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

but at least they aren’t red. She would have died all over again at how clichéd that would be, and I would have died of embarrassment.

Dave’s a sniveling mess in the corner, barely able to stand upright; I’m not sure if that’s from the grief or all the alcohol he’s consumed. I don’t dare look in the mirror to see if I’m looking any better.

I can’t believe after all this time that she actually went through with it. In some ways, I’m impressed. It took balls, and planning. I wouldn’t have the courage to kill myself even if I wanted to die. I guess if I somehow found the strength, I’d kill myself in a car. You know, get a little drunk, go sit in the car in the garage. Turn on the engine, roll down the windows, and let it ride. I’d just drift off peacefully into another land.

But Lana didn’t ask for my advice, now, did she?

Prepared for a long day, one in which it would be totally and completely unacceptable for me to pull out my cell phone, no matter how badly I needed a distraction, I walk over to the wall of windows overlooking a well-landscaped area and stare.

A waiter walks over and jars me out of my meditative state. “Would you like a mini Kobe beef Wellington with shaved truffles, ma’am?”

“Sure,” I say, grabbing one off the untouched tray. I might as well eat the food I paid for; no one else is.

I notice Dave still sitting in the corner, his head in his hands. I grab another mini beef Wellington and walk over to him. I sit down right next to him, his slightly itchy, cheaply made suit jacket rubbing against my bare arm, and offer him the food.

To my surprise he takes it. He leans back in the chair and slowly starts eating. I follow suit.

“It’s a good turnout,” he says. “She was a sweet girl, really, and it’s nice to see that people care.”

He’s right. She was a nice girl, with a giant heart. It’s too bad none of these people are her friends. If she’d gotten out in the world, met people, made connections, maybe things would have turned out differently. Maybe we wouldn’t be sitting here. I can’t do anything about it now, but I enjoy my Wellington, knowing I tried when she was alive.

She tried, too; oh my, did she try. She’d invite kids, and then later, teenagers, young adults, and adults, to dinner and movies and concerts. Sometimes people said yes and then ignored her the whole time, other times they said yes and canceled at the last minute, but most of the time they said no, laughing in her face, as if they didn’t belong in the same world as her.

“Maybe people aren’t as awful as I thought,” I say, putting my hand on his.

“Where did we go wrong?” he asks, looking straight ahead at her casket, adorned with enough calla lilies to cover three weddings.

“I’m not sure we did. She was a different, unhappy person. It was just how she was.”

The waiter with the Wellingtons walks over to us.

“Just set the tray down,” I say. He places it on an end table next to me, and I hand Dave another before grabbing one for myself.

“I don’t know how to move on,” he says.

I want to cheer him up, so I say, “We’ll figure it out together.”

We sit devouring the plate of food, accepting the condolences of all the guests. I feel more connected to Dave than I have since . . . well, since Lana was born.

As the sun is setting outside that giant wall of windows, some of Dave’s friends from work walk in. They are kind and full of hugs, and some unwelcome kisses, even though we have never met before. It makes the time pass quickly, and I soon realize it is the most human interaction I have had in years. I’m not crying anymore; neither is Dave. We are tired and possibly numb, but I will take what I can get.

We make plans for them to come over to the house for a party one day soon. I honestly can’t remember the last time we had a party. When Lana was too young to protest, most likely. Once she was old enough to understand, she raised questions about inviting people we didn’t like, just to be fair. She protested not being invited, but refused to attend when offered the chance.

The thought of having people over fills me with a bit of dread and anxiety, but I push it aside. I won’t be fated to share the same terrible life, and end, as Lana. Plus, it’s easy to say we’ll have a party. It’s much more difficult to follow through. Figuring that out is a hurdle for another day, far, far in the future.

Once they leave, Dave grabs my hand. I’m not sure if Dave has ever grabbed my hand in public before. I suppose this can’t really be considered public, since by this point, it’s just the two of us, the manager, a couple other employees, and the waiter. Oh, and the cellist, who has been taking requests all afternoon.

“Maybe we should take that vacation,” Dave says. “A party, a vacation—it might help us heal.”

“I’ll plan something. We can’t die just because she did.”

“I know, but right now I want to,” he says, and I want to cry. How am I supposed to hold us together when everyone around me wants to die, including me? Is this how everyone thinks?

“Don’t say that,” I reply, squeezing his hand in mine so he knows without a doubt that I am with him; we are together; we are one. “Let’s go.”

I don’t know where the words come from. I mean, I do want to leave, particularly knowing that tomorrow we have another long, lonely day, with the burial and all, but I know Dave won’t want to go, and I’d really like the day not