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

isn’t home from work yet, which is to be expected. He stays late a lot because he doesn’t want to come home and spend time with his wife. That makes me sad, but it’s the truth, and I can’t blame him. He makes the money and I keep her happy. He buys me jewelry in blue boxes and shoes with red soles to make up for things, but it’s like putting a Band-Aid on a gushing knife wound in my chest.

When I leave he’ll have a mess on his hands, and he knows it, but still, he tells me to go. He tells me to go live my dreams and fall in love and start a family. He says he wants me to be happy. He’s a good guy, my dad.

“I’m so glad you’re home,” my mom exclaims, even though it’s only been three hours since she last saw me.

“Me, too,” I say, not wanting to be a contrarian and start something.

“Did you get the wine and ice cream?”

“I did,” I say, walking into the kitchen, hoping she’ll stay in the foyer, distracted by the mail I brought in. I need to pour our drinks in the kitchen, so she doesn’t spot that the bottle is already open. She would notice that and figure that I’d done something to it. I quickly grab two glasses and pour, taking a drink of mine and feeling a sense of relief, though I know there is no reason for it to relax me.

“Tomorrow I thought maybe we could go to the mall, or perhaps Vivian would meet us for lunch. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“It would,” I say, trying to sound excited.

I’m not excited. Not even a little. We went to the mall the other day and had lunch with Vivian last week. My mom doesn’t even like Vivian that much. She’d never say that out loud, since Vivian is the only person outside our family who tolerates her anymore. I kind of like Vivian. Mom’s just jealous of her. She has successful children and even a grandchild. I’d like to remind Mom that she can’t have those things if she doesn’t allow me to leave the house more frequently to date and fall in love and make a name for myself, but I don’t. How does she think she’s going to have a grandchild—the stork?

“Maybe we can talk about it tomorrow,” I say, handing her a glass of “wine.” “Let’s go watch some TV.”

She follows me into the family room. We sit on opposite sofas, as we do most of the time. Every now and then she’ll get extra needy and ask me to sit next to her, with glassy, watery eyes. Without question, I do.

We sit in silence, eating ice cream, drinking grape juice, and watching TV. It’s not a bad evening necessarily. Not one that many of my friends experience, but there is something to be said for it. There’s something to be said for not having to go to work every day. For knowing that I am taken care of financially, for perhaps the rest of my life. There is something to be said about the life that I am currently leading. Or maybe she’s just wearing me down.

Like I said, I may change my mind about that potential job. About moving out, and Zack and kids. This isn’t the perfect life, but then, no one’s life is, and sometimes the devil you know is better than the one you don’t.

Chapter 3

Margaret

“I should just kill myself,” Lana sobs.

“I hate when you say that,” I yell, because yelling at her clearly will make her feel less like killing herself.

“What do you want me to say? I have nothing to live for. And things never get better, they only get worse.”

“That’s not true. You had fun last week at lunch with Vivian, and you love those new shoes Dad bought you.”

“But Vivian’s your friend, and shoes don’t fix things.”

That’s not what she said when he was buying them.

“You just have to keep hoping things will get better, and they will. You are a smart, kind, pretty girl. It’ll all work out,” I say, meaning it. I want things to work out for Lana. As much as she’s a pain in my ass, it’s no fun to watch your child be unhappy, even if some—if not most—of their pain is their own damn fault. I want Lana to love life. I want all of her dreams to come true. I want her to be happy. But if she doesn’t make some changes and help herself, then I fear she’ll always be miserable. And always be my problem.

“You keep saying that, but nothing changes.”

“Then you have to change something to get the ball rolling,” I say.

“Like what?” she asks, even though I’m fairly certain she knows the answer to that question. See, we’ve only had this nearly identical conversation at least once a week, sometimes twice, since she’s moved back home, and a slightly less desperate, dramatic version when she was at college.

Her threatening to kill herself is a new twist, but neither Dave nor I actually think she’ll go through with it. She doesn’t have the balls to do it, nor the means. All the knives in the house are so dull they can barely cut a lemon, we don’t own a gun, and it’s not like she’s going to mail-order a vial of arsenic.

We could send her to therapy, but the last time she was in therapy, she got to a point where she refused to leave the house. I don’t want to relive that, and I know she doesn’t either. Plus, I mean, what’s a shrink going to say to fix her problems other than the things Dave and I have already told her? If anyone should be getting $150 an hour to dole out advice, it should be me.

“Like online dating. Give that a try. It’s easy, and who knows, maybe you’ll fall madly in love and start a