The scene almost feels like a somber dinner party instead of a memorial service for a woman who could never shake her Texas accent (even after hiring a speech therapist so she could, in her own words, “sound more well-bred”).
The only evidence that this gathering is even about my mother at all is the giant glossy photo of her propped up on an easel and surrounded by a wreath of lilies and peonies. The photo is a glamour shot from when she was young, maybe nineteen, and still full of hope.
She’d moved from Texas to Los Angeles trying to make it as an actress, though she got pregnant with me before she even got a call-back for a single role. In the photo, she has the shiny blonde hair and blue eyes that mesmerized so many men and the body that won her all those beauty competitions – thin, but curvy with long lean legs. This was all before alcohol, depression and a child she didn’t want dulled her bright eyes. After that she’d let herself turn into a caricature of beauty, dyed blonde hair and fake tan… fake everything. She was from Texas after all, where things were meant to be larger than life.
She was never a fit for a place where the rich preferred to be understated, and that's clearer than ever right now as her glitzy photo stands out like a misplaced tag sale item against the somber elegance my grandmother likely orchestrated for today.
And God, my mother hated lilies.
She’d be happy to see me here though. I look just like her (apart from my brunette hair) - blue-eyes, and svelte build. My mother and grandmother, while they never agreed on much, both agreed I needed to learn how to fit in with the Connecticut crowd. Boarding schools and ballet classes, horseback riding lessons, and weekends at the country club became a regular and painful routine. While other girls earned merit badges in arts and crafts, I was taught poise and elocution. And the lessons paid off, even if they made me miserable. I radiate the coolness of this place, subtle, expensive make-up, expensive clothes, perfect posture. My mother longed to be considered classy, and even though she could never quite hit the mark, she made damn sure that I was right on target.
As I walk in and feel the approving looks from those around me, and even the second glances from the men in the room, I know my mother got what she wanted for me. The problem is, I just never wanted it myself.
Soon people start to recognize me and I am quickly surrounded by acquaintances I know a little from the various charity functions and school booster events my mother donated to. When she was snubbed for her brash ways, she loved to throw money at the groups that had blackballed her to force them to take her in. And here they all are, paying their pittance of a last respect. They balance plates of honey-mint lamb skewers and baked brie pinwheels in their hands as they offer me their sincere condolences, the sincerity never reaching their eyes. They didn’t like my mother, not a single one of them. Her Texas accent was too thick, her fake tan too obvious. She was new money and no matter how she tried, they made her life hell. Having a baby out of wedlock at nineteen hadn’t made it easier.
I grab a glass of wine from a passing caterer and continue to nod and frown and tell them how much their words mean, all while the familiar knots of guilt and pain twist in my stomach, but never show on my face.
When my stepfather, Jonathan Bradley III, sees me from across the room, he merely nods at me, barely breaking from his conversation. But his mother, my grandmother, who had been standing next to him, makes a great show of her affections as she spots me, clutching her hands to her heart.
I feel my stomach recoil.
My grandmother swiftly sets down her own glass of what is most likely celebratory champagne and hurries over, bundling me in her arms for all of New Canaan to see. The dutiful grandmother who loves me like her own. I feel bile rising from my stomach and try to wiggle out of her faux embrace. Her nails dig slightly into my back as I try to pull away, a warning not to embarrass her.
This woman, all ice and pretense, who made my mother’s life a living hell, kisses me on the cheek and then dabs a silk handkerchief to her eye, showing the entire audience how much she cared for such a useless woman and her bastard of a daughter.
She should have been the one to move to L.A. with dreams of becoming an actress, her faŅ«ade of care is top-notch.
“Harper,” my grandmother looks me over. “I am so sorry. Such a tragedy. What...what are we going to do without her?”
My grandmother squeezes my hand in another show of shared grief, and I feel dizzy. If I don’t get out of here soon I may lose my mind the way my mother lost hers, surrounded by so much shining beauty hiding the vilest and vainest people.
A man I don’t recognize comes over and whispers something in my stepfather’s ear and he quickly excuses himself. My grandmother’s sharp eyes follow my stepfather as he exits the room, and I take that opportunity to excuse myself and head down the hallway. I know who I need to see. There are only two people in this house that I ever really considered family and they won’t be found out in the main hall.
I cut through the library and down another hallway and push open a door into a bustling, busy kitchen. This kitchen was one of the few places of true sanctuary for me in my youth, thanks to the love I received from Carmen Zelaya, the best cook on the East Coast, and the woman who raised me like her own daughter.
But the moment I step into the kitchen, I know something is wrong. Carmen had the kitchen decorated in bright colors, bachata music blasting from a little portable radio near the sink, and vases of flowers on the counters, the flowers cut from our garden where her husband Jorge grows award winning roses. But this kitchen is as sterile and silent as a hospital room. I am surprised that I don’t see Carmen anywhere, or Maude or even Greta, the cooking staff that worked for my mother nearly the entire time she was here. Instead, a man with a chef’s hat and a fierce frown stops slicing an onion to hold up a knife and scowl at me. Behind me, two caterers scurry out like frightened little mice.
“You’re in my kitchen,” he says, his annoyance blatantly obvious. “Get out.”
“Where’s Carmen?” I ask.
“Fired,” he says, resuming his meticulous onion slicing. “All of them.”
“Fired? Even Greta?” My mind flashes to the unfamiliar driver that picked me up from the airport. “Reginald, the chauffeur?”
“Fired and fired.” He holds up the knife.
“That makes no sense. When?” I ask, shocked. I want to think it is the onion pricking my eyes, but it is more than that. The tears that didn’t come for my mother are now rushing up, threatening to overpower me.
The chef shrugs. “Don’t know. But today’s my first day and it’s a goddamn fucking funeral.” He stops slicing and points the knife at me. “Now get out of my kitchen before I call security.”
I feel tears run down my cheeks as I hurry out through the French doors in the kitchen and into the back garden.
Everyone was fired?! Why didn’t Carmen or Jorge tell me? I’ve tried calling them a few times since I heard about my mom, but I assumed the time difference and the plane ride had been why I hadn’t heard back. But they aren’t even here. How could my mother let that happen? Was it the last act of a suicidal woman or the vindictive move of my grandmother, purging the house of everyone my mother and I loved?
Everything feels wrong.
I hold my arms against my body as I walk into the garden, suddenly chilled despite the warm June temperature and wishing I had a sweater. Or someone to hold me who truly loves me. I feel an ache deep inside that is all too familiar… loneliness.