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

going through things, so focused on the task at hand that it doesn’t hit me for a couple minutes how strange it is to be in here. We haven’t entered the room since her death. I look around, take a deep breath, and concentrate.

I decide to start with her closet, which is jam-packed. She was never keen on letting me into her room, even cleaning it herself, so I was unaware of the crowded nature of her closet. I really shouldn’t be surprised, considering Dave and I have bought her all of these things; nonetheless, seeing all the clothes hanging from racks, the shoe boxes stacked haphazardly, about to tumble, and the purses in their dust bags, placed wherever they will fit—it’s all rather staggering.

There must be over a hundred thousand dollars’ worth of stuff here. Maybe two hundred. Thinking about all of that money wasted makes me sicker than thinking about Lana’s death. I could have a beach house or a Maserati instead of all this stuff. Won’t the Salvation Army be thrilled with all of this?

I haven’t found her jewelry box yet. I’m not sure I want to. Dave and I created a monster. Yet, even with all this stuff, she was so unhappy, so desperate for a way out, that she killed herself. I am so baffled by my daughter’s actions, I am shaking with anger. I did everything she asked of me, and more. I did everything I could. And she didn’t care. What the fuck was wrong with that ungrateful bitch?

Just exhaustion and jet lag talking, I’m sure.

The more I look around, I realize I need to save as much of this stuff as possible, for myself. Sure, some of the clothes are too young-looking or won’t fit me, but all of these purses are going in my closet. Most of the shoes, too. She was a half size smaller than me, but feet are meant to be crammed into small spaces. Everyone will wonder where I got the new wardrobe straight from the pages of In Style. What will I tell them? I can’t very well say I raided my dead daughter’s closet.

I’ll deal with the clothes on an item-by-item basis. I’m rubbing my fingers on the silk of an electric blue Jason Wu dress that I hope I can sell. I won’t be able to live with myself if I donate it.

Then Dave walks in and rushes over to me. More accurately, he rushes over to the dress.

“Oh, that was her favorite dress.” He looks down at the floor. I know he’s crying without even looking at him. “Maybe we should have buried her in it.”

“She would have loved the dress you bought for the funeral. Plus, she’d already worn this one. You know she would have wanted to have a nice, new dress,” I say, and I mean it. I want to make some snide remark about the price of the one he bought, but refrain.

“You’re right,” he says, before worming his way into the closet.

I grab him by both shoulders and walk him over to the other side of the room.

“I’ll take care of the closet,” I say. “Why don’t you go through her books?”

“Yeah, right, good idea,” he says, as he grabs a stack and sits on the floor. I actually think the note, if one exists, could be in one of the books. It’s the perfect hiding place. Flipping through all of them will keep Dave busy for hours.

“She seemed happy as a kid. Do you think she was happy?” Dave asks me.

He’s finished searching the books, with no luck. He even boxed them all up.

The more we go through the contents of the room, the less Dave believes we can keep all this stuff. We both can’t stop marveling at the fact that Lana managed to get so much in here. It’s not like it’s a small room. I wasn’t about to give up our master suite, even though she’d wanted it. She made that very clear, asking for it at least once a year, usually on her Christmas list, but that was one thing I wasn’t going to give up.

We offered to have a second “master suite” built for her in the basement, but she declined that offer, making a face that told us exactly what she thought of the dark, damp basement. Even after assuring her that it would be different once it was prepared to be a living space and not simply a storage space, she held firm to her rejection and stayed in her room.

I don’t really blame her; I wouldn’t have wanted to live in the basement either. I actually think she grew to like her room as much as she complained about it. It was her little cocoon, her slice of the world that was completely and totally under her control. We all want a space like that sometimes.

“I think she was happy,” I say, leaning back against the wall. I’d found her jewelry box, hidden behind all of her clothes, and it was next to me on the floor.

I think about all the moments of her childhood where she looked happy and when I felt like we were all happy. Disney World. Her first dance recital. That lame play they put on in second grade. When her one and only friend slept over. Her first formal dance.

“I thought she was.”

Then I realize something: I can’t think of any similar moments once I start remembering her high school years. Maybe it’s because she, like every other teenager on the face of the Earth, started to pull away from us. But I think it’s more because that’s when she stopped being happy. She put too much pressure on herself to make good grades and be on the tennis team. To be valedictorian and prom queen. To get into the best college and make the dean’s list. To have a job to walk right into the moment she’d graduated—to be the best at whatever