Liars and Losers Like Us(41)
“Sure, no problem,” Although he doesn’t let on, I’m positive he’s sighing with relief. “I’d rather talk about the guy waiting on my daughter’s doorstep the other day like a lost puppy. I forgot to run his license plates.”
I laugh, grateful he’s broken a bit of the tension.
“He’s not a puppy, Dad. He’s an ex–drug dealer. He just got out of jail a couple weeks ago. Nothing serious though, he was only trying to make enough money to rent a tux so he can take me to Prom.”
“Not even funny, Bree. Not even funny.”
SIXTEEN
The Lord opens his arms,
The heavenly choir sings,
For today, a soul rises up
To soar on angel wings …
I read this over and over in my seat, flexing my calves as the backs of my heels dig into the stiff, bristly carpet. Mom sits next to me, in silence, on a scratchy cushioned chair in a funeral parlor that feels like the basement of some old lady’s house.
Apparently, Maisey’s here too, at the front of the room in a fancy blue marbled box atop a table. A picture sits on each side of the box. One’s of Maisey as a baby, eyes laughing, wearing a bright yellow tutu and a smile that lights up her whole face. The other is a lousy generic senior picture from this year. I can tell by the corny way she’s cupping her face with both hands, our school flag, the maroon and white shield, and a picture of our signature Bengal snarling behind her. Mom has the same picture of me on the fireplace mantle. Maisey’s eyes are nowhere near laughing and her smile is just lips forced and stretched open over her bucked-white teeth. It’s like she knew the pose was corny too, knew that a smile wouldn’t make her look happy, just pushed through, long enough for them to get a couple shots.
The box she’s in looks like a jewelry box, which is kind of surprising. I thought when people were cremated they went into some sort of vase-like urn or a jar. I wonder if ashes in a box were her parents’ wishes or hers. Or maybe whatever happened gave them no choice. The way she died is still just a montage of rumors and graphic “what-if” images flashing in my brain.
Not that I want to know the truth. Either way I still can see her face, the pissed off glare permeating her eyes, glossy and swollen. When Mom and I walked up to Maisey’s box, her parents stood there like statues, taking almost a full minute before they remembered us from Thursday’s visit. Her dad gave me a “hello” head nod, and shook my hand. Mrs. Morgan gave me a starchy hug as I felt her body resist a convulsion into tears.
“Thank you for coming. It means a lot,” she said.
I could barely eke out an “I’m sorry.” I walked away, choking back a sob before my mom even finished her hug.
We’re next to an aisle, making it easier to leave. Mom said we wouldn’t have to stay long, just about a half hour or so. I open my purse and click my phone. 6:12. It doesn’t seem right that we just sit in these chairs, doing and saying nothing while people come and go. My body is swarming with anxiety bees. The buzzing is like it was the day I found out about Maisey. Just keep breathing. That’s all I have to do. Try not to cry, don’t let my thoughts run all over the place and just slow down. Not that I want to slow down any of this. Being here is awful. Is this what Maisey imagined when she thought about killing herself? Did she weigh her pain with the pain she’d be leaving behind for her family? Her family is unraveling and she is somewhere else. Did she even think this far ahead and if she did, was she thinking about how her mom would look? Standing in a shitty room, lost, tortured, crying her eyes out, with her daughter gone. Forever.
This does not feel the way it looks in movies. In the movies, it’s sad, tragic, and almost beautiful. Violins and soft piano, pretty people gliding around in black, dark sunglasses hiding their eyes. But this shit? Right here, right now is nothing close to an easy state of melancholy. The music comes from overhead in a static whisper, the same kind they play at Bev’s Grocery. The room is dingy and drab, even with the scattered floral arrangements that barely give off any scent. It smells like wet concrete and bar soap. The yellowed walls have seen so much that they just don’t care anymore. Feet shuffling, hands looking for things to do, no one, not one person wants to be here. Staring back at Maisey’s box, I know, just know that if she saw this, she wouldn’t have wanted any of it. She wouldn’t have left them behind.
Tears pool and I press my knuckles into my eyes. And just when I think it’s not like the movies in here, Jane walks in. Jane Hulmes, but with a reluctant air, lagging behind her mom and the guy from her driveway the night of Chris’s party. He’s thin, stiff suited, with Jane’s dark hair and eyes. Her mom’s a plump, pretty bleached blonde wearing too many layers for the spring and more than enough eyeliner rimming her eyes. Jane’s in a short black dress with her hair pulled into a low bun. Her eyes are blank, alternating her stare between straight ahead and the ground in front of her. I shrink a few inches lower in my seat.
Why on earth is she here? Mean girl with a heart of gold? An overwhelmingly guilty conscience? It must be the latter. If I feel bad, surely Belmont’s biggest bitch and Maisey’s nastiest critic must be rotting inside.
I “hmph” quietly. Too late on this one, Jane. Maybe next time.
They walk the aisle, and the eyes of Maisey’s parents quickly register their presence. A sudden flash of anger flashes in Mr. Morgan’s eyes. Mrs. Morgan sways and steps back.