Whittaker 02 The One We Love

by Donna White Glaser

  STEP TWO

  Came to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity

  STEP THREE

  Made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I felt bad about not liking Regina more, especially after she died. Of course, I don’t think Regina liked me much either, despite that she’d saved my life. Maybe liking isn’t the point.

  It would have come in handy at her funeral, though.

  Surrounded by most of my coworkers, I sat on a folding chair covered in faded burgundy, trying to come up with topics for conversation. I needn’t have bothered. My colleagues left me in a cone of respectful silence, shooting sympathetic looks whenever our eyes met. Mostly I concentrated on facing forward. If I blurred my eyes like when looking at those 3D pictures where a unicorn materializes out of a psychedelic swirl, I could almost believe it wasn’t a casket placed center stage with burgundy velvet theater curtains bracketing it.

  Except for two wilting ferns provided by the funeral home, there weren’t any flowers either, which I’d always found to be a nice distraction at funerals. A person could examine each bouquet, stick her nose in the blossoms for a good sniff, discuss how pretty they all were and which flowers were the favorite of the deceased. Maybe even (silently) compare the estimated cost of the other arrangements to one’s own.

  Ignore the dead body in the middle of the room, Letty.

  Instead, somebody had arranged for “in lieu of” donations, which, while imminently charitable, did not lend themselves to small talk.

  I wanted to get up, move around. Oh hell, what I really wanted was to sneak outside for a smoke. I reminded myself I was trying to quit. Besides, at any moment, the minister was going to come forward to ask for the personal anecdotes of the deceased that made everyone smile and nod in fond remembrance. My armpits grew damp, my stomach doing lazy flips in anticipation.

  Months ago in the wake of some horrible events in my life, Regina had really come through for me, had forced me out of the bleak dead-zone of depression and back into real life. By rights, I should have loved her for it. Because of it, my colleagues assumed a relationship between us that didn’t exist, and naturally expected some folksy, heart-warming Regina stories. Not that they had any of their own.

  I guessed I could chat about the choke holds and knife attacks that she’d forced me to escape from or the multiple times she thrashed my butt, teaching me self-defense skills. Although upon consideration, it was probably better not to mention the worrisome little smile that twinkled across her face during the attacks; that didn’t seem like funeral fodder. I guessed that also ruled out showing off the yellow-green bruise that still lingered on my ass from the last training session a little more than a week ago.

  Or, keeping it light, I could tell about the time Regina took over two racks of the employee lounge fridge so she could slide in her own personal lockbox to secure her imported salad dressing and designer water from those of us who consistently forgot to bring a sack lunch. Regina wasn’t what you would call a “sharer.”

  Unless you counted the thousands of hours of time, energy and expertise she’d donated to the women and children at our community domestic abuse shelter. Or the similar intensity she displayed in saving me from myself after the previously mentioned horrible events.

  Now I felt really bad. Again.

  Bob, acting supervisor and reigning toad of the clinic we all worked at, plopped down beside me. He was actively losing his own battle with sweaty pit issues, and it showed. Or, more accurately, smelled. I tried blurring my nose, but unlike my eyes, it didn’t take.

  “Hey, Letty. You’d think they’d have the air on in here,” he said, mopping his head with a hankie. Unfortunately, the action misaligned the strands of hair he’d pasted across his balding dome and he had to spend a few minutes patting them back into submission, which further served to fan his eau de la pit-smell. “You’re gonna say something, right? For the eulogy?”

  “I thought you would. I mean, you and she were—”

  “Nah, I better not. I don’t want to seem like I’m playing favorites. If I compliment one employee, then everyone else gets PO’d. I don’t need the hassle.”

  As a psychotherapist, I knew how to keep my emotions in check, but my training occasionally fails in the face of abject stupidity. This occurred whenever I talked with Bob.

  “Bob, I really don’t think anyone is going to mind if you say some nice things about Regina at her funeral. Besides, you and she have been friends for a very long—”

  He interrupted. Again. “You start it out. I’m sure you’ve got some good things to say.” He gave me a “boss” look underscoring the non-voluntary qualities of his suggestion, then heaved himself to his feet and walked toward the funeral director.

  As I glared at his retreating backside, I noticed several more people entering. All women. All with that no-makeup, Amazonian-professional look that secretly intimidated me. As far as I’m concerned, women willing to bare unadorned faces to the world have big juju.

  I recognized three of them from the shelter where Regina had volunteered. The shelter that she’d dragged me to after … well … after. I shook myself.

  A rustling sound distracted me and I swiveled back to face front as the funeral director—a chubby little cherub—minced up the aisle to the speaking podium. At least I wouldn’t have to witness some meek clergyman trying to pronounce Regina’s name correctly. Regina always insisted it rhyme with her girl parts, rather than the traditional usage. And if she were alive now, she’d have slapped me for saying “girl parts.”

  The cherub stood in front, clearing his throat and cloaking his face in decorous restraint. I waited for his assistants to perform the discreet, behind the curtains closing of the casket, but none appeared. The cherub greeted us smoothly, then read a brief eulogy comprised of dry, isolated facts, taken straight from the newspaper obituary. At least he got her name right and he didn’t blush when pronouncing it.

  Still no sign of assistant cherubs coming to shut the casket.

  Moments later, he opened the floor to Regina’s loved ones and extended his hand to the first speaker.

  Me. Damn you, Bob.

  Mouth dry and legs shaking, I made my way to the podium. I hoped that people would assume I was overwrought with grief, or even just afraid of public speaking, instead of the truth: I had no idea what to say about Regina; all made worse by the fact that Regina lay directly behind me, casket open to the world. The skin on the back of my neck crawled. I felt like she was going to grade me on my performance. Or leap on the back of my neck like the undead.

  The cherub had left a pitcher of water and a small stack of Dixie cups on a stand next to the podium. I stalled, pouring a drink. The water danced in the tiny cup like I had palsy.

  “Regina,” I began, “was an amazing woman. I hardly know where to begin.” All true, so far. Doin’ good. “She was a skilled and dedicated therapist, a stalwart defender of women and women’s rights, and … a good friend.” As long as we disregard the “not liking each other” part. “Regina taught me so much. So, so much…um—” What? What did she teach me? “She taught me about how to be a strong woman in a very scary world, how to walk with pride and courage. How to trust my instincts.”

  I was starting to surprise myself. I looked out over the assemblage and saw the nearly all-female crowd nodding. Bob, sitting near the front, was rubbing his nose surreptitiously. I closed my eyes to avoid viewing the actual booger-picking moment.

  “How to fight back and refuse to be a victim.” How to kick a man so hard he’d sneeze out nuts.

  My eyes
flew open in sudden panic, scanning the upturned faces to see if I’d actually said that last bit out loud. I rubbed the nicotine patch on my shoulder hoping to activate a rush of chemicals. Bob, booger free, looked bored, and Clotilde, the shelter’s dominatrix… er, director, showed neither shock nor, as would be more likely, amusement.

  I recognized the woman next to Clotilde. Astrid had once co-led the group counseling sessions that Regina had dragged me to. She leaned toward Clotilde, whispering in her ear. Clotilde, never taking her eyes off me, nodded once. Since it didn’t seem to pertain to sneezing nuts, I tried to move on.

  More water. Then, “I’ll miss Regina.” Surprisingly enough, also true.

  I sat down, tuning out the next few speakers, and waited for my heart to quit its wild thumping as the realization of just how true my last statement had been.

  I was going to miss Regina-rhymes-with-vagina very much.

  CHAPTER TWO

  After the service, I attempted to escape without talking to anyone. Before I made it to the door, however, a slightly older, decidedly sleeker version of Regina caught up with me and grasped my hand. She wore her hair in a fashionable bob, letting it curl around her chin, giving a look of sweetness to an otherwise too narrow face. She had Regina’s light blue eyes, but makeup softened and gentled the effect. I wasn’t surprised when she introduced herself as Regina’s sister, Emma.

  “I just had to thank you,” she said. “You seemed to know Reggie so well. I wanted to tell you how much your words meant to me. Everybody else seemed so…” Her voice trailed off, avoiding actual criticism. “I hope people aren’t upset because we didn’t have a pastor. Reggie had it all planned out. She always had intense beliefs; I imagine she didn’t want to trust it to anyone else. She didn’t want anything to do with a religious service, of course, but frankly I don’t know what message we were supposed to get from the casket remaining open the whole time.”

  “Maybe just a reminder?” I fumbled. Reminder of what, I didn’t know, but I, for one, wasn’t ever going to forget.

  Without letting go of my hand, Emma began walking toward the front. Until now, I’d managed to avoid the whole “doesn’t she look peaceful?” moment that required staring down at the dead person and commenting on her appearance. For a nanosecond, my legs locked up, attempting to transform into reality the cliche of digging my heels in. Just as quickly, I realized that resistance was futile. Emma was a sweeter version, perhaps, but there was more than just a physical resemblance between the sisters. I might leave drag marks in the thick carpet, but I was joining her casket-side.

  Regina didn’t appear peaceful, which would have been a weird look on her anyway. Whoever had done her up must not have gotten a demo-picture because they’d slathered her face with dramatic makeup and twisted a bright jewel-toned scarf around her neck. The heavy layer of foundation was too dark, making it look like the normally pale Regina had abused a tanning bed right before she’d died. A slash of rouge across her cheekbones only added to the unreality of her death.

  She looked so very different that my eyes skittered away as if caught staring at a stranger. They landed on her charm bracelet. I smiled. I’d gotten plenty of close-ups of that trinket when Regina had her hands wrapped around my throat. It would jingle as she demonstrated how to twist an attacker’s thumbs to leverage them off my neck. She’d talk matter-of-factly about maiming and blinding and paralyzing with the charms tinkling merrily in counterpoint to her movements.

  “I wonder where they got the scarf,” Emma remarked. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Reggie wear one before. She wasn’t all that into style.” Emma smiled down at her own chic outfit.

  “No, she wasn’t,” I agreed. I would never in a million years have pictured Regina choosing this scarf, beautiful as it was. It didn’t even particularly match her more familiar navy pants suit.

  “I guess they needed to cover the wound,” Emma continued. “I didn’t even know she knitted.”

  “I’m sorry? A wound? I thought Regina fell. They told us she’d fallen down a set of stairs at the women’s shelter.”

  “She did, but from what I understand that’s not what killed her. It might have if she hadn’t been able to get help, but what really killed her was the needle.”

  “A needle?” I felt like a parrot, but none of this made any sense. “A knitting needle?”

  “Yeah, that’s strange, huh? I never knew she knitted,” Emma said again.

  I looked down at Regina’s still form. “Neither did I.”

  “It just seems like such a strange thing to happen. Of course, when they told me they were doing an autopsy I thought it meant…

  “Anyway, they assured me that it’s a requirement in all accidental deaths.”

  “Wow, I didn’t realize … Do they think—”

  “Letty?” Bob approached, startling me. He stood slightly off to the side, indicating with a “c’mere” head tilt that he wanted to speak to me. I excused myself from Emma.

  Bob said, “I need to meet with you later. Can you come by the clinic when you’re done here?

  “Um, sure. Are you heading to the cemetery?” I asked.

  “Nah, something’s come up and I need to take care of it. If you’re going to pay respects, that’s fine. Just stop by the office afterward.” Bob said.

  He nodded to Emma. “My condolences.” Then hurried off.

  I turned to Emma. “I’d better go, too. It was nice meeting you.”

  She nodded distractedly, then looked deep into my eyes. I waited, assuming she had more to say. Instead, she smiled faintly and turned back to her sister.

  It felt strange meeting Bob in our former boss’s office. Bob had never liked Marshall, but I … I certainly couldn’t say the same. I hadn’t heard from Marshall since he’d left for Wyoming, and my heart twisted at the sight of Bob sitting in Marshall’s old leather chair.

  “So, okay, Letty. Here’s the thing. Regina left you some instructions. Her lawyer called me this morning before the service. Called me at home.” He stressed the intrusion, implying that it was my fault. “She had Regina’s will, and she faxed it over here.”

  “Her will? What do I have to do with Regina’s will?”

  “Not her will exactly.” Bob sounded irritated that I’d assumed his use of the word “will” meant… well…a will. Apparently, I should have known better.

  He snatched a sheaf of papers from a tilting column on the desk. “Her ‘Professional Executor Instructions.’ Her lawyer, gal by the name of Perkins, said Regina was supposed to have given me a copy, but I never saw it. You need to give her a call.” He tossed the papers across the desk to me.

  I left them lying between us, seemingly harmless, but I’d been fooled before. The A/C kicked on and the papers fluttered gently. I shivered.

  “What the hell is a professional executor anyway?” I asked.

  Bob shrugged. “Like, you know, the person who’s got to cross all the I’s and dot all the T’s. Contact her clients, review her files, maybe do a little grief counseling. Like that.” He pointed to the papers again. “Her client list is in there, too.”

  “Well, of course, somebody’s got to do that.” With the unexpectedness of Regina’s death, I hadn’t really thought about it, but it seemed obvious now. Regina’s clients, many of them anyway, would need help processing her sudden demise. “I guess I figured we would all pitch in.”

  “Oh, sure, absolutely.” Bob acted as if he’d already thought the process through. Maybe he had. “But with this,” he gestured to the papers, “and a lawyer involved, we’ll need to honor Regina’s wishes.” Not to mention that dumping it all on me took Bob off the hook.

  “Uh-huh,” I said. “Haven’t her clients already been notified?”

  The clinic had been closed for two days, ever since we’d heard about Regina’s accident. All clients, aside from a very few emergency calls that each of us dealt with accordingly, had been rescheduled for next week.

  “Not officially notifi
ed,” Bob said. “We canceled Regina’s appointments, but without an explanation. I was waiting to hear from Admin how they wanted us to handle the situation.”

  Bob loved the perks of the director position; he liked his big office, he liked the respect he assumed he had, and he liked choosing his own hours, which always seemed to combine coming in late with leaving early and allegedly toiling diligently at home under onerous conditions.

  But the responsibilities and, worse, the accountability? Not so much. He didn’t make any decision without prior approval lest someone—anyone—try to assign blame for any mishap. He didn’t venture new ideas and he didn’t claim old ones until they’d been proven successful.

  Come to think of it, he had more administrative skills than I’d been crediting him with.

  A wistful yearning made me ask, “Has anyone called Marshall?”

  Bob shrugged. “Why would they? I mean, he’s not going to come from Wyoming for a funeral of a former colleague. They didn’t even get along. It’s the clients we have to focus on.”

  “What about my clients?” I asked. Yes, I admit to a slight whiny quality in the question.

  “You’ll have to go through them and prioritize. Transfer as many as you safely can to the other therapists for a couple of weeks, and see the ones yourself who might be too fragile to shift over. Go through your client roster this afternoon and get me a list ASAP. But the big thing is going to be reviewing Regina’s current client files and contacting each of them. Give referrals to the ones you think need to continue seeing someone and work out some kind of grief sessions for those who need it. You may need to go into her back files and review those clients, too, but obviously the priority is gonna be her current people. Read that,” he said, pointing again to the papers, “and call Ms. Perkins so she knows we’re on top of things.”

  I finally picked up the papers. “Professional Executor Instructions,” it said across the top. “For the Disposition of the Practice of Regina L. Wentzler, Psy. D. In the Event of Death, Disappearance, or Disability.”