“Lillian Smith. That’s with anL. L-i-l-l-i-a-n. Smith.”
My pen freezes and I raise my gaze to the cemetery map pinned to the wall above the shelf of pesticides. At that distance, my eyes can see just fine, and I confirm what my gut already tells me to be true—that102 is a plot on Marcella’s side of the lot. Not the most desirable area, which is why Lillian was able to easily get a twin set.
“Are you sure you want to be over here?” I squinted at her in the harsh California sun. “There’s two nice plots on the other side, right under the palms.”
She lay on the grass and spread her arms and legs wide, then sighed contentedly. “Yep. This is good.”
We didn’t discuss Marcella, thirty plots over, with an empty grave beside her, waiting for me. I just nodded. “I’ll have the office do the paperwork.”
It had been a nice gesture, one that I had never thought I would see in action. One that I never should have seen in action. I am, after all, just waiting for a chance to die. I’m hoping my liver goes out, but each doctor’s visit delivers the same grim news—healthy.Healthy as a horse!the last doctor cackled, as if that were something to celebrate.
“You got that, Lenny? Lillian Smith, plot 102.”
“Yeah.” I set down the pen because I can’t write her name down. Not without a stiff drink. I pull the bottom drawer of the desk and withdraw the bottle of Hendrick’s, still in the liquor store bag. Twisting off the lid, I forgo normal efforts and bring the bottle directly to my lips and take a long, needed drink.
CHAPTER 48
LILLIAN
I’m starting to understand my limitations. I can’t move things. No one can hear me. I can move in and out of places and to and from locations by just thinking of them. I realize now that Mike never saw or heard me when I went home from the cemetery.
I seem to be stuck, with no memory of how I died, and with nothing to do but watch the never-ending channels of real life. The colors are duller now than they were earlier, the sounds softer. Everything is starting to fade, which makes me think that soon, I will disappear entirely.
While I am contemplating this, Jacob walks in and drops his backpack on the table. Hitching his pants higher, he starts up the stairs, his head bobbing to some music on his headphones.
Oh no.I follow him as he checks something on his phone. He doesn’t know, and I’m tempted to fade away, to shield myself from this.
Mike calls his name and Jacob groans at the top of the stairs. “What?” he shouts down.
“Come here.”
No, Mike. You should go up to his room, should deliver the news somewhere other than the dining room.Then again, is there ever a good place to tell your son that his mother is dead?
Jacob takes his time, changing his shirt first and pulling off one shoe, then the other. My anxiety rises as he plugs his phone into the charger, his face insolent as he intentionally drags out the trip downstairs. He’s pushing Mike’s buttons, but this isn’t the time, and I cling close to him, inhaling the scent of him, unsure how long I will be able to experience it.
By the time he makes his way slowly down the stairs, one foot thudding before the other, I am crying, as much for myself as for him. Our last conversation was a fight. That video ... Will that be the last imprint of me on his mind?
I won’t be at his wedding.
Won’t hold his child.
I won’t be able to give him advice on life, or love, or college, or anything, ever again.
I didn’t know. I didn’t realize that that conversation would be our last. If I had, I wouldn’t have let him go. I would have begged him for forgiveness. I would have forced him to listen to me, and then I would have given him every piece of wisdom that I had.
Now Mike delivers the news with slow, carefully chosen words. He probably practiced them in the office before Jacob got home, emphasizing different words in different combinations to see how they delivered. The winner still hits sour on my ears.Your mom was found on the beach. It looks like an overdose. We’re waiting on more information.
I’m shaking my head because an overdose can’t be right, but I will have to deal with that later. Right now my focus is on Jacob, who has sat down at the dining room table, in the chair I normally use, and his hands are in his lap, and he’s not looking at Mike. He’s looking at the table, and I can see a shell shuttering around him, like a beach house boarded up before a storm.
“Are they sure it’s her?” He’s not crying, and that’s the Mike in him. The complete swallow of emotion, the energy focused on the diagnosis and next steps. “A lot of people look like her. People are always sayingthat she looks like that actress. The one fromWeeds. Maybe it’s that woman.”
I try to touch his shoulder and I can’t.
“I’m going to the station to identify her body, so I’ll make sure—but the police are certain. She’s wearing the clothes that your mom was last seen in.”
The clothes I was last seen in. I close my eyes and try to remember the last thing I was wearing, but I can’t even remember what I did yesterday.
Then Jacob lets out a sound, a stiff gasp, and as I watch helplessly, his flat features seize, then crack, and my stoic boy, my boy who never cries at anything, begins to loudly sob, and watching it is the single worst moment of my life.