52 Reasons to Hate My Father (23 page)

It’s depressing.

Plus, I like sitting at the counter because then I can watch the flat screen TV that’s mounted in the kitchen. There’s no TV in the dining room. It’s un–feng shui.

But today as I grab a fork and knife from the silverware drawer, I notice that Horatio has put out a place setting for me at the kitchen counter. Complete with place mat, expertly folded cloth napkin, and utensils. And right above it, he’s positioned a slim crystal vase filled with a single pink rose.

I immediately recognize it as the rose Luke plucked from the bouquet last night. I must have left it on the kitchen counter when I got home.

Although Horatio’s gesture touches me, I can’t help but wonder what became of the rest of the roses in that bouquet. Whose kitchen table are they sitting on right now? What was their recipient’s reaction upon receiving them? Did they elicit a hug? A kiss?
More
than a kiss?

No. Certainly not.

Luke doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who does things like that on a first date. He’s too … I don’t know … square.

But despite my convictions, I still find myself whipping out my cell phone and double-checking the time stamp on the video message he sent last night: 10:10 p.m. That’s only two hours after he left Morty’s Flower Shop.

“Ha!” I say aloud, causing Chef Clement to turn around from his prep station and shoot me a funny look.

I bury my face in my phone, hiding my involuntary smile behind the screen.

Two whole hours, huh?

That date of his must have been a real doozy.

*   *   *

I dip my angled eyeliner brush in a cup of water and then drag it carefully across the surface of the dark brown eye shadow palette open in front of me, covering the tip with a generous amount of pigment.

“Okay, Mrs. Schmerty,” I command pleasantly, “close your eyes.”

With a steady hand, I paint a long, dotted row across Mrs. Schmerty’s upper eyelid. Then I grab a nearby Q-tip, wet it, and use it to smudge the dashes into a solid, smoky line.

I lean back to admire my handiwork.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

I grab a handheld mirror from the tray of supplies next to me and hold it up. “What do you think, Mrs. Schmerty? Don’t you look gorgeous? I love the way that sumptuous green shade complements your skin tone.”

Mrs. Schmerty doesn’t respond. Nor does she open her eyes to look at her reflection.

Not that I was really expecting her to. After all, she
is
dead.

Today is my third day as an assistant at Lancaster and Sons Funeral Home in Manhattan Beach. And although I wasn’t exactly thrilled at the thought of working with a bunch of dead people for the entire week, I have to admit, it’s not
that
bad. When I arrived, Mr. Lancaster was thrilled to hear that I had makeup-application skills since his previous makeup artist had recently quit, and so far he’s seemed nothing but pleased with my artwork.

And yes, it did take a few days for me to get used to the fact that the faces I’m applying makeup to will never actually see or appreciate what I’m doing for them, but I’m over it for the most part now.

Plus, I’ve found that talking to the dead people as though they were alive helps a lot.

“Yes, I agree,” I tell Mrs. Schmerty with a nod. “More lip gloss is definitely in order.”

I grab the tube of Chanel gloss that I picked up yesterday and deftly apply a second coat to her lips.

I lean back once again to assess the outcome. Then I nod. “Much better.”

I give myself a small pat on the back. I’ve undoubtedly shown some massive improvement since first arriving here on Monday morning. Mrs. Schmerty is by far my best work yet. In fact, I’m so full of pride that I suddenly get this uncontrollable urge to share it with someone. Someone who will appreciate it.

And honestly I can only think of one person who fits that description.

I take out my cell phone and launch the video camera. I hold the phone out in front of me, center my face in the frame, and press the record button.

“Hi, Luke,” I say brightly. “Okay, I know it’s only the middle of the week so obviously this is not like an official status report or anything, but I really wanted to show you what I did today.

“As you know, I’m here at Lancaster and Sons Funeral Home working as an assistant. And you know this obviously because you dropped me off this morning. Oh by the way, can you burn a copy of that CD you were listening to in the car? What was that? Like some kind of new-age motivational stuff?

“Anyway! Today Mr. Lancaster asked me to do makeup on Mrs. Schmerty. I just finished and you simply have to see how great she looks.”

I turn the camera around and zoom in on Mrs. Schmerty’s face.

“Ta-da!” I exclaim. “Isn’t she lovely? Eighty-seven years old and she’s never looked better.”

I spin the phone back toward me. “I picked out the colors and everything,” I add proudly. “Of course the funeral home doesn’t exactly invest in the best quality makeup so I had to do a little shopping run on their behalf. But trust me, now they’re fully stocked on all the latest fall colors.

“Okay,” I conclude. “That’s it. Just thought I’d share. Hope you’re having fun at the office. See you tonight.”

I punch at the record button once again and start to upload the message to Video-Blaze.com. But when it asks me if I really want to send, something stops me from instantly clicking okay like I normally do. This time, I actually have to think about the question.

Do I really want to send this?

And then that question starts a whole avalanche of subsequent questions and concerns.

Did I sound a bit
too
excited in that message?

Maybe I should rerecord it and take it down a notch.

I don’t want Luke to think I’m
that
excited about working with corpses.

What if he thinks I’m some kind of necrophiliac?

Maybe I should just delete the whole thing.

“Ugh! Stop!” I finally command myself aloud, shaking my head clear. I turn to Mrs. Schmerty. “What do you think, Mrs. Schmerty?”

I pause and wait. “You’re right.” I confirm with a tight nod of my head. “I should just send it and stop obsessing.”

I click okay on the phone and return it to my bag.

“I’m not sure what that was about,” I respond to Mrs. Schmerty’s unasked question.

“No!” I exclaim, aghast, shooting her a derisive look. “That’s not it at all! He’s not even that cute. I mean, like in a normal way. He’s an
intern
.”

Mrs. Schmerty appears to be frowning at me. As though she doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

“Well, I’m sorry you feel that way,” I respond snidely. “But for your information, a ripped body is not my only criteria for a relationship.”

I roll my eyes and glance away. “Well, I don’t care what my criteria has been in the past. Okay?”

Getting tired of this argument (and the slightest bit freaked out), I pull the sheet back over Mrs. Schmerty’s face, silencing her for now.

Then, a few moments later, I feel bad for covering her up and pull the sheet back once again, taking one last look at my handiwork. She really does look nice. As creepy as it can be working here, I must admit there’s something very rewarding about it. It’s pretty cool knowing that you’re helping create a lasting memory of these people. This is the final time their friends and family are ever going to see them. It’s kind of satisfying to think that you’re contributing to that in a positive way.

I don’t have a last memory of my mother. At least not one I can directly pinpoint and say, “Yes, that’s the last time I saw her.” The wake was closed casket because of the severity of her accident. But now, having worked here only a few days, I wish I could have had one last moment with her. Something to hang on to. To look back upon.

All I have is a hodgepodge of scattered memories and testimonials about my mother’s character that don’t seem to add up. And I’m starting to wonder if they ever will.

A WAKE

The wake for Mrs. Schmerty takes place on Friday afternoon, my final day working at the funeral home. I help Mr. Lancaster with the last-minute preparations and then I stand off to the side as dozens of grievers approach the casket, murmur quiet prayers, and find a seat. I watch them curiously, taking in the way each person mourns in a different way. Some cry full out, wearing their grief on their sleeves for everyone to see. Others dab politely at their eyes with monogrammed handkerchiefs and I can’t tell if they’re really crying or just want people to believe they are. And then there’s a select few—maybe two or three—who completely shut down. Check out. Their bodies are on autopilot. They walk. They nod. They make small conversations with their neighbors but there’s nothing behind any of it.

They’re just numb.

It takes a few moments for the realization to hit me. For me to comprehend why that particular look is so unnervingly familiar.

It’s because I’ve seen it before. The distant eyes. The far-off gaze. The hardened features.

It’s immortalized in a portrait that’s currently hanging above a fireplace in my house.

It’s the permanent expression my father has been wearing for as long as I can remember. I’ve always thought there was something missing from his eyes. But watching these people as they sit stone-faced and hollow in their chairs, listening to the pastor speak but not really hearing anything he says, I realize it’s not something that’s been
missing
from my father’s eyes. But rather something that’s been
blocking
them.

Almost like a shield. A glass wall. A fortress.

I think back to my favorite picture. The one I found on the Internet from
Better Homes and Gardens
. I think about the man in that photograph, smiling with his wife as their only daughter takes her first steps into an unknown world. In that photo my father is exposed. He’s open. He’s
there
.

In every picture since, he’s somewhere else.

The moment I get home that evening, I head straight for the library to validate my new theory. It only takes a second—a single glance—to confirm that I’m right.

My father has been mourning my mother since the day she died.

He’s never stopped.

The weight of this realization causes my knees to buckle. I drop into a nearby armchair, hugging my legs to my chest, and burying my forehead into my knees.

I stay like that well into the night, drifting in and out of sleep, until finally, around two a.m., I stand up and drag my tired body out of the library.

But instead of heading for the stairs, I take a right and find myself striding directly to the closed door at the end of the hall. My father’s personal study. I try the handle. As I suspected, it’s locked. I shake it with frustration, knowing there’s got to be something behind that door—a reason to keep it locked year round—but it doesn’t budge.

Exhaling loudly, I spin on my heels and march into the servants’ quarters. I knock on Horatio’s door. Softly at first, then with growing persistence until he finally opens it. He’s tying a red robe around his T-shirt and boxers and rubbing sleep from the corners of his eyes.

“¿Qué pasa?”
he grumbles, clearly too tired to speak English.

“Where’s the key to my father’s office?”

He shrugs. “
No se
. Probably with your father.”

“Isn’t it tradition for the butler to have a master key that unlocks every room in the house?”

“Not this butler,” he replies dismissively.

I sigh and attempt a more direct approach. “I need to know what my mother was like.”

“Ah sí,”
he says diligently with a smile. “
Muy bonita
. So wonderful. Loving. Maternal.”

I roll my eyes at the standard response that’s nearly word for word what I’ve been hearing my entire life. Like some kind of subtle indoctrination that I never noticed until now. “No,” I tell him. “I need to know what she was
really
like.”

Horatio instantly looks at the ground. “I don’t understand,” he mutters unconvincingly.

“Cooper said she used to go away a lot. Where did she go?”

He shrugs but still won’t meet my eyes. “Cruises. Mrs. Larrabee loved to go on cruises. They were relaxing. Raising five children was very stressful.”

“And she was on one of these cruises before she died?”

“Sí,”
he says, nodding adamantly, as though he’s just remembered this detail.
“Exacto.”

“I think you’re lying,” I challenge. “I think there’s something you’re not telling me.”

Horatio appears visibly uncomfortable now. I glare at him, trying to make eye contact so that I can extract some piece of information from his rapidly dilating pupils. But he won’t let me.

I pause to take my internal temperature. It’s boiling hot. I inhale deeply and wait a moment until it’s simmered to a normal 98.6. Or close enough to it. Then I drop my voice to slightly above a whisper and reach down deeper than I’ve ever reached. To a place where manipulation cannot survive. Where spoiled temper tantrums cannot be heard. And the only tool left to use is my raw humanity.

“Please, Horatio,” I implore. “They’ve been lying to me my entire life. I just want to know who my mother really was. Don’t you think I deserve at least that?”

His eyes close but only for a moment. And in that instant I truly believe that I’ve gotten through to him. That he’s suddenly morphed into a new person. No longer a butler. No longer a servant. But maybe, possibly, a real friend.

But the second passes. Time ticks tenaciously on. His eyes open once again and I realize miserably that nothing has changed. He’s the same person he’s always been. The same person I’ve known my entire life.

An employee of the Larrabee family.

A keeper of Larrabee secrets.

“It’s late,” Horatio finally says with an exaggerated yawn. “I’m tired. Can we talk about this in the morning?”

My shoulders fall in defeat. “Fine,” I tell him. “But I’m
going
to get to the bottom of this. I’m going to find out the truth. With or without your help.”