Cause of Death Laura Dembowski (best selling autobiographies txt) 📖

these things made of? Gold? But my parents buy them for me all the time—Dad, out of guilt, Mom, as a way to bribe me. They’re what I have and they are well made, so I wear them. And okay, maybe I’m starting to like some of them, but I will never pay that kind of money for a pair of shoes when it’s my dime on the line.

I drag my Louis Vuitton suitcases down the stairs one at a time. They are heavy, too heavy for me to lift, but I can’t wait for Dad to come home and help me. I am determined to leave now. As I finish making the last trip, Mom approaches.

“I’m sorry about what I said before. You know I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, but you scared me, and I don’t want to be frightened of my own mother.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s time for you to leave; I know that. Just stay one or two more nights while we figure all of this out.”

“No,” I say, stomping my foot, determined to hold my ground.

“Come on; I’m your mom. What’s a couple more days going to change? I need you. Please. You can’t leave with our relationship like this.”

I soften my stance. One more night won’t be so bad, but that’s it. I’ll just call Zack and tell him. He’ll understand. We can start our lives together soon enough.

“Fine,” I say. I leave my bags behind and go make dinner with Mom, hoping for an uneventful night.

Chapter 5

Margaret

I’m sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee, reading the newspaper. Lana isn’t up yet even though it’s nearly ten. I must admit, it’s rather nice to sit here in peace. I almost forget about her being in the house at all until I hear Dave yell.

The sound is bloodcurdling. I’ve never heard anything like it before, certainly not out of my husband.

I run up the stairs and call his name.

“Margaret,” he says breathlessly.

I run into Lana’s room and see the source of his dismay.

Lana is hanging from the ceiling fan by a scarf. Hermès. How appropriate.

Dave tries to get her down, but it is not a one-person job. I hurry over to help him and together we manage to lay her lifeless body on the floor. Both of us fight through sobs as I check for a pulse and Dave throws off his jacket to do CPR. There is no pulse, but he begins chest compressions anyway.

“Call nine-one-one,” he roars at me.

I don’t know why I didn’t think of that myself, but I run back downstairs, thundering through the house to retrieve my cell phone. I dial 911.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the female voice answers.

“My daughter. She hanged herself,” I say frantically.

“Okay, ma’am. I’m sending emergency technicians right now, but can you tell me, is your daughter breathing?”

I run back upstairs. “Is she breathing?” I ask Dave.

He stops compressions and checks her pulse, then puts his ear close to her nose and mouth to listen. He shakes his head. “No, she’s not breathing.”

“Can you do chest compressions?” the 911 operator asks.

“My husband already is. It’s not working,” I scream into the phone. “It’s not working.”

“The ambulance should be there shortly. Keep doing compressions, and I’ll stay on the phone with you until help arrives.”

She does stay on the phone, repeating that the ambulance is on its way. But I know there’s no hope. She could have been hanging there all night for all we know. I can tell Dave is growing tired and defeated, knowing he can’t save his precious little girl. Our precious little girl.

When I hear the ambulance pull up, I run back downstairs, figuring that at least I’m getting my cardio in for the day. I open the door for the EMS workers, and seeing them flips a switch in me. I lose control of myself and start wailing, as though none of this was real until the moment they walked in the door. This can’t be happening. All I’ve ever done was take care of Lana, and this is not possible.

I manage to compose myself enough to lead the workers upstairs. They check Lana for a pulse and do some CPR, but within a couple of minutes, they know there is no saving her. Lana is gone.

When they stop working on her, I fling myself onto her body, barely noticing the police officers that now fill our house. Why are they here? I clutch Lana so hard that I dig my nails into her back. She still smells like herself. Smells alive.

“She’s not dead,” I scream. “She can’t be. I can smell her.”

I pick her up and feel the weight of her body on my chest. I don’t want to let go, but the EMS assholes pry her from me and put her on a stretcher to take her downstairs.

We watch as the technicians put her into the ambulance. I ask to ride along, but they say that’s not a good idea, so we follow them to the hospital in our car so a doctor can officially pronounce her dead.

Dead. Lana is dead.

For the first time since we found Lana we are silent. The absence of sound is awkward and making me paranoid. It is an eerie silence that makes me squirm in my seat. I wish one of us would say something. I could easily solve this problem by speaking, yet I don’t, since I have nothing to say.

As we near the hospital, Dave finally speaks.

“You should have taken her to a doctor.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I work. She was your responsibility.”

“You two were always so close,” I say. “It’s not like you really thought she’d ever do this.”

He sighs. “No, I guess I didn’t, but still.”

“So you’re blaming me for her death?” I ask angrily. My daughter has just died, and now my husband is accusing me of being responsible.

“No, I’m not. I just—”

“You think I could have stopped this?” I said, cutting him off. It’s like when he says,