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Part One
The Long Goodbye
Chapter One
Skylar
No one says it.
They shake their heads, dab a tissue to the corner of one eye, say things like:Such a good man, Such a lovely couple,So devoted to one another and to their two beautiful girls.
It’s obviouswhat’s on the mind of everysingle person crammed around the dining roomtable, but no oneasks:What do you thinkreallyhappened that night? I didn’t know they were having problems, did you? How will the girls manage without them?
Nope. They lay their contributions to the sob fest down on the table, a gooey casserole or some sticky-sweet cake, then go on eulogizing my father like he’s some modern-day Ward Cleaver.
Who made the tuna noodle casserole? That’s what I want to know.It wasn’t Sienna, that’s for sure. She would have fashioned parsley leaves or carrot sticks into the shape of a fish to decorate the top.
My twin sister did make the strawberry shortcake, though. I’m sure of it. The blueberries clustered in one corner along with the rows of uniformly cut strawberries make the cake into an adorable replica of the American flag.My heart aches at the sight of it. Always looking to please, alwaysmakinglemonade when life kicks you in the ass and gives you lemons. Decorating a damn cake Martha Stewartherselfwould be proud of—is that what she was doing when her I heard her bawling her eyes out late last night?
Tyler scoops a heaping spoonful of the tuna casserole onto his plate, deftly balancing his beer bottle between two fingers. Craning his neck to see into the living room,his eyesare fixed on theobscenely large flat-screen TVwhere horses are being corralledinto the starting gate at Santa Anita.
I look back tohim,watch as he lifts the fork to his mouth in slow motion. A few noodles dripping with that hot mayonnaise concoction fall back to the plate as he opens his mouth wide and shovels what’s left on the fork into his gaping pie hole. Chew, chew, chew, swallow and repeat the process again. By the time he takes his third mouthful I’ve got a white-knuckle grip on my own fork, poised and ready to stab the love of my life.
I don’t love you anymore.
And once I say this in the quiet of my own mind, I know it to be true.
Tyler has been myotherotherhalf since we started dating back when we were sixteen. He was the captain of the basketballteam,I was the head cheerleader. My first boyfriend, my first everything.
I try to go back there. I do. I try to remember what it was like when everything was shiny and new, when he was golden and full of promise. The way his cheeks would redden when I’d catch him looking my way. His friends pushing him so that he stumbled forward and right into me when he was too shy to ask me to homecoming. Our first kiss standing on my front porch in the rain. Dancing toCopperhead Roadunder those purple string lights his mother hung outside their trailer, half-drunk and happy in a way that made us both lightheaded. I remember the thrill of him holding me close. And that first time with Tyler, whisperingpleasewhen he asked me once and then again if I was sure.
But Tyler’s gone nuts like so many of the men in this ass backwards town,with their get rich quick schemes and dreams of easy money. Since that casinoin Powellopened up, I’d venture to guess that a good one-third of the homes in this county have gone into foreclosure or are damn near close to it.
My fatheralways liked to bet the ponies.I remember him sitting in his recliner watching the races, and the special dinners my mother would make before the Preakness or the Kentucky Derby, right down to the virgin mint julepsshe served us girls.We even tookafamilytrip to New York once, alternatingnightsspenton Broadway with day trips out tothe trackto see thehorses race in person.It’s not like I have a lot in terms of world travel to go on, butIstill look back on itas the bestvacationof my life.
WickedandMary Poppins. I’m impressed that my parents were able to swing tickets for two Broadway showsback then. I mean, we grew up in a house and never wanted for anything, but we lived a modest life in a small, modest town. I remember eating dinner in some fancy Italian restaurant afterseeingWicked, my mother and fatherstifling their laughterwhileshushing me and my sisterevery timewe brokeoutinto song.
Everything aboutthat weekin New Yorkwas magical: sipping on Shirley Temples, trying bites of baked clams and baked Alaska, spinning in circles taking in the lights, the costumed charactersand theover the top themedshops of Times Square. Even those day trips we took to Belmont created lasting memories,good ones. Cigar smoke mixed with the smell of sauerkraut, the jockey’sbright colored silks,theexcitement when thebugle sounded the warning and thegates opened with aloud snap-clack.
And they’re off!
Back then it was all in good fun. My father would ask his “best girls” which horsestobet on, and we’d make our picks based on which rider had the most colorful outfit or the horse with thekookiestname. We screamed our heads off rooting for our pick, and more often than not my father would toss his stubs to the ground smiling as he said something like:That’s what I get for betting on a horse named Candy Cane Lane.
I was busy with my own life,withtheday to daydrama of high school that’s oh so important when you’re in the thick of it, so I didn’t notice the subtle changes. I didn’t notice until much later that his empty beer cans were taking up most of the real estate in our recycling bins, didn’t notice the envelopes withPAST DUEstamped on them until my mother gave up hiding them, and didn’t notice that my father was changing before my very eyes, that he’d slowly but surely checkedout.
The police said he was intoxicated a few nights ago when his car swerved into oncoming traffic, but is that all there is to it?
I haven’t told Sienna yet. I don’t know how to put a positive spin on what I’ve been digging through these past few days.We’ve lost our parents, isn’t that bad enough?
We may be identical,wemay be able to finish one another’s sentences and feel physical pain when the other is hurt, but we’re as different as two people can be.
Sienna is the sail to my anchor. She’s happy,maybe evena little flighty,and she sees the world through rose-colored glasses.I’m practical, no-nonsense, and maybe I’m even guilty of seeing people’s faults before I see their strengths. Sienna’s husband calls me the un-fun twin. And if I’m being judged alongside Sally Sunshine, otherwise known as Sienna, then he’s right.
Yes, my sister is already married, andthe two blissfully happy idiots—whom I love dearly—have a baby on the way. They were blissfully happyupuntil last week anyway, so I’m not about to go pouring any more salt in her wounds or crushing her spirit with more bad news.
Siennadoesn’t need to know that covering thefuneraland burialalone is going to put us intodebt,and that’safterwe sell the house. My father refinanced the mortgageso many times to support hisaddiction that it’s now referred to as beingunder water.There’s no equity to be had. They’ll be no auction at Sotheby’s either, as my mother’s jewelry has already been pawned off, and theydidn’treallyhavemuchofmonetary value to begin with.No, Sienna doesn’t need to know.
I can handle this.
