Love, Mom

That’s why that guy standing at the back of the room is here. Middle-aged, with a funny mustache, dressed in a suit and tie. “This is a private event. Please, leave,” Grandma says to him curtly in a hushed whisper. As soon as she walks off, her smile disappears. You don’t need to be super observant to spot a gun holster under his suit jacket—he is a detective. He came to our house two days ago. I opened the door, and he started asking me about Mom until Grandma flew up toward us like a furious hen. “Mackenzie, leave us, please,” she ordered, blocking me from him. Then, when I walked around the corner, she told the detective in a clipped tone, “You should be ashamed of yourself—talking to a child who just lost her mother.” Now, the man is forced to leave again. The newspapers and bloggers have been suggesting all sorts of crazy theories about my mom’s death for days. The truth, as per investigators, was more banal—Mom slipped, fell, and cracked her head on a rock while taking her usual morning walk in the woods adjacent to our house. “Misadventure” is what they called it. Coincidentally, Mom’s bestsellers are full of misadventures. Don’t get me wrong, some people might be sad. That bitch, Laima Roth, who is talking to the publisher right now like this is a regular business meeting? For sure. She has been my mother’s agent for over twenty years. She can now forget about the future book releases they were planning. Though, I’m sure she’ll capitalize on special editions, sprayed edges, book boxes, and whatnot. This enterprise will never dry out. We cremated Mom several days ago in a private arrangement attended only by a dozen or so people. Still, there were no tears. This memorial service is for publicity. For “friends,” they say. To pay their respects. Respect was pretty high on Mom’s list, but friends? Not sure she had any true ones, though the eloquent speeches they’ve been giving in her honor for the last two hours made it sound like she was Shakespeare, no less. The streets outside the building are mobbed, but the crowded memorial hall is eerily quiet, whispers ricocheting between the walls. On one side of the room is a giant author portrait of Mom in a lacy high-collar blouse and red roses in the background. It says E. V. Renge under it. The middle-aged quirky photographer hired by the publishing house is snapping pictures of it from every angle. With the publisher, the agents, and Dad. He asked me to pose, too, but I refused. Screw them. On the other side of the hall is a picture of Mom in her office. She has full makeup and her hair done, but she looks somewhat dreamy sitting in front of a bookshelf. Her real name, Elizabeth Casper, is under her informal picture. This version is for other sources, like the local newspaper, the church Grandma goes to, and the charities Mom used to donate to. I prefer to stand at the back of the room, away from this spectacle, next to my grandpa who doesn’t give a crap—and never did—about my mom. Or my looks, for that matter. Grandma does. Earlier at the house, she asked me not to put on my usual black lipstick and heavy eyeliner. “And wear something appropriate.” I almost always wear black. Coincidentally, that’s very appropriate for a memorial service. Just like my black eyeliner and the lipstick I put on anyway. Grandma, of course, is dressed in Dior and expensive jewelry. She makes sure she talks to every attendee. Dad is dressed in a slick black suit, and he looks dashing. He is somewhat sulking, but that might be because of the withdrawal. His parents live only four hours away, but they have been staying at our house since Mom’s passing. Grandma controls Dad’s too-early-in-the-day intake of booze. With Mom gone, she proudly took over the household. Me? I want to cry, I really do, but the reality hasn’t hit me yet. I want to be sad, but I always felt like Mom never cared enough about me. That made me very bitter in recent years, and we grew apart. My best friend, EJ, says I have delayed grief. Maybe I’m just heartless. I asked EJ not to come, because I didn’t want my best friend to see how screwed up my life has been, well, pretty much as far back as I remember. I’ll see him at the house where we are having a catered party tonight for the “close circle.” I’m sure it will be a party though they call it a celebration of life. I look around the room and cringe when I see the familiar figure approach Dad and shake his hand. That’s the dean of the university I go to. I look away and roll my eyes. Mom used to rub shoulders with him. “For your future’s sake,” she said once. She even did a lecture at my university and donated money, in fact. I wouldn’t be surprised if they set up a monument in her honor.