Forgive Me(16)

He asked me about my mom and dad. I’m thinking “you don’t want to hear about them,” but really I was worried if I talked about home I might cry. Guess what? I talked about home and I cried. Not the ugly cry, but I definitely needed some napkins and people looked at me and I got really embarrassed. And all I could think is “oh my God, I’m such a loser.” But you know who didn’t care? Ricardo, that’s who. He moved his chair closer to mine and brushed a strand of hair off my face. Then he wiped away one of my tears with his finger and told me it was ok to cry. He didn’t have a good relationship with his parents either, he said, and it made him really sad. He understood.

I asked him if he thought I was stupid to run away from home. He said no, they didn’t understand me or appreciate me and you know, he’s right. They didn’t. I feel badly leaving my friends, but they’ll get over it or maybe they’ll see me in the movies! Ha! That’ll be so awesome.

It still can happen, too. Ricardo told me that I’m really special. There have been a lot of girls who have had photo shoots at the studio and there’s something unique about me. Me! Ricardo told me that’s what Stephen Macan said after I fell asleep (Ha, fell asleep, lol. Passed out is more like it). Anyway, Ricardo said he’s been instructed to look after me because I guess I’m really important to their business. I’m going to make them all a lot of money! Can you believe that? The most I ever made was a few hundred dollars working as a babysitter.

Ricardo touched my hair again and he didn’t have to because I wasn’t crying and it wasn’t in my face. But I liked it. And I wanted him to do it again, but he didn’t. He did say I should get used to the idea of being famous and that I shouldn’t be Nadine anymore. It’s not a famous name. Can you think of one really famous Nadine? I can’t. He called me Jessica. I liked it. There are a lot of famous Jessicas out there.





CHAPTER 8



The home of Angie’s parents (now just her dad) in Arlington was crammed wall-to-wall with mourners who represented the varied interests and activities of Kathleen DeRose. It was difficult to move around among so many bodies, so Angie stayed rooted in one spot. People found her, one after the other, each offering their sincere condolences. There were people from the Lupus Foundation, of course, and the Arlington County Fair, as well as kids Angie’s mom had taught to swim, and the parents who had driven them to the service and the reception.

Angie wore a loose-fitting black dress, accented by an understated strand of pearls. She’d tried to cover her pale and waxy complexion with a generous application of makeup. She had washed her hair, but didn’t give it the treatment to make it look pretty. It didn’t feel appropriate.

She felt strangely detached from the moment, an observer more than a participant in both her mother’s memorial service and this reception. She would hug whomever approached her, thank them for their support and condolences, and assure them she was doing all right, hanging in there best she could, but she was numb, and had been since the hospital.

The reception, especially, was too much for her to process. Too many bodies, too much noise. She wanted to be alone with her father, to grieve privately—but right now, it was about her mother, not Angie. Kathleen needed to be celebrated, appreciated, and memorialized.

The service was lovely, or so people said. Angie had delivered a eulogy, one of three presented to a room of more than five hundred mourners who filled the church and spilled out into the hall. She’d talked about her mother’s unconditional love and support, her passion for helping others, her loyalty to causes she championed. Kathleen DeRose was, in Angie’s words, a roadmap to a life well lived. “Be kind, love fully, and embrace the moments as they come.”

Angie felt a hand on her shoulder and turned. Walter Odette was standing behind her, smiling at her. He had broad shoulders and a square-shaped head topped by a thin covering of hair that still had plenty of brown. At five-foot-nine, Walter was taller than Angie by only a few inches, but his barrel chest made him an imposing figure at any height. He had the kind of eyes that sparkled and laughed even when he wasn’t telling jokes as old he was.

Today the glimmer was gone. He smiled, but his teeth were yellowing, and Angie took note of how much older he looked. He had more creases on his face than she remembered. Everyone looked older to her, including her father and her mother’s friends. Even her own friends looked older. In this regard, Kathleen’s funeral was a celebration of her life and a wake-up call to the living that death was coming for them all.

“How you holding up, kiddo?” Walter asked.

Kiddo. Angie liked that he still saw her as the little girl who grew up calling him Uncle Walt. She returned a wan smile and gave his hand a squeeze.

“Hanging in,” she said. “You?”

“Numb,” Walter said, his voice warm but a bit more gravelly, a bit tired.

“Yeah, me too.”

“Louise has been crying her eyes out for days. She can’t believe your mom is gone.”

Angie looked across the room and saw Walter’s wife of forty years at the buffet table talking with a group of Kathleen’s friends. Over the years, they had become Louise’s friends as well. They all sort of looked alike—women in their sixties, early seventies, put together, hair kept short but styled, bodies kept in decent shape by frequent visits to the health club, friendships maintained through book, movie, and bridge clubs, as well as various charitable endeavors.