Читать книгу Favourite Daughter - Kaira Rouda Sturdivant - Страница 13

I stand at the edge of a cliff when suddenly the earth gives way and I’m falling, my hands reach for something to hold on to, something to stop my fall, but it’s only air. I’m tumbling, screaming.

I wake with a start and sit up quickly, my heart racing. My regular nightmare, I can’t make it stop, bursting into my subconscious. I jolt awake before I hit the water, before I drown like Mary did.

My heart races as I take deep breaths and try to calm down. I’m safe in bed. It’s dark outside. David is home, how nice, snoring beside me after his workout and dinner. Climbing out of bed, I’m desperate for a drink. Of water, or wine, or both. But first, I creep into the bathroom, illuminating my way with the soft light from my phone. And there is David’s phone, where he always leaves it, plugged in and resting on the counter next to his sink. My heart thumps as I quickly enter the code and smile with relief when I realize he hasn’t changed it. It’s our two birthdays, 1420. I open Find My Friends on my phone, a feature I didn’t realize we all have until I did a little research. How wonderful. I send David’s phone an invite, and accept on his behalf. Now I’ll know exactly where he is all the time. I glance out toward the bed, listening for the quiet rumble of his snore. There it is.

I grab his phone again and open the text messages even though I’ve already read them in real time with my handy parental control app, otherwise known as spyware. These products are versatile. I mean, they sell them so we concerned parents can track our kids, a perfectly legitimate use, am I right? And can you ever be too vigilant, too protective? Of course not. Don’t judge—everybody uses these things, not just me.

I simply added one more person to my bundle, my loving husband. Oh, look, there is a new text. From her: smiley, kissy face, red heart. She’s so predictable with her childish overuse of emoticons, and her stupid declarations of love. As if Italian food is romantic. It’s not. It’s fattening. She’s ridiculous. David, I’m sure, has realized it, too.

It’s not all his fault that he fell into her arms. Men are needy. And I know, I’ve been rather distant, ignoring him, first adjusting to Mary going away to college and then her tragic death. I’ve been lost in my complicated grief. So he looked for attention elsewhere. That’s finished now. I’m back in the game, large and in charge, as they say. Sure, she’ll be sad for a little bit, but she’ll move on. She’s so young, so good at the game. There are plenty of wealthy, older men for her to latch on to. Tomorrow at the memorial service she’ll witness David and me in love, unified. The service will be our recommitment ceremony of sorts. It also will be the end of smiley, emoticon over-user. Time’s up.

I replace his phone on the counter, just where he left it, and hurry through the bedroom, down the hall and into the kitchen. I adjust the lights to the dimmest setting and feel my way along the smooth countertop until I reach the sink. I fill a glass with water and chug it, noticing lights are on downstairs in Betsy’s room below me. Our home tumbles down the side of the hill. The front door is at street level, but the girls’ rooms are downstairs, downhill. Not a basement—we don’t call it that here—just a lower level.

This is the best hour to chat. I often surprised the girls during middle school and high school, at night, catching one or the other as she raided the refrigerator after studying. It’s best, I find, to get them alone and hungry, to give them food and share my wisdom. But Betsy doesn’t join me for kitchen chats anymore, not since Mary left for college. But that’s okay. I go to her.

I like to keep track of Betsy, too, but I’ll admit, I’ve been a little lax when it comes to my younger daughter. Sure, I check the app regularly, but she isn’t as active on her phone as David or Mary. Likely, it’s because Betsy doesn’t have many friends. But still, I need to reconnect with her. I pull up Betsy’s account, just to check. Yep, nothing there. She needs me, poor Betsy. Such a lonely girl. But I’m here for her, always. Even with all that I have going on, I did call the school counselor last week to find out if Betsy was on track to graduate, and Angelica surprised me.

“Betsy is doing remarkably well her senior year considering all that has happened,” Angelica had said. Then she proceeded to effuse over Betsy’s choice of community college, followed by a transfer to a more prestigious college. Betsy likely won’t make it out of community college, but I didn’t tell Angelica that. I’d thanked her and hung up.

Angelica was right about one thing: for Betsy, community college will be fine. It will keep her close to home, where she belongs. Without Mary to place my biggest hopes and dreams on, I’m left with Betsy. At least she doesn’t need to bother with sibling rivalry anymore. Things have shifted between us this year, just normal teenage rebellion, I’m sure. I’ll get us back on track. I mean, we were all teenagers once. And I love Betsy. So much.

I pull open the refrigerator and spot the Salerno’s to-go order of four, white-boxed pasta dishes. David must have retrieved them from the front door, where I’d asked the driver to leave the food. How nice of him to bring them inside. I consider throwing the food away, but instead I grab my bottle of chardonnay, pouring a generous amount into a coffee mug. It’s not like I have an issue, but I don’t want to set a bad example for my daughter. You understand. I take a big gulp of wine, and open my junk drawer, every great kitchen has one, and pull out the letter from the bank that arrived in our mailbox last week. I unfold it and stare at the now-familiar words.

Dear Mr. Harris. Congratulations! You have been approved for the mortgage on 1972 Port Chelsea Place, Newport Beach. All of us at First Federal thank you for choosing us...

My heart pounds as I fold the letter into a square, and tuck it away at the back of the drawer. I love that David is surprising me, that he wants a fresh start. I just hope he announces it soon. It’s so hard for me to keep this a secret—it must be killing him. This letter is proof he still loves me, loves our family despite the tough year we’ve had since Mary died. I realize my grief was hard for David to handle. It was a necessary, normal part of what happens when a mom loses a daughter. I know, I’ve researched it, choreographed it. Truth be told, I may have enjoyed the pill haze a little too much. I mean, there isn’t a national pill-popping crisis for no reason. These things are addictive.

It’s ironic, isn’t it? A letter from a big bank snapped me out of it. This is likely the only good thing a big bank has ever done for anybody, ever. I’m looking at you, Wells Fargo.

I take a drink of my wine and feel just a little sorry I’ve ruined the surprise he has for me. But, like I said, I’m a professional actress. I was just one role away from getting my SAG card back in the day. When he tells me, which should be any moment now, I’ll throw my arms around him and cry tears of joy. I’m already familiar with the new neighborhood. Although it isn’t a gated community, it’s a fabulous choice. The Port Streets are lovely, quiet and safe, with sidewalks, green spaces galore and a smattering of people out walking their dogs before bed. How exciting it will be to walk through the door of our new home. Even though I’m beyond tempted, I’ve been so good and haven’t driven past it yet, or looked it up online. I know you’re impressed.

Maybe David will take me to our new home tomorrow, and then we can step through the front door together. Or, better yet, he’ll swoop me into his arms and carry me across the threshold. Okay, no, he won’t. The wine is making me a little giddy, combining with the itty-bitty Xanax I took to help with my nap, no doubt. No matter how he tells me the good news, I can’t wait.

I rinse the coffee mug in the sink. I’ll go downstairs and tell Betsy it’s bedtime in a friendly, warm voice. I will reignite our mother-daughter bond. In my mind, Dr. Rosenthal nods and says, Good idea, you need to take care of your only daughter, be there for Betsy, her curly salt-and-pepper hair bobbing up and down. She twirls her black-rimmed glasses in her right hand, before placing them in their case for the night.

The doctor is not here. I know that. But she would be pleased I am being the mother she wants me to be.

I make my way to the stairs and grasp the handrail tightly, reminding myself that the number one cause of accidental deaths at home is falling. Six thousand people trip and die annually in the US. At the bottom of the stairs I stop to remember the “girls only” phase as if it was yesterday. Mary in fifth grade and Betsy in fourth grade decided their floor would be girls only and taped a sign to the steps to that effect. I was welcome, David wasn’t. The way it should be, but it didn’t last long.

I dart past Mary’s closed bedroom door, stop in front of Betsy’s and turn the knob. It’s locked, as always. David threatened to have a locksmith make a master key years ago, but we never did. Never will now. I knock on the door.

“What?” Betsy sounds mad. I think she might have a temper. She always was the difficult one.

“It’s Mom.”

The door opens and Betsy stands in front of me in an oversize USC sweatshirt—Mary’s, I presume—with a smirk on her face. “What did I do to deserve this midnight visit? If you’re trying to gossip about something—or someone—you can forget it. I’m going to sleep.”

Betsy thinks I am a gossip, but I’m not. I share important information, things she needs to know. She should be glad she can rely on me. She’s running out of time to learn. “You have a very vivid imagination. I’m not a gossip.”

“No, you just share negative things about people, keep us guessing. I’m sure that’s not harmful at all.” Betsy makes a chuckling sound and steps away from the door.

I wonder if I’m allowed in.

“Don’t be rude. I came down to tuck you in. It’s bedtime. But never mind. You know I’ve only ever loved you and tried to make you happy.” I pout. I pretend to feel hurt, but I’m used to this treatment since Mary left for college. It’s an unfortunate development.

“Fine. Come in.” She feels bad. Good. Betsy walks to her bed and flops on her stomach. I follow her inside. The walls of her room are covered with her original art, oil paintings of various sizes, mostly abstract subjects, and phrases such as Manifest Abundance and Nourish Your Higher Self.

A light blue dream catcher dangles from the ceiling above her headboard. This is the bedroom of a busy, creative mind. I agreed a long time ago to let her do whatever she wanted to decorate her room. No one really sees it except the two of us. It’s for the best but I don’t tell her that, of course. I’m all support, all nurture.

I glance at the name Mary tattooed on her right wrist surrounded by tiny pink hearts, and bite my tongue. As far as a tribute to your sister, I could think of many better ideas. But we disagree on that, too.

She catches my smirk and pulls her hands inside the sleeves of her sweatshirt. “Dad said you were passed out for the night.”

Charming of David to say such a thing. “Did you two have dinner together?” I hear the questions tumble out of my mouth, the hint of jealousy and judgment in my words.

Betsy rolls onto her back and sits up. If she were a cat, her claws would be out, ready to defend herself. My daughter is intuitive, I’ll give her that. She says, “No, we didn’t. I guess he was with his friends and I was out with mine. I mean, after art class.”

“Of course he was. How was art class?” I’m grateful she doesn’t add too bad you don’t have any friends, Mom, as she’s said before. She’s watching me as usual. She’s learned from the best.

“Oh, great.” She smiles. Suddenly I know she’s hiding something. But what could it be?

I need to ask her about the email I received from school. “Volunteer Day is Tuesday. Do you want me there?”

Betsy considers me. “Did you go to Mary’s Volunteer Day?”

“Yes. I did.”

“Okay, sure, why not? I’m in charge of painting the backdrop.”

“I can’t paint, but I’ll try.” I can paint as well as Betsy can. I focus on what appears to be a new piece of art hanging on the wall next to where I stand. It looks like a thick, bright red heart. It’s dripping a rainbow of colors that pool into a black sea at the bottom of the canvas. I don’t enjoy abstract art. I like realism, clarity. Not this interpretive style Betsy has concocted. I should tell her it is good but it’s not. Secretly I don’t think she has much talent. But a good mom would never say that to her daughter, and I’m a great mom.

“You don’t like my new piece?” Betsy challenges me. She tries to stir me up. Don’t you just hate it when your teen tries to push your buttons? That’s why God made us smarter than them.

“It’s nice.” I meet her eyes. I smile, sweetly.

She laughs. “Whatever.”

“You know what, you’re right. It’s not my favorite. I just think you could do better. This looks like blood or something. It’s just dark.”

“Wow. An artist paints what she feels, what she knows. It’s subliminal, emotions. You just don’t understand.” She shakes her head. She hasn’t moved from the bed. I don’t think she’s frightened by me, not like I was with my mom. I’ve never hurt her physically. That’s when it’s scary. This little temper of mine, well, it’s nothing compared to my mom. She doesn’t even know how ugly this could be between us. You’ve seen the horror show of moms and teen daughters who despise each other? I have, too. I lived it.

Betsy has no idea just how fortunate she has been.

In fact, it’s almost as if she pities me. She shouldn’t. It’s weak. It’s an emotion that won’t serve her well in this life, certainly not around me. And soon, she’s going to need to be strong: she’s about to enter the cold, hard real world.

I’m not sure how to respond to her silence, so I stare at her and shrug. “I’ve had a long day.”

“Sure you have.” She chuckles again. I know she thinks I do nothing but mope around in our home all day. I guess that is all she sees of me.

I glance at the door across from where I stand. It leads to the back patio. Both girls’ rooms have exterior doors and an external stairway leads to the front, outside courtyard. This is how Betsy comes and goes as she pleases. I should have turned the doors into windows before the teenage years. It’s too late now.

“Mom, anything else?” She’s watching me as I stare at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner of her room. I know she wishes she had my sexy figure, thin build. She has David’s big bones, poor girl. I turn my head, check out my backside looking over my right shoulder. Not bad for forty-two years old.

I remember a question I’d been meaning to ask her, my memory finally coming through. “I haven’t seen Josh lately. Why don’t you invite him over for dinner this week to celebrate graduation?” I haven’t seen him at all, come to think of it. Why didn’t I keep up with them, invite him to dinner? I know they’ve been texting this school year and Betsy is very sweet with him. I just haven’t seen him. I’ve been focused on other things, and healing, of course. It’s hard to explain to anyone who hasn’t been through this how debilitating the loss of a child can be. It makes it so hard to keep track of the other people in your life because you’re so consumed with the one who has gone. But I must. I’m the mother. That’s why I have my handy app. And Betsy has used the love word with him in texts. I need to monitor that kind of language.

“We broke up a couple weeks ago. I meant to tell you.” Her eyes focus on a stain on her bedspread. She picks at it with her fingernail.

“What? Really? Oh, I’m sorry, honey.” I blink and stare at Betsy. She seems unfazed.

“It’s not a big deal. I still love him, as a friend. We’ve always been more friends than anything.” She finally stops picking at the bedspread and smiles at me. “The passion was gone. You know the feeling?”

I don’t want to know, no. I swallow. “I always thought you could do better anyway.” Josh seemed perpetually barefoot, smelled vaguely of weed and needed a bath. Even when he was wearing tennis clothes he seemed, well, dingy. I care about Betsy, and who she dates. It’s a reflection on me, everything she does, everything she will do. “So is there anybody new I should know about?”

She meets my eyes. “No.”

“Well, that’s good. You should focus on your studies. Spend time with me. And Dad. You’ll be graduating so soon.”

“Thank God. And I know what you think, Mom.” She’s staring at the ceiling. Telling herself to be patient with me, perhaps? Her frustration zings through the air, hits me in the gut. Nothing I haven’t handled before.

She should watch herself tonight. I’ve already been so disappointed by her dad this evening.

“I love you.” I walk to her bedside, touch her soft, shoulder-length blond hair with my hand. I lean forward and kiss her cheek and try not to react to the diamond stud sparkling from the side of her nose. I can’t remember if we shopped for a dress for graduation. Did we?

“What are you wearing for graduation?” The look on her face tells me that I should know the answer. One of the aftereffects of strong emotion is memory loss. My memory also is hazy because of the free-flowing pharmaceuticals prescribed by Dr. Rosenthal. But I stopped most of those. I need to focus. Even without the drugs, I can’t seem to hold on to things like before.

“The purple Free People dress. Remember?” Betsy shakes her head.

I don’t remember. “Of course. Now I remember. You’ll be beautiful.”

Betsy smiles, and it’s hollow. I don’t think she believes me, but maybe she just doesn’t care. “I’m wearing the silver one to the ceremony tomorrow.” She looks down at her hands, her fingernails bitten to the quick, another result of the tragic accident we’ll commemorate tomorrow. She curls her hands into fists, hiding the carnage of her fingernails. “Are you sure it was a good idea to invite the whole world to this funeral celebration thing?”

“I’m not sure. Your dad handled it all.”

“Woo-hoo! Come grab a drink. My sister’s dead.” Betsy hops off her bed, takes a step toward her bathroom and stops. Her hands are in fists but her blue eyes have a glassy sheen, as if she’s about to cry. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Oh, honey, you know it’s to remember her, not to celebrate her death. Your dad always likes to go over the top where Mary’s concerned. He always spoiled her. She was his favorite. They had all those secrets. Those inside jokes. That’s why it’s you and me against the world.” I smile at my pot stirring. I dropped some of my best refrains there.

“Mom.” She shakes her head no, but she knows I’m right. “Time for you to go.”

I reach out to her, pull her into a hug. She’s stiff, but she doesn’t push away. I’m glad she trusts me, at least a little. We stand for a moment, locked in a comforting embrace. She’s a good girl at heart.

She breaks the hug, but I slip my hand around her wrist. Holding her tight. Just a little reminder of who is boss. Then I notice a new tattoo on the inside of her left wrist, her Mary tattoo is on her right. I smile and grab her left hand, holding it in the air.

“What’s that? On your wrist?” My tone is too sharp. I force a smile.

Betsy shakes free, steps back from me, recovering her composure, pulling her sleeve down, covering her hand. “It’s an infinity symbol. You know, eternity, empowerment, everlasting love.”

“You didn’t have my permission to mark yourself again.” This is totally unacceptable. The next thing you know, she’ll be covered in those awful things.

“It’s tiny. I’ve had it for months and you didn’t even know. So chillax.” She stares into my eyes until I look away.

Defiant daughters are the worst. “You’ll be sorry, later. When you’re old and saggy.”

She arches her eyebrows. I know she’s thinking about adding, “Like you, Mom.” But I’m neither. So she smiles instead and says, “FYI, I’m meeting some friends after the lame ceremony tomorrow night. We’re planning a few surprises for senior day, and graduation night. I’ll be home late.” Betsy arches an eyebrow. “No need to stalk me.” A challenge.

I meet her eyes and she laughs. She’s teasing me, of course, not laughing at me. She’s eighteen years old. I can’t stop her from doing what she wants and I have other people to stalk right now. “Just be smart.”

“I am smart, Mom, even if you don’t think so.”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I love you.” I’m a master at dodging her, you see. I try hard not to compare her to Mary, but it’s not easy. Mary was brilliant. Beautiful. Oh well. I walk out of the room in silence, pull her door closed behind me and make my way to the stairs. My heart thumps from the tension between us, a tension that only develops when two people love each other deeply. There’s no deeper bond than a mother and a daughter. Betsy knows that, too. She’s just having a little phase.

Upstairs in the kitchen, I pull the bottle of chardonnay back out from its hiding spot behind the orange juice and vanilla almond milk and pour a full glass. I’ve limited myself to one glass a night lately, but tonight is a celebration. I’m proud of my self-control. My liver thanks me, too. Right after Mary died—well, for months after—it was a different story. But now we try to move on.

Some of us have.

In the living room I twist the knob and the fireplace bursts to life. I sit on one of the two overstuffed cream couches that face each other framing the fire. I never dreamed I would live anywhere like The Cove, let alone in a multimillion-dollar, beach-chic soft contemporary. But as I look around, that is where I am. It’s too bad my mom couldn’t see me now, surrounded by all the luxury money can buy. And soon, we’ll move to an even grander home, 1972 Port Chelsea Place. A happy address. I wonder if there’s an ocean view from the second floor of the new house?

I take a big gulp and finish my wine as I stare at the flames leaping in the fireplace. It was a warm day in May, more than a year ago now, when David and I were driving to Los Angeles to help Mary pack up her dorm room, a task I was dreading. I mean, a kid’s dorm room after a full year of college is about the least sanitary place on earth. But there we were, David and I, on a mission together.

“I have a great idea.” I had tapped David’s arm, as if I’d just come up with the idea. I wanted to understand why he had broken his promise to me and allowed Mary to connect with her birth mother. I thought tequila and sex could help me extract an answer. “Let’s go to Cabo for the weekend! Reconnect.”

“You think that’s what we need? To reconnect?” David answered, eyes hidden behind sunglasses, focused on the 405 North.

“I do.” My voice was warm, happy. Inviting. I missed him, us. I missed our family, how it had been. I wanted everyone to be close again. And it started with David.

“And why, exactly, would we go to Cabo now when Mary’s coming home from college today?” He turned up the radio. End of discussion. Tears filled my eyes and I blinked them away. But the betrayal, the hurt? You don’t just blink that away. Those feelings sit at the bottom of your heart, festering.

Once we’d finally packed up her despicable dorm room, Mary took us on a walk around campus.

“Next year I live in that house. Can you believe it?” she gushed as we walked down 29th Street, otherwise known as The Row. The impressive Southern-style Kappa Kappa Gamma sorority house, complete with Doric columns and window boxes bursting with red geraniums, was intimidating to me. I couldn’t imagine living in one house with all those women.

“It looks nice, but not as nice as home. I can’t wait to have you back for the summer.” I slid my arm through hers. She stiffened, or was it my imagination?

David wrapped his arm around her shoulders and she leaned into him, leaving me to walk alone on the sidewalk. Typical.

He said, “This sorority thing will cost me an arm and a leg, that’s all I know.” He pretended to complain but he loved every moment of Mary’s joy, of Mary’s college life. And living vicariously through her social acceptance. A daughter who is a member of the top USC sorority meant good connections for David’s investment business. “Proud of you as always, kiddo.”

“Thanks, Dad. I can’t wait for next year. But, of course, it will be fun to be home for a couple weeks, too.”

“A couple of weeks?” I’d asked. My heart hammered in my chest. She had all summer to be home with us.

“I got a killer internship here. So I’ll come home for a bit and then head back up to LA. My friend has a place I can crash. It’s all worked out perfectly.”

This was new. “You said you’d be home. That you’d work, save up.” My old-fashioned, came-from-nothing work ethic was shining through.

Mary leaned against me. “I know, Mom. But I’m premed. Dad agrees it is a great idea and it is an amazing opportunity with a hospital. I’ll be working with patients and I’ve been offered a research position. It’s important for my résumé, for med school.”

“It’s with her? Elizabeth James? Isn’t it?” They were teaming up against me, again. Tears stung my eyes. Mary had found her birth mother, a woman who was now a leading plastic surgeon in LA. She had agreed to work with her, spend all summer with her.

“Just drop it, Jane. This is a great opportunity for Mary,” David had commanded. The liar. The cheater.

Looking back now, I realize what I had done wrong. I allowed Mary to go away to college, to leave my orbit, and she went awry. Stupid amateur mistake, but she was my first child, so I didn’t realize the pull of college life. I never had the desire for more school, for that fake sorority experience, for the liberal arts degree that leads you nowhere. At her age, I had a career to launch, a future to secure.

And no money. There was that, too. So, sue me. I slipped and let Mary go to USC. A huge mistake.

Once Mary was away, David strayed. It was all because of Mary’s choices. She disobeyed me, disrespected me and caused chaos in our family. I won’t make that mistake again. I’ll keep Betsy close to me, one way or another. I’ve learned my lesson.

That day, in the car, I did as David commanded and dropped it. I didn’t say another word, not on the entire drive back home. I was so furious I don’t remember where we had lunch. The effects of betrayal are deep, and lasting, especially when you are harmed by the people you love the most. I know you’ve been betrayed by someone you loved, haven’t you? See, you don’t forget it. You say you’re over it, but you still remember it, feel the weight of it deep down in your heart. I’m just like you. That day I was in shock, consumed by anger. It’s understandable, don’t you agree?

I force the memories away and stare into the fireplace. I am looking forward to my little coffee date with Elizabeth James tomorrow. It’s step one in the Jane back in control plan. I need her out of our lives completely so I can reconnect with David and Betsy. She’s a malignant tumor I need to extract.

We haven’t seen each other for more than a year. She’d been wary to meet me, for good reason, but I pleaded with her, one mother to another. It’s just coffee, I’d promised.

I stand up feeling a little dizzy from the wine, but it’s nice. I should be able to go back to sleep now. I turn off the fire, flip off the lights in the kitchen and living room, and walk to our bedroom, following the sound of David’s snores. I slide into bed, praying for sleep. Tomorrow is a big day.

As I try to fall asleep I remember my first ladies’ luncheon at The Cove. I’d taken extra time to curl my hair, to wear my most expensive, best-fitting tennis dress. The girls were home with the babysitter. All heads turned as I walked into the room, the new, hot young mom. We’ve all been there. You think you’re queen of the castle until a new princess arrives on the scene. A silence washed over the four white-tablecloth-draped tables.

“Hello, are you Jane?” A woman with a big smile, huge fake boobs (not done as expertly as mine) and an impossibly large diamond extended her hand. “I’m Sarah. Welcome to the neighborhood.” She broke the ice. Deemed me worthy of their acceptance. I should thank her someday, I suppose.

As Sarah escorted me to the seat next to her at table three, the idle conversation started up around me. I knew I was the topic. Once seated, all of my tablemates introduced themselves. I was invited to a Mommy and Me playgroup on Tuesdays, another woman asked me to be her tennis partner in the upcoming mixer. Another asked me to join her book club. Bunco was every Thursday night. I accepted every invitation.

I had arrived. It’s hard to crack into a group of women like this, let me tell you. Have you tried it? My palms were sweating the entire lunch. But they liked me. I was a great girlfriend. I was.

I think the trouble with me and all of them began when I started winning at everything. Tennis, Bunco, even on my snack day at Mommy and Me. Jealousy is a powerful emotion. Slowly, over the years, invitations stopped arriving. And the moms all started looking older, too. Bedraggled, sunburned, sleep deprived. But I never compromised my looks for my kids. I took care of myself. While they all started sagging, I looked even better. It happens. It wasn’t my fault their husbands would give me approving winks.

It hurts. I was invisible to them during the last few years before Mary died and I’m incommunicado now. I always had my kids and my husband to focus on. But what now? What is a housewife to do when her kids leave home? That’s the million-dollar question. Well, actually, I believe our net worth is much more than that, I can assure you. My eyes pop open again and I stare at the ceiling. Grief has given me time to think, to strategize. When everyone ignores you, and tiptoes around you, you have space.

David’s rumbling snores aren’t the worst part about trying to sleep at night. It’s what I see when I close my eyes. Sometimes I wonder if it would have been better if she were never found. Then I would never have viewed her face. I wouldn’t be haunted by the nightmare of the half-eaten shoe still laced onto her half-eaten foot. That’s the other nightmare. It’s falling or the foot.

When those images zoom into my head, I open my eyes and I focus on other things, like random accidental deaths. Did you know hippos kill almost three thousand people a year? I know, I didn’t either. See, you’re distracted just thinking about it.

I don’t tell anyone about these two nightmares. I know they’ll fade away in time, like the memories of my mom getting fainter every day. No, it’s best they all think I am fine. Sure, Betsy and David have caught on to some of my routine. Betsy doesn’t join me in the kitchen for late-night chats these days, and David wasn’t wooed by tonight’s impressive table setting. But no one really knows another person, not fully. And I have so many more loving tricks up my sleeve.

Elizabeth James, for example. She will not come near the ceremony tomorrow, even though I’m certain she has been invited. She isn’t wanted or needed by anyone there. David and Betsy won’t even notice her absence, but they will notice the new and improved, sweet-as-molasses Jane.

The three of us will link arms, walk to the front of the service together, our little family. And then, after the ceremony, David will tell me about our new house and I’ll wrap my arms around his neck as he scoops me into an embrace. The crowd will be so happy that we’ve made it through our loss, that we have found happiness together again. It will be smiles all around, like a dream come true. Even Betsy will be happy, her nose ring sparkling as she nods in approval.

But seriously, I’m going to win them over. Surprise both of them. You’ll see.