any big mystery.
But why now? When I need her most? I mean, not to be selfish or anything. But couldn’t she have waited a month or two, for a time when I wasn’t so… confused?
Everyone seemed kind of relieved when Dr. De
“Shari asked me to prescribe you these,” Shari’s dad said, uncomfortably handing them over. “They’re to make you feel better. Now, remember… no drinking alcohol while you’re on those, Lizzie!”
Everyone laughed like Dr. De
But if they think doping me up is going to keep me from asking the hard questions—like are they going to play Gran’s favorite song, “Highway to Hell,” at the funeral, or aren’t they? — they can just think again. I’m not going to be dismissed that easily. Gran might have been happy to ride through life in an alcoholic haze—she might even have been good at it—but not me.
Never me.
“Really,” Sarah is going on. “You wouldn’t believe what a bitch Rose has turned into. Well, not turned into, because she was always a bitch. But she’s gotten worse with age. You think that thing with her calling the paparazzi on your friend is bad? Just wait. Maybe it’s perimenopause. I saw something about it on Oprah. So Chuck and I are having some problems? He didn’t leave me. He’s just taking some time to work through a few things. Like Rose and Angelo have it so perfect. He doesn’t even have a job. She’s still supporting both of them.”
“Huh,” I say. I still can’t believe my own sister thinks my fiancé is made up. Like I would even go to the trouble. For her.
And, okay, so Luke didn’t even offer to fly back and meet me here for the funeral. But I’m the one who asked for the break. Maybe he thinks he wouldn’t be welcome. That’s a natural assumption, right? It’s my fault, really. The poor guy probably thinks I don’t want him anymore.
Besides, he doesn’t have any living grandparents. They all died when he was little. He doesn’t know what it’s like to lose a grandparent as an adult. A grandparent I was as close to as Gran. Luke doesn’t have any idea what that’s like.
Neither do I, actually. I’m just going through it now for the first time. Without my fiancé’s shoulder to lean on.
“And you should see what she’s doing to her kids,” Sarah goes on. “You have never seen kids so overextended. Ballet, tap, karate, gymnastics, French—French, for Christ’s sake. They live in Michigan. When are they going to need to speak French? Except maybe at your wedding, if it ever takes place. They never have a minute to themselves, just to be kids. No wonder they’re so weird.”
At that minute Maggie, Rose’s eldest, wanders into the room, holding a reporter’s notebook, a pencil poised in one hand.
“Excuse me,” she says. “I’m starting my own newspaper. Do you have any news?”
Sarah and I blink at her.
“What?” I say.
“News,” Maggie yells. “I’m starting my own newspaper. A kid’s newspaper. I need some news to put in it. Do you have any news?”
“Your great-grandmother just died, for Christ’s sake,” Sarah says. “That isn’t enough news for you?”
Maggie looks at me. “Aunt Lizzie,” she says. “How do you feel about Gran being dead?”
Tears prick my eyes. Trying not to weep openly in front of my niece, I say, “I’m very sad about it. I’m going to miss her very much.”
“May I quote you on that?” Maggie wants to know.
“Yes,” I say.
“Good. Thank you.” Maggie turns around and leaves the room without another word.
“See?” Sarah says as soon as she’s gone. “There’s something wrong with that kid.”
Rose chooses that moment to reenter the kitchen, reeking of cigarette smoke. She closes the sliding glass door behind her and drops a pack of cigarettes and her lighter back into her purse.
“Something wrong with what kid?” she asks.
“Your kid,” Sarah snarls. “Maggie. She just came in here and a
“At least,” Rose says mildly, peeling the aluminum foil back on a peach cobbler someone has brought over and plunging a spoon into it, “she’s not an unimaginative, nose-picking moron like some people’s kids I could mention.”