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

“She ended it,” I say, then regret it as soon as the words come out of my mouth. Not because they aren’t true, but because Dave is having a hard time accepting that they are.

“Why does that matter so much to you? You keep saying it over and over again, like it should make it easier for me to accept her death. Clearly it’s made things easier for you.”

“She had the fucking life, Dave. Don’t you agree?”

“No, obviously not. She killed herself, so she did not have the life.”

“She wanted to come home. She wanted nice things. She didn’t work. She did whatever the hell she wanted. And then she went and killed herself and left us to clean up the mess. I’m sad about it, I am,” I say, getting worked up, “but I’m pissed about it too.”

“We failed her, Margaret,” he says, pulling the car over. He puts it in park.

I just want to go home, but it seems Dave has other ideas. The air-conditioning is blasting us, blowing my hair all over the place, ruffling his shirt like the feathers of a bird.

He looks right at me. “We failed her. We are the problem here, not her. If the most expensive funeral is possibly any consolation to her, if she can see or hear us, wherever she is now, then I want her to have it.”

I’ve never heard such profound words come out of Dave. They bring a tear to my eye. I shiver, then turn off the air. It gets stuffy in the car almost instantly, but I like it better than the chill of the fan.

“Me, too,” I say. “But what about us? We can’t empty our savings trying to pay for her funeral in hopes that maybe it will comfort her, because she’s dead. It won’t.”

“We won’t,” he waves his hand. “I make plenty of money, and I figure you might want to get a job, for something to do. You spent your days with Lana.”

Not by choice.

“You don’t have many friends,” he continued. “I’d hate for you to spend all day in that big, lonely house and want to kill yourself too.”

My eyes bulge. Does he really think I’m going to suddenly become suicidal? I do not want to kill myself. Nor do I want to get a job. I’ve been out of the workforce for the past twenty years, and I only worked part-time before that. Once Lana was born, I was out. What does he want me to do—be one of the old ladies who works at Hallmark? No, thank you.

“I’d rather stay at home. Get in touch with some old friends. Do some work around the house, or look for a new one. I don’t really want to get a job. I don’t feel ready to face people,” I say, figuring Dave might understand that.

“I don’t want you to get stressed, so you do what’s best for you. Moving’s a good idea. I can’t think about anything other than Lana when I’m in the house. We could downsize.”

Downsize? He wants to downsize? I’m not moving into some shitty apartment. Does he want to live in one of those active senior communities? I can tell him right now, that is not happening, unless he wants to do it alone. I want to build a nice new house. Change all the things I hate about this one. Downsize. He’s clearly lost his mind.

“We don’t have to rush into anything,” I say, trying to change the topic before he puts down a deposit on some shithole. “Why don’t we take a vacation?” I suggest, figuring it may help both of us cope.

“How can you think of taking a vacation right now?” he asks, shocked. “We haven’t even buried Lana yet.”

“After the funeral, of course,” I say. How could he think I meant before? “I thought it might help us forget.”

“Forget!” he says with vitriol. “How can we forget? You know,” he continues, “I feel like I don’t even know you anymore.”

“Forget was the wrong word,” I say, trailing off. The rest of the ride, the rest of the day, in fact, is filled with nothing but contentious silence.

He’s right. He doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him. The only person we’ve gotten to know over the past twenty-seven years is Lana, and in doing so, we’ve totally lost ourselves, and each other. But none of that matters. Lana is the only thing that matters.

Still.

As soon as I walk into the funeral home, I worry no one’s going to show up. The first hour is just for family, and I’m not holding my breath that they’ll show up either. I thought they would feel as though they had some kind of duty, but apparently I am wrong. We are early, thanks to Dave’s antsy anxiety that we’d hit a traffic jam in the middle of the day on a five-minute trip, but I didn’t protest and got in the car, too tired to fight another battle.

As time ticks by, more and more people show up. First, my sister Beth, her workaholic husband who barely put his phone down even when paying his respects, and her bratty kids, running amok. But at least they showed up.

Seeing them makes everything hit me hard. I can’t breathe, can’t stop the tears. Dave’s right; I do wish I was dead, right along with Lana. I want to be with my daughter, not all these people who want to hug me and say how sorry they are and look at me with those sad, pitiful eyes. I can’t do this. But I have to. I force myself to be brave, for Dave. For Lana.

The floral arrangements are overwhelming. There are the callas, of course, and then dozens more from our friends, Lana’s friends from college, even from Lana’s former employer, who always liked her. Liked her. It’s nice he sent flowers. Pretty ones, too; a big bouquet of pink roses. Lana would have found roses mundane,