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

“Okay,” he says, and still holding my hand, he leads me out the door and to the car. He doesn’t grab any of the flowers. He doesn’t say thanks or good-bye to any of the funeral home workers. We just leave. He seems in an okay mood, though not very chatty, during the ride home and for the rest of the evening.

That all changes the next day. Even my jolt of positivity from the night before has vanished. Putting our daughter in the ground makes everything so final. She is gone and never coming back. I can’t believe we’re here, in this position, burying our daughter. Lana was supposed to bury us. Why have the tables been turned in this vicious way?

Before this, I’d spent my days questioning my life, wondering what I had done to deserve a daughter who couldn’t function on her own as a normal human being. Now, I’m standing in my closet, putting on my nicest black dress that Lana helped me pick out a few years ago, wondering what I could have possibly done to have my daughter taken away from me.

I wonder if there’s always going to be some tragic event, some horrible hurdle, for me to traverse. My life is not destined to be one of pure happiness, of that feeling of accomplishment, of doing something right, of leaving my mark on the world. My mark has been left: I have failed as a mother, and my child killed herself. That is my legacy.

I walk past Lana’s room. Even with the door shut, it sends a shiver down my spine. I turn too quickly away from it and place a hand on the wall to steady myself. Once I’m able to walk down the stairs, I find Dave in the kitchen.

He tossed and turned all night and got out of bed even before the birds were awake. He is already dressed in a shirt and tie, his suit jacket hanging over the chair. He has his fingers tightly wound around the handle of his favorite mug, one that Lana gave him. I assume there’s coffee in it, though I can smell alcohol. I don’t blame him. I’ve already taken a Xanax so I can get through the day. I make a mental note to put the bottle in my purse in case I need another pill or two later.

I wonder if either of us should be operating a motor vehicle today, considering we’re both under the influence in addition to our grief. But then I realize I don’t much care if we crash, because then we can die and end this nonsense.

I sit down next to Dave and realize there’s more alcohol, maybe whiskey, in his cup than actual coffee. I wouldn’t care so much, but his level of drinking since Lana’s death has been staggering. I’m worried about him. I don’t want him to drink himself to death. I need the money he provides. I’ll let a few more days pass, let him process all of this, and then we’ll have a chat about it.

As we prepare to leave—could we ever be really prepared?—it begins to rain. Hard. I grab a couple of umbrellas, and the keys. I’m in a better state to drive than Dave is.

I trust that by some strange miracle the clouds will part before long, and the sun will come out, but that does not happen. In fact, it just rains harder. The windshield wipers are on full blast, but I can barely see. I’m actually frightened we’re going to crash. Maybe I don’t want to die after all.

We arrive safely at the cemetery. I hold one of the umbrellas out to Dave. He shakes his head no. “I don’t want it.” I look at him and he looks at me. He knows I want him to take the umbrella. He knows he should take it, but he refuses.

I grab the Burberry one Lana always used, even though it’s broken, and we walk, several feet between us, to the chairs set out for our use. Even though a small canopy has been set up, the chairs are still wet.

Dave sits. I stay standing, not wanting to feel all the rainwater soaking through my clothes. Even though it’s raining, it’s sticky and humid out, almost hot. I feel like I am in a tropical rain forest and my clothes are suffocating me. My umbrella is doing the best it can, but I can feel the back of my jersey dress becoming heavy with water. The blustery wind whips the rain into my face, like needles sticking me over and over again. My waterproof mascara has proven to be no match for this deluge. My perfectly curled hair is sticking to my neck and ears and face. I am a mess both inside and out.

The spiritual advisor begins the nondenominational ceremony ten minutes late. Lana would have told Dave about such people, and he wanted to respect her wishes by having this idiot rather than just calling a priest for a religious ceremony. The crowd is thin today—no wonder, with all this rain—but there are a few people here, including a young man who keeps glancing in my direction.

“We are here today to honor the life of Lana Moore. Though taken far too young, she lived a life full of adventure, love, and friendship,” the officiant says.

Dave cries out and walks over to her casket, covered in a brand-new swath of callas. He kneels down in the mud and leans his head on the glossy wood as rain pelts the top of the canopy. It has several leaks, apparently, as I can’t tell where his tears end and the rain begins.

“Her parents, Margaret and Dave, gave her life, and unconditional love and support through the ups and downs that came her way.”

I sob loudly. I don’t know where it came from; it’s like I am not myself today. The officiant’s words make everything clear and show