Wish You Were Gone(65)
“Where’s your brother?” Alexa asked, shoving through the crowd to join her and Willow.
“I have no idea.”
“Hunter?” Darnell prompted, looking across the room. He was taller than half the people here, so he had a good perspective. But Hunter didn’t show.
Then, something hard pressed the small of Kelsey’s back and she tripped forward. A few people gasped and someone spilled their wine, but when Darnell’s eyes fell on her, they lit up.
“Kelsey!” he said, relieved. “Everyone, this is James’s daughter, Kelsey Walsh. Did you want to say a few words, honey?”
Kelsey turned around and saw Willow smirking at her from behind her champagne glass. Fuck you very much, she said with her eyes. But Willow simply laughed. Alexa’s mouth hung open in shock. What are you doing? she mouthed. Clearly, she’d somehow missed the fact that Willow had shoved her out here. There was no way she was going to do this. What the hell could she possibly say to all these James Walsh disciples?
My father was an asshole who berated me every chance he got and threatened to kill me the night before he died, all because he was convinced I did something for which he had no proof.
That would go over well.
But then, she remembered what her mom had said about her meeting with Mr. Fletcher. That the memorial might give her closure. She’d said it with such underlying hope, like she thought the doors of Madison Square Garden might be the magical portal through which they’d all have to step in order to return to normal. More than anything, Kelsey wanted her mother to stop worrying about her.
She stepped forward and took the microphone from Darnell.
“Hi, everyone,” she said, and adopted an appropriately sad face. “I guess I’ll say a few words about my dad, since my brother’s a dirty no-show.”
There was some light laughter and Kelsey felt buoyed. Though she was definitely going to atomic-wedgie her brother later. If she physically could. She was momentarily distracted by a woman in the front of the crowd, almost as tall as Darnell in strappy heels, wearing a slinky black dress that could have been ripped from the red carpet at the Oscars. Were these really her father’s people?
“My dad did everything a good dad was supposed to do,” she began. “He provided for his family. He gave us a big house out in New Jersey. A private school education. Got Hunter all the best coaches so he could hone his talent and signed him up for every travel league he could find. But he also supported my dream to be a performer.” The lie felt like acid burning through her tongue. “He came to all my recitals when I was little and encouraged me to work on my poise and public speaking. Which is coming in handy right now.”
More laughter.
“But my dad was really so much more than that,” she continued. “He had so much energy and exuded such strength.” Like the time he put his fist through the wall right next to my face. “And so much passion.” Which he displayed through boundless fits of anger. “He worked a lot, don’t get me wrong, but when he was home, we really felt his presence.” Raging through the house breaking windows and plates and mugs and picture frames, telling us all how worthless we were, how ungrateful. “Everyone loved my father.” At least all of you did, clearly. “And it makes my heart feel full to know that he’s touched so many lives.” Bullshit.
Her eyes brimmed with tears as she looked out at the sea of strange faces, all attention riveted on her. She wished she’d had the father she’d just described. She wished she’d known the man these people had worshipped. She wished it with all her broken, blackened heart.
“So on behalf of my brother and my mother and my whole family, thank you all for coming,” she said. “I know I, for one, will never forget this night.”
EMMA
After Kelsey’s surprise eulogy, Emma needed a break. She went to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall for five minutes, where she just let herself bawl. Several people came and went while she snotted all over herself, blowing into toilet paper and coughing so hard she actually thought she might throw up, but no one bothered her. They must have figured that, this being a memorial service, crying was to be expected, and Emma was grateful to be left alone.
She didn’t understand anything. That much was clear to her. Because if Kelsey’s speech had been sincere, then she knew absolutely nothing about her daughter. If Kelsey’s speech had been an act, however, then she was at turns extremely concerned and beyond impressed. Her daughter was some actress. But to be able to get up in front of a group of such world-renowned luminaries and improvise a speech like that seemed borderline pathological.
Tomorrow she would call the therapists on the list Mr. Fletcher had provided. Clearly, growing up in their household had damaged Kelsey in ways Emma couldn’t even begin to understand.
Decision made, she felt much better. She smoothed the front of her skirt, cleared her throat, and prayed her waterproof makeup had survived her breakdown.
When she opened the door, Zoe was standing at the sinks. She looked away guiltily.
“Oh, hello, Zoe,” Emma said. She smoothed her hair and leaned toward the mirror. Her nose was red, her eyes bloodshot, but at least she didn’t look like a raccoon.
“Are you okay?” Zoe asked meekly. She wet a paper towel and handed it to Emma. Her thick, dark hair was piled on top of her head in a sleek bun, and she wore earrings that dangled almost to her shoulders. “Can I get you anything?”