CHAPTER ONE
San Francisco, California. May 2007
It was worth cold toes and consuming guilt to fold Susan’s silvery blanket, leave it like a Dear John letter on her swanky couch and slink into the darkness. Tonight’s session had been particularly brutal, and my forty-three-year-old empty shell of a soul begged for the curative powers of a particular two-bedroom Craftsman on a tree-lined street. Mom’s house. Not a sleep over at Susan’s, where she plied me with cocktails, psychoanalyzed me by the numbers, and would no doubt interrogate me over morning coffee.
A chilly mist rose from the bay as I darted barefoot across the crooked street, my scuffed boots and thrift-store-chic knapsack clasped in my arms like a dozing infant. I tossed my stuff in the back seat of my baby blue Mercedes, slid in, and wiped a stray tear off my cheek. Maybe two.
My beloved beater fired up, a spluttering, cantankerous old man rudely woken in what was left of the night. I cringed and prayed the racket hadn’t roused Susan and Brett the Wonder Husband. Neither knew anything about endless, sleepless nights, their intertwined bodies blissfully ignorant, the perfect couple no doubt dreaming in stereo.
Per the secret clause in our friendship bylaws, and the fact that I had a few character defects that could be tweaked, I offered myself as a willing guinea pig for Susan’s latest passion: how to be an unlicensed therapist in sixteen online classes. Why a successful divorce attorney needed to learn the equivalent of psychological warfare—in sixteen classes—I didn’t want to know.
After take-out sushi from Akiko's, I’d burrow into her plum velvet couch, imagine demons in the flames of the fireplace, and suck down an Old Fashioned, the cocktail brandished against my chest like a Roman shield. After fourteen weeks of therapy, Susan was still dead wrong. I’d never go back to Scott, another rat bastard wouldn’t take his place, and I didn’t have daddy issues. When Daddy’s been dead for forty years, the issues are long gone.
I fished out a can of Coke from the mess on the front seat and popped the soda open with one hand. I never drink water. Since I was eight, I’ve been haunted by Mom’s claim that everything is recycled, including Julius Caesar’s pee. Perhaps Susan is right, and my childhood wasn’t as normal as I liked to believe.
Did Susan deserve an explanation as to why Scott’s latest affair hadn’t hurt me as much as she thought it should? Why comfortably numb was a blessing, not a curse? She did. Not that she’d understand.
“Leanne, you fished a warm, damp Barbie pink thong off your bedroom floor. What the hell is wrong with you?”
I’d taken another Old Fashioned from Susan with the hand that wasn’t curled into a permanent fist. “What was I supposed to do? Burn it and ruin original oak flooring and torture myself with a permanent scorch mark?”
“Fire seems a little extreme.”
“Good thing I was fresh out of lighter fluid.”
Susan tossed me the silvery blanket in case therapy rendered me too distraught to drive home. That, and the bourbon. She’s a considerate and conscientious tormenter.
“Why aren’t you livid or crying at the very least? Let’s try a little hypnosis. Delve into the misty corners of your subconscious. Hypnosis is an effective modality, and Brett won’t let me practice on him.”
“Hell, no.” I took a long, slow sip of orangey bourbon goodness. “I’m processing. Isn’t that what you call it? Letting reality simmer on a low boil while I figure out how I feel?”
I processed while driving across the Bay Bridge, the mist hiding everything except a set of taillights ahead of me. It’s lonely at 4 a.m., the hour of the wolf when most of the world sleeps without hesitation, but never those ruled by an unknown force. Warm thong? I snickered and leaned against the cracked leather head rest, exhausted from Susan’s relentless desire to save me from myself. Etta James broke the silence, as with the touch of my finger, Fool That I Am blared from the sketchy speakers.
The streetlights were out when I pulled into the driveway, but a daisy border glimmered against the dark rectangle of the lawn. What the hell is going on? Mom doesn’t garden. I flipped on my high beams. In front of the old oak, a putrid green For Sale sign with a picture of real estate agent, Sandy Selridge, leered in anticipated triumph. I death-gripped my steering wheel and stared. Oh no, you don’t, Sandy Selridge—not my mom, not our house. And fuck your cheap ass daisies.
With trembling fingers, I rummaged in my purse and found my house key attached to a frayed red ribbon. The thrill of getting my very own key on my tenth birthday still got me. My throat tightened, I crunched a handful of cinnamon Altoids and pulled on my boots, ready for battle. Our home wasn’t for sale.
Where in the hell was the gold four-leaf clover that hung over the front door? I poked around the fresh foliage and saw a glint of gold. The real estate tramp had tossed my birthright in her goddamn bushes. I flipped over Sandy Shitridge’s hideous flower-filled planter, jumped on top, and hung the talisman on the hook where it belonged.
Once inside, I rested my cheek against the heavy oak door, smooth from a thousand baths of lemon oil. She wouldn’t sell. There must be a mistake.
“Mom? What’s with the for sale sign?”
I flipped the lights on.
“Mom?”
I tiptoed down the hall and eased her bedroom door open. Not a pillow was out of place on her bed. I rifled through her closet—a handful of her favorite dresses and her fake mink coat were gone. Strange. The medicine cabinet in her bathroom was full, but her sequined cosmetic bag and her bottle of Miss Dior, her signature fragrance, were MIA. And the matching bottle of lotion. Interesting priorities. Obviously, this wasn’t a kidnapping.
I hit my number one contact. When she didn’t answer, I texted her.
Where are you? Call me.
Cold sweat slithered down my back. My lungs squeezed shut. Should I call Jeffrey, my one and only sibling? Hell, no, he’d give me a hard time for being a baby.
Mom, call me NOW.
The house was creepy, like a cold body had been carried out moments before on a stretcher. The fire in my gut exploded. I headed to the refrigerator, desperate for ginger ale. A bottle of flat Diet Coke and the Chinese takeout I’d brought over three nights ago sat center stage. Three days? How long had she been gone? I reached into a scratched cabinet, grabbed Jeffrey’s faded Batman juice glass, a full bottle of Smirnoff from under the sink, and poured a drink.
The Caped Crusader had seen better days. Jeffrey had sent in twenty Rice Krispies Box Tops to win that prize when we were kids. Neither one of us liked Rice Krispies—we were Lucky Charms people. We choked down those bland pellets until he had enough to win the damn glass.
Daybreak snuck into the backyard as I peered through the kitchen window at the freshly rolled out sod and another fucking generic daisy border.
“You’ll sell this house over my dead body, Ms. Shitridge.”
I tossed back the booze to soothe the lump in my throat. I poured another and grabbed the sesame chicken from the fridge, along with a fork. Curled up on the couch with Batman, I conjured memories to fill the painful void in my chest.
* * *
Once a month, Jeffrey and I tagged along while Mom gathered the occasional dead cat or dog that lay between the gravel-strewn road and the dirt on the side of the highway. We didn’t think she was weird. She was like the English archeologist in the King Tut movie during rainy-day recess—respectful and quiet, like the roadkill was the fragile remains of a long-dead king.
She’d get us popcorn with fake butter and follow her usual route like Bob the mailman. We’d stay in the car while she placed broken bodies in handmade coffins made with the tools she got in the after-Christmas sale at Sears. I guess everyone needed a hobby.
“Leanne, why is she taking so long?” Jeffrey said, sitting like a monkey, his dirty sneakers on the seat, and buttery palms and lips plastered against his window.
“Get your hands off the glass. No one's gonna buy a car with greasy windows.” I glared at the brat.
Mom was the secretary at Mr. Benjamin Woods’ Used Ford and Chevrolet, the ‘Family First’ dealership in Lafayette. Between the creepy sales guys and a bunch of mechanics, she said she felt like hired entertainment.
“I’ve half a mind to tell those wives what goes on, but they’d never believe me. The world’s not fair, Leanne. They don’t hire you unless you’re pretty, and then don’t let you get your work done when you are.”
Jeffrey slumped in the back seat, his sweaty boy-hair sticking up like devil horns. I cracked a hard kernel between my back teeth and thought about those stupid men, Mom’s movie star sunglasses sheltering my eyes from the bright sunshine.
Jeffrey threw a handful of greasy popcorn at my head. “Leanne, answer me.”
We had strict instructions not to make a mess in this car, a lilac-scented, baby blue convertible which would sell in a heartbeat with my pretty mom driving it around town. She slid into the driver’s seat, palm outstretched for her sunglasses, her eyes more than a little red.
“Goddammit, Jeffrey. What did I tell you about the windows? Mr. Woods could fire me. Leanne, get in the back seat.” She snapped open her purse, took out her compact, and fixed her face.
“Better butter on the window than a dead cat in the trunk,” Jeffrey said.
I shoved Jeffrey’s dirty knee to his side of the car and smacked G.I. Joe off the seat.
“Idiot,” I mouthed at him.
Mom shifted the rear-view mirror and gave Jeffrey her best zombie stare; her unblinking tiger-colored eyes could take your soul hostage for hours.
“I don’t know where you bought that smart mouth, mister, but you better return it before it gets you into more trouble.”
“Would Mr. Woods really fire you for butter on the window?” I asked.
“He could, but he’ll never know because Jeffrey will scrub the car spic and span after the funeral.”
Jeffrey made G.I. Joe burp in my face.
When we got home, Mom put a boil-in-the-bag Salisbury steak on the stove, and Jeffrey dug a hole in the backyard while I picked yellow marigolds from the neighbors garden. Mom joined us as Jeffrey filled in the dirt, and I placed the flowers on the newest mound.
“Leanne, please say a prayer,” Mom said.
I pressed my hands together and closed my eyes. “Dear God, please bring this precious cat to heaven, and we ask you to curse the rat bastard who ran over him. Amen.”
“Leanne, what did I tell you about swearing?”
“Rat bastard doesn’t count. You say it all the time.”
Mom rolled her eyes, and went into the house to finish making dinner. Jeffrey and I stayed with the cat for a bit. So it didn’t feel lonely.
After dinner, Jeffrey and I watched Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom in the living room. We turned it as loud as it could go to drown the buzz of Mom’s saw and helped ourselves to a half-thawed coconut cream pie. We rooted for the oldest wildebeest, which Jeffrey had named Bob, like our mailman but the lions won. Mom came in with a fresh coffin and smelling like burnt wood.
“Come help me with the dishes.”
“Why don’t you burn RIP on the top instead of SIP? SIP is dumb.” Jeffrey followed Mom, licking the last scraps of cream from the aluminum pie plate.
“It makes more sense to me. Sleeping lasts longer than resting,” she said and put the coffin on the counter.
“Did you put SIP on Daddy’s coffin?” Jeffrey asked.
Mom grabbed the Salisbury steak knife and hurled it at the closed kitchen window. I put my hands over my ears, but every shard exploded as it hit the brick patio below the window. Jeffrey’s eyes widened as he clamped his hands over his mouth, both of us frozen with fear like Bob the wildebeest. I stared at the butterflies on Mom’s apron until they stopped moving and willed myself not to cry. She whispered, “I’m sorry” and reached out to us along with the saddest smile I’d ever seen.
“Who wants to get a Frosty?” she asked.
Jeffrey should know better than to mention Daddy’s coffin.
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