Before I move, my aunt’s unmistakable, shrill voice carries over the city’s song of honking cars and chattering passersby. “Pearl, Pearl.” She teeters on heels at the entrance to the hotel, her hand impatiently on her hip. She gives me an awkward hug. A thought buzzes from the back of my mind. Why didn’t anyone call me this week? The dorm has phones. They all have phones. Yes, Janet was Gary’s sister, but she was my mother. I am the daughter of the deceased. I have no one to lean on.
“So glad you’re here,” she pipes.
Surely, she means the opposite. I’ve always had the impression the Jaegers consider me an annoying extension of my mother. Someone they have to tolerate and take responsibility for, because Janet failed and left them with the mess to clean up.
When we enter the lobby, my uncle stands stiffly beside fronded plants and a sectional where my cousins wait, eyes glued to their phones.
“Hi, Pearl,” Erica says softly when I approach.
Uncle Gary and his duplicate, Logan, allow her singular greeting to speak for the group.
After the elevator dings for the ninth floor, I walk a few paces behind them. My aunt whispers to my uncle, “Those are not the garments I sent her in the fall.”
I’m used to her passive insults, but as tough as I can be on the exterior, JJ’s death has disarmed me, leaving me soft and vulnerable like cartilage. It isn’t so much what Aunt Beverly says, but how she says it. I hear in her voice that I’m not good enough and never will be.
“We’re going to the wake and then out for something to eat. Freshen up,” Uncle Gary orders when we arrive at the suite with an adjoining room for Erica and Logan.
“Looks like she could use a bath. She should wash her hair while she’s at it. It’s so stringy,” my aunt mutters.
I welcome the city sounds to penetrate the quiet in the car that brings us directly from the hotel to the funeral home. As we cross town, I call upon a memory or moment of significance from nearly every block we pass. I yearn to jump out of the car, throw myself on the familiar pavement, crawl away, and lick my wounds.
The eerie quiet of the funeral home, even with the conciliatory music emanating from somewhere unseen, troubles me. Or maybe it’s just the peculiar stillness of death.
Lilies decorate the small viewing room, and lines of empty chairs lead to my mother’s long ebony casket. I choke on tears. The hinges are closed. I half expected it to be open. I almost want it to be. I want to see her one last time. To see the scar that was sure to have formed by her eye—thanks to Darren. To see her eyebrows, which she religiously plucked. To count the earrings that reached up her ear. I want to hold her hand. To hold her hand one last time. My body racks with soundless sobs.
My uncle barks, “Don’t be so dramatic, Pearl.”
My legs grow weak. I slump in a chair opposite the aisle where everyone else sits. I don’t appreciate the tattoo of judgment written on my uncle’s and aunt’s faces.
In front of the casket, I kneel and tilt my head up. Beyond the ceiling, I imagine the sky. For a second I think the world holds its breath, but it’s me. From deep within, I let out a howl. The sound of an animal. The cry of loss.
Sadness continues to flood me, then like a boomerang, it whips back on itself, and anger takes its place. Why did she have to ruin her life and mine? The question isn’t rhetorical; it’s indignation. Then sadness returns. The two emotions struggle with each other, each battling for my attention as the room and people behind me disappear. Only my mother and all my feelings remain, as they so often have.
A hand grips my shoulder. “Time to go,” a man in a gray suit says.
A black awning attached to the brownstone protects everyone from the drizzle as they get into the awaiting sedan. I step to the edge of the outdoor carpet that lies beneath the awning and then out into the rain. I let its cold darts fall upon me, joining my tears.
“Come on, Pearl,” my uncle calls.
Back at the hotel, after a shower, I riffle through my aunt’s toiletry bag, looking for anything that will ameliorate the weekend. I strike gold when I find a ziplock bag filled with aspirin, allergy pills, and a slew of drugs for those perpetually craving more, better, bigger, along with a bottle of painkillers. It’s full and nearing the expiration date, but I don’t care. Oblivion.
The next morning the digital clock reads six when I hear my uncle in the bathroom. I roll over, hoping to doze back off, but they’re early risers, and Beverly will surely have something to say about how lazy I am if I don’t look lively. I dress and ask my aunt if she minds if I take a walk. She looks uncertain.
“We used to live just down the street. I know my way around. I’ll be back in a little while.”
“We have to go collect some of your mother’s things this morning, and then we have the burial after lunch. There’s a meeting late this afternoon that you must attend, and then dinner tonight, of course.” She lists these items like a travel itinerary. “Be back before noon,” she says as if I won’t be missed.
It occurs to me that when word gets out JJ of the Shrapnels passed away, superfans might crawl out of the woodwork, lighting candles and leaving notes like they did when Nell died. I assume Uncle Gary wants to make quick work of this to avoid media attention—and probably get on with his life. It isn’t lost on me, the burden she’s caused. Part of me hates him for this, and another part feels relieved. I don’t want to share my grief with strangers who adored the stage JJ. It’s hard enough sorting through the versions of her that I knew.
I throw on my coat, grab my backpack, and scoot out the door before anyone can say otherwise.
The unique vibe present at nearly every other time of day lies tucked away behind concrete and glass in the secret early morning world of Manhattan. The air and light speak of hope and promise. If I squint my eyes toward the horizon, I might just believe anything is possible; it is, after all, the city of dreams. I want it to fill me, to soak it in, to know that the city hasn’t given up on me.
I wander past the hotel with no specific destination in mind. I want to be alone with the sidewalks, my memories, and sadness.
I walk briskly down Fifth Avenue, keeping my eyes off the display windows, feeling out of place along this stretch of road. I need to be somewhere more honest and raw, if for nothing more than to play against the deceit of my family.
Ahead, I see the New York Public Library and recall the hours, days, and what may as well have amounted to years spent within its gilded walls. The reason why I sought refuge in its vast quantities of fiction and art and costume permeates another layer of sadness and anger. I fled my mother and her antics when she smoked crack, cocaine, or heroin, going to the quiet of the library, a symbol of normalcy.
Janet never picked up more than a magazine—one of my Vogues. She chucked it at me because I didn’t hear her ask me to take out the trash. As much as I want her back, countless reasons and occasions during which I retreated from her and wished her away deluge my consciousness.
Janet was like a roller coaster ride, thrilling and dangerous, up and down. When the tracks leveled out at the end of the day or week or month and I realized I’d made it, I found myself laughing with relief. But the ride has come to a sudden end, and the tracks and cars wrap into a knot of confusion in my mind.
The green of Bryant Park presents itself, and after a stampede of moms pass, pushing strollers, I plop down on a bench. A single leaf blows across the toes of my boots, then catches in the low fence that surrounds a patch of grass. A bum rests on another bench about twenty feet away. A jogger skirts the outside perimeter, heading toward Sixth Avenue. I usually coexist with the city and people, but today I feel disconnected, like there’s no dial tone and nothing to say anyway.
I look out across the lawn, and the silhouette of an indie film festival shines from the summer, just days before we fled to the battered women’s shelter. I’d gone with some friends; the
ir nearly forgotten faces slide one by one into the viewfinder of my mind.
Gino and Ali, Turner, Wyatt, Adriana, and me. Our picnic consisted of cheap wine we drank out of plastic soda bottles. All around, sophisticated groups of young people and old sipped iced Arnold Palmers, enjoyed trays of cheese and smoked meats, crackers, and grapes. We got rowdy, then shushed until someone complained and security told us to leave. Later, we found a hot tub party and then danced and danced until we were dry. It was one of those magical New York nights when nothing could dim the light of the moon except the rising sun.
I circle the park, my mother more present than in real life as the city recalls my memories. As I walk back to the hotel, she follows me, a devil on each shoulder, whispering both good times and bad in my ears, teasing me to chase thrills and reexperience the emotional details as a way to preserve the past. These recycled feelings insult the crushing pain I already endure.
I’m a few hours later than my aunt said I should be back. I knock on the solid wooden door of the hotel room, and my uncle answers it with a stormy look on his face.
“Where’ve you been, Janet?”
“I took a—” I stop, realizing he mistakenly called me Janet. My mother. The blunder drives home the point that in many ways, in the collective mind of my family of origin, she and I are one and the same. “My name is Pearl.”
His eyes cast around darkly, as if I’m to blame for being me.
I take a shower and contemplate popping one of the shiny red pills from the stash in the travel bag, but resist; it will be better to be lucid when we lay my mother to rest and for the meeting. I can wait just a little longer, I assure my sullen heart.
Chapter 28
After an uninspired lunch, the long black hearse leads our depressing two-car procession out of the city to the cemetery.
My mother had long since dispensed with what one might call friends. She certainly had enemies and hangers-on, people she partied with, but in one way or another, she’d burned everyone she ever knew. My uncle would not have the inclination to let any of those people know she died. But it’s only a matter of time before the press gets wind that former rock star Janet Jaeger overdosed on drugs, at least that’s what I assume. I can see the TV segment now, a glossy montage of photos, JJ equal parts a spotlight darling and irreverently flipping off the cameras.
As if pressing the brakes and screeching to a halt, I suddenly wonder who found her. Who was she with when it happened? Or was she alone? Who was the last person to see her take a breath? Tears fall freely from my eyes as we cross the bridge; the skyline rises away from us like a glassy, geometric wave at our backs.
At the cemetery, I stagger across the path, putting distance between the group and myself. The cloud-smudged sky, rows and rows of granite headstones, and my ashen heart are like a black-and-white photo, a snapshot captured during some other lifetime.
At the family plot, where my grandparents were laid to rest years ago, the box containing my mother is a blemish. This is all wrong. I want to throw myself on top of the casket, bang my fists, and shout, “Wake up. We weren’t done here.” But as if stapled to that old photograph, I’m frozen in time, unmoving, the contrast between then and now.
I toss a single lily on top of the ebony casket as they lower it into the earth. As the casket alights, I shake with grief, drop to my knees in the soggy grass, and sob. The men in the family singe me with looks of disgust. They’ll never understand. They haven’t survived the battlefield of her life. Aunt Beverly avoids looking at me altogether. I turn away, but then a pair of arms grips me, pulling me to my feet, and Erica hugs me, her muffled sob echoing my own.
Overhead, the laden clouds burst with rain as if exhausted by the sheer effort of trying to hold back their reservoir of grief. Enormous droplets thrust themselves toward the ground, painting everything wet like tears.
The rain and her absence, a character cut from the play of my life, further mute the ride back into the city. What caused her to drop away? Was there one pivotal moment that turned her forever? She wasn’t a bad person, not really; she just made bad choices. I want to believe that. Buried deep under years of resentment, dishonesty, and anger, the answers hide, lost forever. I rest my head against the seat and close my eyes. As usual, my mother waits for me behind my lids.
Grainy slide-like memories of my mother looking past me with dark, unblinking eyes, her face twisted and gray, when she appeared at my elementary school on drugs and incoherent. I still feel the humiliation in my bones like fractured rock. When I look up, disoriented, like waking from a bad dream, we pass the very same school. A carved sign fixed upon its brick facade reads P.S. 7, and crushes me beneath its weight.
The car stops in front of a towering glass office building. Uncle Gary gets out, beckons me, and waves his family away, which can only mean one thing: I’m the subject of the meeting my aunt mentioned.
On the sixteenth floor, I follow my uncle down a long corridor that ends with a door bearing the names Lawrence, Sanders, Sloan, and Associates, Attorneys at Law.
In the silence of a small conference room, a slight man, with a ring of dark hair above his ears, wearing a suit and tie, takes a seat at the head of the table. He and Uncle Gary greet each other with a handshake.
“I’m Brandt Sanders,” he says in a monotone as he opens a folder. “Alrighty, this should be simple enough. I see the deceased, Ms. Janet Jaeger, did not have a will or any bequests. She had no property, assets, or savings.” He glances at my uncle, perhaps to let this fact settle or invite a correction.
“She did receive a quarterly royalty check.” Brandt tilts his head, reading. “It isn’t much, but it will be transferred to Miss Pearl Jaeger, the deceased’s daughter.” He looks around the room as if it could be anyone but me. He angles his pen in my direction. “That’s you?”
I nod.
“Alrighty.” Brandt flips through more papers. “However, you will not be able to receive the monies from these quarterly checks until you are eighteen. They will accumulate in an account set up by your uncle, Gary Jaeger, until that time comes, which is—” He looks at the papers again. “In approximately eight months. Until then there is also the matter of your custody.”
My uncle clears his throat. “I am willing to continue funding her high school education at Laurel Hill Preparatory School as long as she remains on the honor roll and stays out of trouble.” He directs this at the lawyer, not looking at me.
“Very generous of you. Do you understand, Miss Jaeger?”
“Yes.” My voice squeaks from disuse.
“As for the summer and vacations, where will she reside?” Brandt asks.
“This summer she may go to a summer school program that I will also fund as long as my conditions continue to be met.”
“Is this clear?” Brandt asks me.
I nod.
“Will you also be providing her with transportation to and from Laurel Hill Preparatory School?”
“Yes.” My uncle nods.
“As for holiday vacations?” Brandt adds notes to his file.
“Primarily she will remain on campus when that is an option, or my house,” my uncle says as if I’m not in the room.
“Alrighty,” Brandt says. He scribbles on a notepad. “Let me see, anything else?”
A wailing siren stories below pierces the silence in the room.
Brandt passes me a pen. “This first document you will be signing acknowledges the royalty checks. It also indicates your uncle will provide you with a monthly allowance of one hundred dollars to use at your discretion, but intended for school supplies, clothing, and other necessities. Initial here, here, and here.” He gestures impatiently on the form.
“This next document is an acknowledgment that you understand your uncle’s parameters for funding the remainder of your high school education, including summer school and any other education or enrich
ment programs you pursue between now and June of next year.
“Finally, these last papers are custody documents,” he says, sliding the papers across the table. “These will become null and void on Miss Jaeger’s eighteenth birthday, when she becomes a legal adult; however, the education stipulations will remain in effect until the following June, upon her graduation.” After signing, he shuffles the papers into a neat pile and says, “Alrighty. That’s done. Enjoy the rest of your day.”
The silence we carry through the building as we leave follows us into the car, quietly punctuating how I hardly exist. And yet, my uncle offered to pay for my education. Where was he all those times I really needed him? Like when I had the flu and we stayed in Janet’s friend’s apartment without leaving for three days, until a stray bullet came through the wall. Or the time, while drunk, Janet fell down the cement stairs in the subway. Why didn’t he intervene before the worst-case scenario became reality?
However, reasoning with Janet was useless. She couldn’t distinguish between the truth and the stories she told herself—that she was a victim, that everyone was out to get her, that everything was someone else’s fault, that no one was to be trusted.
Then another thought jolts me. I was just a kid, an innocent bystander, the monkey in her show. Now when it’s too late and she’s dead, he has finally gotten involved. Does my uncle harbor guilt? Does he feel sorry for me? Is he just doing what he thinks is right? Does he actually hold on to hope for my future?
I flounder in a sea of unasked and unanswered questions until I feel like I might drown. I sink and sink, giving in to what-ifs until the door opens and light from the marquee of an upscale restaurant floods the dark interior of the car.
In a dimly lit restaurant, with lots of linen and bits of food arranged like architecture projects gone awry, a server fills my glass. The menu doesn’t interest me. I haven’t been hungry for weeks. Nonetheless, I order pasta primavera. The meal takes on an asphyxiating quality when Uncle Gary and Logan discuss the lineup for the Yankees. My aunt studies the wine list, commenting on a bottle of sauvignon blanc to no one in particular.
Pearl Page 18
