Well, I’m sure you know.
The first week or two, you’re going to have an outpouring of sympathies from those closest to you—and maybe even a few distant acquaintances who feel affected by this tragedy. But once the fanfare fades and everyone carries on with their life, you’ll be forced to carry on with yours as well.
It might seem impossible.
And it’ll be the hardest thing you’ll ever have to do.
But I’m here to tell you, you can do it.
And if you ever want to talk, vent, commiserate … I’m here.
Send me an email.
Or not.
It’s completely up to you.
I just wanted you to know you aren’t alone.
With sincerest sympathies,
An Anonymous Stranger
I hold my breath and press ‘send.’ A whooshing sound a second later confirms the message has gone through. There’s no taking it back now. No second-guessing whether or not I’m overstepping my boundaries.
I don’t expect a response, but sending this message wasn’t about that.
I want him to know he isn’t alone, that there’s someone else in this world who understands the devastating magnitude his pain.
In my heart of hearts, I know Trevor would’ve done the same.
No …
Trevor would’ve sent a handwritten card. A flower arrangement, too.
But in this case, an email should suffice.
Closing my laptop lid, I place it aside and clear my breakfast dishes. The window over the kitchen sink showcases a grayscale morning with a hint of light breaking through the foggy atmosphere.
Larissa’s sunrise memorial should be starting any minute now.
I think of the stranger—Bennett, what he must be going through. I picture him dressing in his best suit, steeling his emotions, and putting on a brave face as he greets their friends and family.
I think of the stranger.
I think of him all morning.
8
Bennett
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A “grieving” Victoria Tuppance-Schoenbach stands by an oversized (and outdated) photo of a smiling Larissa at her Betancourt graduation, her skin clear and eyes vibrant as she hadn’t yet discovered the thrills of crystal meth, angel dust,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.