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

daydreaming the afternoon away without anyone so much as noticing I’m at the table, in body only, my mind in a distant land.

“You’ll figure things out soon, Lana. Don’t rush it, and don’t be too hard on yourself. These things take time,” I hear Vivian saying as I tune back into the conversation.

This can only mean one thing. Lana has been telling her tale of woe. I figured that would happen sometime today. She relaxes a little, feels comfortable with the company she’s in, and opens her mouth to sing her sad little song and hopefully get some positive reinforcement. Someone to tell her everything will be okay. What they don’t tell her is that maybe everything won’t be okay. Maybe she won’t fall in love or get her dream job or have a group of friends that will rival those in Sex and the City. Maybe she’ll live at home with her parents forever.

Maybe they’ll get really tough and tell her she should get off her ass and do something about it. Unfortunately, we save that kind of talk for social media anonymity these days.

Shit. That means my dreams won’t come true either. You know, to be able to leave the house for lunch without Lana tagging along or sobbing that she’s too lonely. Or to go on vacation for a whole week. I don’t even care where I go—beach or snow, city or deserted island—as long as it doesn’t involve me cooking or cleaning or doing laundry or having to comfort a crying child. It means I might never have sex with my husband again because Lana could burst into our room at any moment, having had a bad dream.

What did I do to deserve this? I must have been a real bitch in a past life.

Maybe I treated my mom like Lana treats me. I don’t think that’s the case, but perhaps I’m remembering things incorrectly. That could be the only logical explanation of why I am being so punished now.

“Thanks for bringing me along today,” Lana says as I drive us home and she blares Taylor Swift a little too loudly over the car speakers. I know the words as well as her. I don’t mind the music, but I wouldn’t mind playing some Cher or Barbra Streisand every now and again. That’s forbidden, however; Lana’s eyes would pop out of her head at the mere suggestion. Oh, and if I tried to sing along, forget it. She’d probably grab the steering wheel and drive us right into a tree to end the pain. She’s allowed to sing, though.

“No problem,” I say. She actually seems like she’s in a good mood at the moment, which does happen sometimes. She’s not a devil child. She does some cleaning, on her terms; you know, the things that don’t gross her out too much. Or scare her. For some inexplicable reason she’s afraid of the vacuum cleaner. She buys gift certificates to my favorite local spa so we can go get mani-pedis together. I know it’s really just so she can have an excuse to be pampered without having to ask me outright, but at least I get the pampering, too. Sometimes she even sits with her father and me while we watch a movie instead of retreating to the privacy of her room. While it’s nice to spend time with her, it means the movie we chose is now most likely out of the question in favor of some deep, Oscar-winning documentary.

“It was good to get out. I spend too much time at home.”

“I agree,” I say, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Why don’t you give some of your old high school or college friends a call? I bet some of them still live in town. Maybe you could reconnect. Or hang out at a bar. Do things the old-fashioned way.”

“I’ll think about it,” she says.

That’s a lie. She won’t think about a damn thing other than the next pair of Louboutins she’d like us to buy for her, which after weeks of begging, prodding, and crying, one of us will give in and purchase, if only to make the whining stop.

“You never know. Might be good for you.”

We don’t talk the rest of the ride home. Instead, I am treated to one hell of a pitchy concert. Luckily, I’ve learned to tune Lana’s singing out most of the time.

“It sounds like you two had a pretty nice day,” Dave says, climbing into bed with me.

Maybe it’s my upbeat mood, since today wasn’t a total disaster. Then again, it’s probably that Dave looks like he’s been spending extra time in the gym. His body is warm and comforting, so much better than any blanket. I really hope this muscle definition isn’t a symptom of cheating. He couldn’t really be blamed—who wouldn’t want an escape from this. On the other hand, it may be just the thing to put me over the edge.

I push those thoughts aside and live in the moment, as though I have another choice.

“We did,” I say, nestling my head into the crevice between his arm and chest, more comfortable than I’ve been in weeks.

I wrap the covers around me tightly, inhaling their fresh, just-washed scent. I don’t think I look too bad either—not that I have ever let myself go, but since I’ve been home so much, our elliptical trainer is my only escape.

Lana never complains when I go to the exercise room. She wants me to be a pretty mom, in prime cardiovascular health. Even though Dave works ten, sometimes twelve hours a day, if he doesn’t hit the gym to work out with his trainer or jump on the elliptical, she lectures him, sometimes for the better part of an hour. He’s learned that this time is better spent just doing the workout.

Lana might not readily admit this, but she’s always been more of a daddy’s girl. Me dying is unacceptable, particularly since she spends all day long with me, but Dave