* * *
I arrive at the memorial fifteen minutes late, barely able to push through the flood of visitors crowding the small funeral parlor. Judging by the looks of them, I’m willing to wager they’re all here on my mother’s behalf.
Friends.
Acquaintances.
Social-climbing-gossip-mongers.
A “grieving” Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach stands by an oversized (and outdated) photo of a smiling Larissa at her Betancourt graduation, her skin clear and eyes vibrant as she hadn’t yet discovered the thrills of crystal meth, angel dust, and black tar heroin.
My mother is dressed in Chanel the color of death from head to toe, surrounded by an aura of elaborate white floral arrangements, her oversized wedding ring glimmering under the soft lighting. Funny, she wants everyone to believe she still wears the damn thing despite the fact that I watched her slide it off the evening after my father’s funeral and lock it in a box in her closet.
All these years later, I’ve yet to see her wear it until this moment.
United front and all that, I’m sure.
I position myself in an unoccupied corner of the room, observing as she shakes hands.
There come the bittersweet smiles.
The tearful nods.
The lingering embraces.
I try not to grimace as she wipes invisible tears from the corners of her eyes.
It’s a choregraphed act, and for a moment, I’m reliving my father’s memorial five years ago, when she gave an Oscar-worthy performance of a widow in mourning, cringe-worthy sobs, buckling knees, and the like.
Never mind the fact that they hadn’t slept in the same bed in a decade or the fact that they’d each taken up secret lovers—not that I happened upon that information intentionally. Evidently getting caught was part of the thrill for each of them.
Ten minutes later, the shit show is still going strong.
I’ve been bothered by a handful of visitors, when in walks the man of the hour: my mother’s golden boy.
“Errol, darling …” Mother tempers her excitement, keeping it at a funeral-appropriate volume, and waves him over with a single gloved hand.
His wife, Beth, is latched onto his arm, quietly scanning the room in search of familiar faces, I assume. Funny. I could have sworn my mother explicitly said Beth wouldn’t be coming. Errol must have talked her into it.
Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of running into me solo, without his human buffer to shield him from the daggers I can’t help myself from shooting his way any time we’re forced to breathe the same oxygen.
But Beth is dressed in gray—an intentional move, I’m certain.
Black would suggest she’s grieving.
Black would suggest she gives a damn that Larissa is dead.
My mother cups Errol’s gaunt face, tender in her hands, and thanks him for coming before kissing the air beside Beth’s healthy, blush-colored cheeks and giving her freshly-manicured hands a squeeze.
“Have you seen your brother?” she asks.
Errol shrugs and shakes his head.
Mother scans the room.
Beth excuses herself to the ladies’ room.
If I were a kind and decent person, I’d probably say hello, make my presence known, put on a show and be a good Schoenbach.
But instead, I remain anchored in my corner, watching the rest of the room grieve a woman who was too weak to be one of us, too lost in this world to have stood a chance, too soft to have survived the grimy, drug-infested world in which she sought solace.
“Bennett, hi.” Beth emerges from the ladies’ room a few minutes later, sauntering in my direction, her red-bottomed heels scuffing against the tight-knit carpet. “My gosh, it’s been so long.”
Her mouth curls into a half-smile, half-pout, as if she’s glad to see me but knows it isn’t appropriate to pretend to be excited in this moment.
Leaning in, she kisses my cheek, her dress pressing against my suit long enough that her French perfume clings to the fabric and assaults my lungs long after she releases her hold on me.
“How have you been? How are you holding up?” She rubs my arm, head tilted as she gazes up at me. “Errol misses you, you know … talks about you all the time … wonders how you’re doing … we both wonder how you’re doing …”
“I’m fine, Beth.”
I’ve never understood her affinity for me, but it was instant, from the moment he brought her home. Over the years, I’ve boiled it down to Beth’s being an only child and eagerly yearning for a chance at the kid brother she never had. I don’t think it’s anything more sinister than that. Beth is a simple woman with simple motives, most of them boiling down to things like money, status, and name recognition—three things she’s afforded by being married to my brother.
I don’t ask about Errol. She’ll just give me a canned response faker than the double-Ds protruding from her bony chest.
“You want to come say hi? I’m happy to be the middle man.” She bites her lower lip, eyes pleading as though she gives a shit. The true reason she wants a reconciliation at this point is because she thinks I might finally give Errol a seat at the Schoenbach Corporation table. A seat at the table equals a fancy title with a fat paycheck that would actually support their cushy lifestyle so they can finally stop slapping lavish dinners and ‘gram-worthy vacations on maxed-out credit cards and falling behind on their second mortgage every few months.
My father would have left half of his company to my brother had Errol not refused his opportunity at Harvard School of Business—my father’s singular stipulation.
But Errol refused, opting to attend some overpriced art school so he could live his best hipster life.
“I’ll make my way over in a few.” I survey the room, which has cleared out in the last several minutes, and talk myself into getting this over with.
Beth saunters back to her husband, who looks like he walked off the cover of GQ with his navy Givenchy suit and slicked-back man-bun. Slipping her arm into his, she rises on her toes to whisper something into his ear. He responds and then kisses her.
Our mother is oblivious to it all, greeting another friend of hers before dabbing her eyes for the millionth time.
I decide to head across the room, but not before checking my work email first.
Claudia in HR was supposed to send me some written complaint someone in payroll filed against one of our VPs, and I need to know what kind of fire I’ll be putting out Monday morning or if it’s anything that’ll require a weekend call to our lead corporate attorney.
My screen blinks and my inbox refreshes, filling the glass rectangle with dozens upon dozens of unread messages—none from Claudia.
Some days I contemplate firing each and every sloth on my father’s original team and replacing them with sharks who aren’t afraid to do their damn jobs.
Days like this, I’m far too tempted.
Thumbing through and deleting messages, I stop when I get to one with the subject line: CONDOLENCES from a sender by the name of AnonStranger.
Positive it’s a scam but too intrigued to ignore it, I tap my screen and pull up the message.
A minute later, I’ve read this person’s email not once, not twice, but three times, my blood simmering hotter each time.
Without giving it a second thought, I compile my unfiltered response and hit send.