Cause of Death by Laura Dembowski (ereader iphone .TXT) 📗

used to giving love that receiving it is oddly comforting, more so than I ever would have thought. I give in fully and wrap my arms around him. Tears begin flowing involuntarily, and he cries too.

We stand like that, together, for the better part of half an hour. I occasionally glance at Lana’s body and think that if something good has come out of this, perhaps it’s that Dave and I will have a chance to fall back in love with each other. We will just have to find a way to let Lana go.

When we are ready to leave, Dave drives us to a hotel for the night. Our house is currently a crime scene, police crawling all over it, collecting evidence that isn’t there, alone with all that jewelry, those electronics, our crystal and china. We will return home when they vacate the premises, but for tonight, it’s probably not such a bad idea to sleep somewhere else, as there is most definitely a dark cloud over the dwelling we once called home.

I never realized how much funerals cost, as I’ve never had to plan one before. My sister Beth took care of both of our parents’ funerals, which were paid for out of their bank accounts. Now that I’m the one in charge, my eyes are practically popping out of my head. After I get over the sticker shock, I find myself unable to spare any expense. Lana was our daughter, and we must show everyone exactly how much we loved her. Dave is not reeling me back in. He’s even worse than me. This funeral director must have seen us coming a mile away. Must see all the parents of dead daughters coming, willing to drain not just their bank accounts but also their retirement accounts, to give their flesh and blood the proper resting place.

I think of what Lana would want. I bet she pictured a funeral like the ones in the movies. The funeral home packed with people who want to pay their respects. Tons of floral arrangements. Everyone crying over her tragic passing, and then laughing about all the good times they had with her. Then it would rain just a little at the burial, again, surrounded by people, before the sun would come out and a rainbow would appear, a sign her spirit was shining down on us.

It’s what I imagine, anyway, and it’s what I want for her. It’s going to be difficult to achieve since she didn’t have any friends, but I know Dave will make sure all his colleagues show up, and I’ll go through all my e-mail and phone contacts; hell, we’ll hire actors if we have to.

As I walk over to Dave after we’ve looked at all the caskets, we both point to our favorite at the same time. We’ve chosen the identical solid wood model, in a dark stain, the most expensive one in the place. She would have loved it. I get choked up at the thought of her selecting the same casket for Dave or me had the tables been turned, as they should have been. Our daughter burying us, years and years from now.

“Is food allowed?” Dave’s asking the funeral director in charge of what I am now certain is the Neiman Marcus of funeral homes—and why shouldn’t it be?

“Yes, sir, of course. What did you have in mind?” the well-dressed manager asks. I swear he’s wearing Armani.

Dave would never buy an Armani suit for himself, but he’s already ordered a full-length Carolina Herrera ball gown for Lana to be buried in. In fact, it’s being made just for her, a rush order the designer was more than happy to accommodate (for a not-so-nominal fee) once she’d heard how much Lana had always loved the dress after seeing it on an awards show some years before.

“Maybe a few waiters walking around with hors d’oeuvres—something with truffles, maybe Kobe beef. Lana would have liked that,” Dave says, looking at the floor as the manager takes notes.

“Dave, are you sure truffles and Kobe are really necessary?” I ask, quietly whispering in his ear. The food isn’t really for Lana, just Dave’s friends, and they don’t really deserve to have truffles and Kobe.

He doesn’t answer, instead glaring at me as though I am the reason Lana is dead, and I can only repent by spending my last dime on her funeral.

“Oh, and I’d like a cellist to play that one famous song—you know . . .” And he hums the song. Badly. I want to plug my ears, but I just tune him out. I’m using the skills I learned tuning Lana out over the years. If this is any indication of my future, I’m going to need to further hone this ability.

“Ah,” the director nods his head, “the prelude to Bach’s Cello Suite Number One. No problem, sir.”

Dave goes on to request calla lilies in all available colors to be flown in from South America, and a white hearse to represent Lana’s innocence. I don’t put up a fight on those. She loved callas, and it’s all going to be so beautiful, but I’m going to lose sleep over the food tonight, I just know it.

By the end of the meeting, we’ve spent over twenty thousand dollars. I nearly choke when I hear the number. The director looks sadly at me, at us, pours a glass of water for me, and rounds it down to an even twenty thousand. How kind of him.

“Why are you being so stingy with Lana’s funeral?” Dave angrily questions me in the car on the way home.

“I’m not, Dave. Between this and that dress, we have emptied our checking and savings accounts. Emptied them, Dave. I want the best for Lana, but I think we have to draw the line somewhere. Don’t you?”

“Not really.” His hands are clasped around the steering wheel as though his life depends on it. “I’d rather spend it on her. She deserves it. Her life