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

“I don’t want kids,” she says. “You know that.”

I do know that. She only tells me every chance she gets. I try not to let it get to me, but what woman doesn’t want to be a grandmother—or a mother, for that matter? Maybe there is something more deeply wrong with Lana. Or maybe I should just be happy her genes won’t continue. Of course, that means I also have to be happy that mine won’t, because some of these problems had to come from Dave and me, even if we don’t like to admit it. Either our genetics or our parenting tainted Lana to the point that I often fear she will never be a contributing member of society.

Instead of saying all of that, though I have said similar things to her before, I say, “Even if you don’t want kids, you can still date and get married. Kids don’t have to be part of the deal.”

If only my mother had told me that. Oh, how things would be different.

To my complete and total shock, she takes my advice. She goes to her computer, a fancy top-of-the-line model Dave bought her so she could write a novel or a blog or start her genius work-from-home business that was going to revolutionize life, not just for Lana, but for everyone. None of those things have happened yet, but I’m just happy she’s using it, and for an idea I gave her, no less.

The rest of the week is quiet. Lana is filled with the hope of falling in love through the computer. She even suggests I meet a friend for lunch. She probably wants me to say “Oh, no, that’s okay. I’ll stay home with you.” But I don’t. I jump all over her offer like I jump on a glass of wine at the end of the day.

I call Andrea. We’ve been friends for years, and used to live in the same neighborhood. Then I moved away to start a family and a new life. For better or worse, she stayed. “It’s fine,” she says all the time. I can’t tell if that’s the truth or not, but she says the same thing about her marriage, so maybe I shouldn’t read too much into it. And now I haven’t seen her in years. Maybe it will be weird, but then again, perhaps it will be exciting. We won’t run out of things to talk about, that’s for sure.

She says she can meet for lunch. I tell her I’ll be at the café just around the corner from her house in an hour. That gives me thirty minutes to get ready and thirty to get there. I’ll be rushed, but that’s okay with me, because Lana may change her mind at any moment, and that’s a risk I’m not willing to take.

The thought of being at the café is appealing to me; I used to love it there. And I also enjoy the drive—the alone time without Lana or Dave or TV, or even music—just me and the sounds of the road.

Andrea, still beautiful, even though we’ve both passed middle age, arrives twenty minutes late. Ironic, since she literally could have walked to the place, but I say nothing, because beggars can’t be choosers. Besides, sitting outdoors—the birds singing, the flowers blooming, the sun shining while I waited for her with a glass of sangria—was rather blissful.

“Hey!” she says, enveloping me in a hug. We walk inside to our table and she drops her Chanel bag on the floor. I’ll never understand how someone can treat such an expensive bag with such disregard. Even my Coach bag is stowed safely behind me, on my chair. There’s only one person who can have Chanel bags in my house, and I’ll give you one guess who that is.

Somehow Andrea still looks like a supermodel. Her maxi dress and wedge sandals appear effortless, as do the beachy waves in her red hair. I swear she’s not even wearing any makeup. Suddenly I’m self-conscious of my black sleeveless dress and blonde hair that didn’t do what I wanted today. I need to invest in a hat.

“It’s good to see you,” I say, after Andrea orders a drink. It is good to see her, even if I’m a bit jealous of her beauty and afraid I look like I’ve run a marathon before heading to lunch.

“It’s always good to see you, Mags,” she says. “It seems like you’re never available, so when you called I was, like, it’s now or never I guess.”

“Yeah, sorry, it’s just since Lana’s been home.”

“You spoil her. Make her get a job. Kick her out of the house.”

“It’s not that easy,” I say, a mixture of embarrassed that she’s calling me out on my decidedly lackluster parenting skills and angry that she’s offering such harsh advice, since she’s only been a mother to a few dogs, none of which have ever seemed to live very long.

“Sure it is. And stop buying her all that stuff. I mean, come on, the new Balenciaga bag.”

“How’d you know that?” I ask, genuinely puzzled.

“I follow Lana on Instagram.”

I laugh. “Really? I don’t even follow her on Instagram. I don’t have an Instagram.”

“It’s a nice feed. She’s smart and talented and pretty. Seems like she’s got everything going for her.”

“All things I’ve told her,” I interrupt.

“So she should be able to go make a life for herself and leave you and Dave alone.”

That sounds so menacing. Me and Dave. Alone.

It was different when Lana was gone before. She still needed us all the time. Called. Texted. E-mailed. At all hours of the day or night. We never had the chance to miss her. But if she moved away and had a family of her own, a life of her own—if she didn’t need us, what would we do? Would we make it? Would we even love each other anymore? Dave and I haven’t been together without Lana as a part of our daily lives in