What She Forgot

by Margaret Lashley

  “Okay. By the way, you didn’t happen to bring the—”

  “Tiara?” Havenall winked. “Of course I did.” She opened her bag and pulled out Miss Sunshine City’s yellowed, fake-diamond tiara, along with the tattered feathered eye mask that matched Melody’s ball gown. “Let’s help our lady go out in style. One final ball for Cinderella.”

  Unexpected tears blinded Deanna. It was a struggle to squeeze the words from her tight throat. “Thank you, Mrs. Havenall. Mom was such a ....”

  Havenall hugged Deanna and winked. “That she was.”

  The women exchanged teary smiles. “I better get to it,” Mrs. Havenall said. “We don’t have much time. Here, hold these.”

  Deanna took the tiara and mask, then watched as her neighbor pulled out a teasing brush and went to work on her mother’s granny-style wash-n-set.

  “I owe you so much, Mrs. Havenall. For keeping an eye on Mom these past few years. I know she could be ... a handful. I wish I’d been here to see her before she passed.”

  Mrs. Havenall reached for a wet-wipe and shot Deanna an inquisitive look. “She told me she called you on Monday to tell you she was dying.”

  Deanna’s face crumpled. “I know. But ... well, Mom’s been dying for the past twenty years. I just thought this was another one of her drama-queen episodes.”

  Mrs. Havenall nodded. “Don’t fret about it. You’ve been a good daughter, Deanna. And your mother? Well, let’s just say the woman put ‘the boy who cried wolf’ to shame. This time, though, I guess she meant it.”

  Mrs. Havenall turned and wiped away the pink lipstick covering her mother’s lips. Deanna gasped, shocked at the dark-blue flesh underneath. Mrs. Havenall quickly applied red lipstick to cover them.

  Deanna sniffed back a tear. “Mom always told me she didn’t want to outlive her beauty.”

  “And she hasn’t,” Mrs. Havenall said in a tone designed to cheer up Deanna. “See? Better, right?”

  Deanna studied her mother’s face. Fine lines showed around her eyes and mouth, but Melody Young was still lovely for her age. “Yes, much better, thanks. I’m so glad she went peacefully in her sleep.”

  Mrs. Havenall smiled. “We should all be so lucky.” She reached for the tiara in Deanna’s hands.

  “May I?” Deanna asked.

  Mrs. Havenall’s eyebrows raised in surprise. “Of course!”

  Deanna gave her a pursed, grateful smile, then placed the tiara carefully over her mother’s blonde helmet of a hairdo.

  Mrs. Havenall put her hand on Deanna’s shoulder. “Your mom loved you in her own way, you know.”

  Fresh tears stung Deanna’s eyes. “I know.”

  “I still have the eyeshadow and mask to put on. Why don’t you go get a breath of air? Take a peek in the parking lot. See if there’s anyone out there wandering around. Surely we can’t be the only two souls who showed up for her funeral.”

  Deanna nodded, grateful for the gracious out Mrs. Havenall had given her. She glanced at her mother, then tromped past the gauntlet of empty pews. Outside, the parking lot was empty except for Deanna’s rental car, a black hearse, and Mrs. Havenall’s minivan. Then, back in the far corner, Deanna spotted a dark-blue sedan.

  It probably belongs to the funeral director, Deanna thought, and blew out a sigh.

  She should’ve expected as much. Over the last fifteen years, her mother had become more and more reclusive. Trapped in a cage of her own vanity, Melody Young had hidden herself away so no one could see she was no longer the twenty-something ingénue of her Tarancula Now glory days.

  Melody had despised both computers and cellphones. Deanna’s contact with her had been limited to landline calls and snail-mail letters. Relegated to her self-imposed tiny kingdom, Deanna wondered if Melody knew Mrs. Havenall, her only friend, had become her secret caretaker.

  She hoped not.

  How sad, Deanna thought, glancing around the parking lot. Not another soul came.

  As Deanna turned to head back into the funeral home, she heard a car engine turn over. She looked back. A man was sitting in the dark sedan.

  One of Mom’s old flames? Deanna wondered. She took a step toward the parking lot. The man inside the sedan gunned the engine and peeled out of the lot.

  Chapter Thirteen

  WITH NO ONE IN ATTENDANCE besides Deanna, Mrs. Havenall, and the funeral director, the service commemorating Melody Young’s life had taken less time than the last-minute redo of her hair and makeup.

  The funeral director’s bland, stoic face had broken rank at the sight of Mrs. Havenall’s “emergency makeover.” Deanna had found his snobbish disdain morbidly amusing. Then she’d pictured him dressing her mother’s corpse and styling her hair, and her amusement had given way to a serious case of the creeps. But none of that mattered now. Her mother was six feet in the ground. No one would ever gaze upon the faded face of Miss Sunshine City again.

  “She’s at peace now, Deanna,” the funeral director had offered as they walked past the tent and the single row of empty folding chairs that surrounded the gravesite.

  “Yes.” Deanna had nodded grimly, her lips pursed to a white line. “Hopefully, now we all can be.”

  Deanna felt surprisingly calm as she climbed into the Prius. But as she drove out of the lot, she began to doubt the reason for her lack of sorrow.

  Has reality just not hit me yet, or am I not capable of empathy?

  Am I a sociopath?

  Chapter Fourteen

  THAT WAS A CLOSE CALL, the man in the sedan thought.

  I wonder if she recognized me.

  I wonder if she knows how much I really care.

  Chapter Fifteen

  DRIVING HOME FROM THE funeral, an unwelcome feeling crawled up Deanna’s spine and whispered in her ear.

  Where is your heart, Deanna?

  Was the feeling she’d labeled as calmness actually emptiness? A vacuous void? Was she incapable of true empathy for her mother—or for anyone? If so, did that mean she was a sociopath?

  Or maybe she was just numb from shock.

  Either way, despite the funeral, nothing felt over and done with. Instead, Deanna began to prickle with guilty panic, as if she’d done something terribly wrong and would soon be caught out and forced to pay the price for it. She couldn’t shake the feeling her mother’s death had set into motion an unstoppable, impending doom. The weight of it surrounded her, pressed in on her, as if she were the one now trapped in that shiny white coffin underground ....

  Honk! The sharp bleat of a car horn startled Deanna. Lost in thought, she’d absently tailed Mrs. Havenall’s minivan all the way back to the alley behind their adjacent houses.

  Mrs. Havenall waved, then steered her minivan into her own driveway. Deanna waved back, then pulled alongside the falling-down fence behind her mother’s house—which now, oddly, belonged to her.

  “You going to be all right by yourself?” Mrs. Havenall called from across her backyard.

  Deanna climbed out of the Prius and nodded. “Yeah, I’ll be okay. Thanks again for everything. Let’s catch up tomorrow, okay? I’m totally wiped out.”

  “Sure, honey. Listen, I turned the heater on, so it should be nice and warm for you. And there’s a tuna sandwich in the fridge, and an apple.”

  Mrs. Havenall’s kindness brought fresh tears to Deanna’s eyes. Her own mother hadn’t prepared a meal since she’d taught Deanna how to use a can opener. Sometimes Deanna wished she could’ve used that can opener to get inside her mother’s head. What were you thinking, Melody?

  Deanna sniffed back a tear. “Thank you!” she called out, her voice suddenly raspy. “I really appreciate it.”

  “No worries, hon. I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thank you. Oh. Mrs. Havenall? Be sure to tell Jodie ‘hi’ for me next time you talk to her.”

  Mrs. Havenall grinned. “You can tell her yourself. She’ll be here on Tuesday.”

  Deanna stopped in her tracks. “Really?”

  “Yes, r
eally.”

  “That’s great!” Deanna’s heart perked up at the thought of seeing her old friend. Jodie was a year older, but they’d quickly become close after she’d moved in next door.

  When was that? Deanna thought. It feels like another lifetime ago. Deanna did the math in her head and was shocked to realize twenty-two years had passed since they’d first met.

  “When’s the last time you two saw each other?” Mrs. Havenall asked as if she’d read Deanna’s mind.

  “I dunno,” Deanna answered over the fence. “Since college. Maybe ten ... fifteen years?”

  Mrs. Havenall shook her head. “That long? I can barely believe it. Hey. Why don’t you come over for supper Tuesday? Say, six o’clock? It’ll be fun for us all to get together again.”

  Deanna smiled genuinely for the first time in days. “I’d love that. What can I bring?”

  Mrs. Havenall winked. “With your cooking skills? A smile, hon. That’ll be enough of a challenge for you right now.”

  Her voice caught in her throat as she spoke. “I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”

  Mrs. Havenall beamed. “Perfect.”

  Deanna turned and walked past the garage, through the neglected garden and around the dried-up fountain and fish pond. She’d been forced to fill in both of them years ago after neighbors complained they’d become breeding pits for rats and mosquitos.

  Side-stepping over fallen twigs and small branches, Deanna spotted her mother’s favorite rosebush by the back door. Weighed down by the rainstorm, masses of apricot-hued blooms hung their heads as if in mourning. A fresh stab of pain found its target in Deanna’s heart.

  Warren’s roses.

  Despite her increasing reluctance to leave the house, Melody had never neglected to care for Warren’s rosebush. It was always neatly pruned, and the ground around it clear of weeds. It had been a honeymoon gift from Warren. And despite her mother’s grumblings and gripes over how much work it was to take care of it, she’d cherished the rose as long as she’d lived. Whether her devotion had its base in love or guilt, Deanna couldn’t say. For her, the two feelings had become inextricably linked.

  Roses blooming in November weren’t uncommon in St. Petersburg. But Warren’s roses seemed to thrive best in the cooler air. And today, like a final sorrowful farewell to his long-lost bride, he’d made sure its stems were laden with exquisitely scented blooms.

  Deanna reached out to touch a rose and felt a painful sting.

  “Ouch!”

  A hidden thorn had found her thumb. Deanna sucked the glistening drop of blood from the wound and sighed.

  You’re right, Mom. Sorry. They were meant for you.

  Deanna opened the back door. Like olfactory ghosts, the familiar scents of her mother wafted in the stale air. White Shoulders perfume. Vodka gimlets. Camel cigarettes.

  “There’s no place like home,” Deanna said sarcastically and closed the door. The house was sweltering.

  Well, at least the heater works, she thought as she crossed the living room toward the thermostat in the hall. She dialed it down from 85 to 70 degrees.

  “It’s only in the sixties outside, for goodness sakes,” she muttered as she glanced at her cellphone. According to her aching body, it was midnight. But the phone contradicted her. It was barely past six o’clock.

  It had been one hell of a day.

  Deanna glanced around at the mountains of newspapers, magazines, empty jars, tin-foil balls, plastic food containers, and God-knew-what stacked along the walls of every room as if they’d washed up on the tide of a garbage tsunami. Over the years, her mother’s reluctance to let go of things had spiraled out of control. Deanna blew out a long sigh and ticked off “hoarder” on her mother’s long list of neurotic tendencies.

  Deanna padded to the kitchen in search of alcohol and was greeted by a pile of unopened mail on the kitchen counter. Even more sat stuffed in grocery bags along the backsplash. Deanna had paid her mother’s bills online, so at least she didn’t have creditors to worry about. But the weight of the task ahead made her shoulders slump.

  Mom, did you have to leave me such a mess?

  Deanna grabbed a bottle of water from the refrigerator and shut the door. She took a sip and glanced around at the piles of fashion magazines, half-spent tubes of hand crème, and empty vodka bottles. She rattled through the booze bottles and found an unopened one. She filled a highball glass with ice and poured herself a double shot, straight up. She took a sip, then headed back into the living room.

  Stacks of newspapers covered the seat cushions of her mother’s favorite lounging spot—a faded, floral chintz couch. Deanna set her drink on the side table and grabbed a stack of papers. As she lifted them, a rat leapt out, scurried across her hand, and disappeared over the sofa’s back.

  Deanna shrieked. The stack of newspapers went flying, toppling her drink on the sofa table.

  “Bloody hell! Who can live like this?” Deanna shuddered, thinking of her ultra-tidy apartment in New York, and the task ahead of cleaning up her mother’s filthy house. As she bent down to pick up her spilled drink glass, she noticed that underneath where the newspapers had been, the couch was stained with urine and feces. Too much to blame on rodents. A new wave of disgust swept through her. Had Mom become incontinent since I’d last seen her in June?

  An open box of adult diapers in the bathroom confirmed Deanna’s suspicions. Mrs. Havenall hadn’t mentioned it. She probably wanted to spare Deanna more bad news she could do nothing about. Her mother’s hypochondria had made it nearly impossible to discern a real medical problem from a ploy for attention.

  Geez, Deanna wondered. How could Mrs. Havenall stand all this?

  The bathroom had been kept cursorily clean. The toilet and sink were passable. But like every other room, it brimmed to the gills with old magazines and assorted junk. The whole house needed clearing out and a good scrub. Two weeks wasn’t enough time to do it herself. She would have to hire help.

  Deanna stepped over the garbage in the hallway and headed back to the kitchen. She grabbed another bottle of water from the fridge. She needed a Paxil. She scrounged in her purse, but couldn’t find them.

  Crap. I’ve left them in New York, Deanna thought. Vodka would have to do.

  As she pulled the freezer door open to get more ice, something fell from the top of the refrigerator and landed on Deanna’s head. She touched her hair and was horrified to discover something was stuck in it!

  Deanna screamed and tore at her hair. Along with a hank of blonde locks, she yanked out a black, palm-sized spider.

  “Aargh!” Deanna yelled, flinging it away. The spider bounced against the refrigerator door and fell to the ground.

  It was a rubber tarantula.

  Deanna growled, then nearly came to tears. Hiding spiders around the house had been a favorite prank of her mother’s. She’d done it as long as Deanna could remember. And now, even from the grave, Melody had gotten her once again.

  “Good one, Mom,” Deanna hissed, and stomped the spider. She kicked it under the refrigerator and grabbed a handful of ice. She poured herself a double shot of vodka, drank it down, and poured herself another. She raised a toast to her mother’s ghost. “Cheers, Melody.”

  Too tired to eat, Deanna switched off the kitchen light, tromped to the living room, and closed the front blinds. As she walked down the hallway toward her bedroom, a car parked two doors down blinked on its headlights. The engine cranked.

  It rolled slowly past Deanna’s house.

  Then zoomed off into the night.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “HOW’D THE INTERVIEW go Friday?” Barney Smalls asked his partner as he walked into the small office suite they shared in one of the 1960’s-era, low-rise commercial buildings dotting downtown St. Petersburg.

  “Not good.” Blatch pinned his neighborhood crime map to a corkboard. If he was moving in with his mother, he needed a new place to post it. He certainly didn’t need his mother finding it.

  “Wha
t’s that?” Smalls asked, his mischievous blue eyes twinkling below bushy eyebrows and a shiny bald dome. “Marking off the sites of your dating disasters?”

  “At least I can get a date.” Blatch said without looking Smalls’ way. He scrounged a red pen and circled another spot on the map. “It’s a crime map of my mother’s neighborhood. Did you hear? Another person went missing. Fourth in two years.”

  “Is that right?” Smalls winked. “Nice of your mom to keep drumming up business for us.”

  Blatch gave him a you’re sick stare. “Geez, Smalls.”

  Smalls slapped his forehead. “You’re right. Missing person cases don’t pay squat. What was she thinking?”

  Blatch shook his head. “Just shut up and drink your coffee.”

  Smalls got up from his desk and studied the map. “So, what was so bad about this woman you interviewed on Friday?”

  Blatch scowled. “You tell me. Since when is it okay to wear a nose ring to a job interview?”

  Smalls snorted. “Since when are you such a curmudgeon? Oh. Right. It’s Monday.”

  Blatch laughed begrudgingly. “Since when does anyone use the word ‘curmudgeon’? Face it, Smalls. You’re even more of a dinosaur than me.”

  Smalls grinned. “Never said I wasn’t. That’s what makes us such a great team.”

  “Yeah.” Blatch sighed. “A team about to go extinct unless we get some clients. Why are you so hot to hire an assistant anyway?”

  “I need something prettier to look at than your ugly mug.”

  Blatch stared down his older, more seasoned partner. “We can’t afford it.”

  “That’s loser talk. Come on. If you build it, they will come.”

  Blatch raised an eyebrow. “You think a woman will help us attract a bunch of baseball ghosts for clients?”

  “No, smartass. It’s a leap of faith. We’re paving the way for a busy future. Optimism, Blatch. Ever heard of it?”