Closer Home (3 page)

I take another look at the conveyance and the horse. Ariel stands with her back turned to all of us, chin up, arms ramrod straight at her sides. Another limo pulls up and parks behind ours. Dale climbs out and heads in my direction. The sight of him fortifies my courage.

“We’ll walk.”

“Annelise, we went to a great deal of trouble—”

“You’re welcome to ride up there, Rick.”

“But—”

“We’re not going to ride on a goddamn float. What are we going to do—throw candy at the mourners?”

I start walking. The blister has rubbed raw and the stupid heels sink into the grass with every step. I’m afraid I’m going to lose a shoe altogether. But then Dale catches up and falls in beside me. I breathe a sigh of relief, knowing I can grab on to his arm if I lose my balance or trip over my own feet. We’ve only covered a short distance before I hear the sound of running footsteps and Ariel appears on my left.

“Don’t suppose either of you know where the grave is,” I mutter, trying not to move my lips in case there’s some rabid lip-reader out there with a movie camera.

“Follow the crowd,” Dale says.

“No worries,” Ariel chimes in. “You watch—Ricken will make it look like he planned it this way. Just keep walking.”

Sure enough, a black-suited undertaker appears in my peripheral vision, striding as fast as he can without actually breaking into a run. A lock of hair has escaped from its confines, straying onto his forehead, which is damp with sweat.

“This way,” he gasps, steering us across the grass and onto a narrow paved road.

I hear a clip-clop of hooves and the rumbling of wheels on the road behind us. Some of the photographers latch onto us. Some stay with the wagon.

“Told you,” Ariel says.

The grave site looks more like a miniature golf heaven than a place to bury a body. Not a crumb of dirt to be seen. There isn’t even a visible hole, just a rectangle of Astroturf, and at the center a harness made of heavy straps. Our guide positions Dale, Ariel, and me on one side of the machinery. Shadow arrives from somewhere and sidles up to Ariel.

She glares at him. “Where were you?”

“Don’t be like that.” He reaches for her hand. “The all-powerful men in black said it was just you and Lise in the family limo. I hitched a ride with my parents.”

“You should have stayed with them,” Ariel says, but she clings to his hand all the same.

The pallbearers, all with bent heads and downcast expressions, unload the coffin and carry it to the contraption of straps and pulleys, where they carefully set it down. A cleric in a black cassock, carrying an enormous Bible, moves into position.

I feel like we’re on a movie set, what with all of the cameras and the staging and the grief as artificial as the fake grass we’re standing on. Callie can’t really be in that box, even though I saw her there with my own eyes. She moves through my memories, alive and vibrant. Six years old, pigtailed and blue jeaned, running through tall grass in the park, airplaning her arms and squealing with glee while our father lumbers behind in exaggerated slowness. A sullen teenager, pushing the lawn mower erratically around the yard, muttering curse words and deliberately missing long strips and chunks. Sixteen and pregnant with Ariel, her face glowing with passion as she defends her right to have and keep her baby.

Callie is contrary and changeable as the weather, not a lifeless, carefully painted body about to be buried under six feet of earth. The emptiness in my stomach fills with lead. Tears well up behind my eyes and I blink them back as fast as I’m able. I won’t let the curious onlookers see me cry.

The minister utters words that are meant to be healing. They flow around and over me like water—meaningless, senseless. I count the minutes until I can break away from the crowd and retreat to someplace private where I can lick my wounds.

But then the music starts. “Closer Home,” the song that catapulted Callie up the charts to fame. Her voice on the recording is as clear and clean as if she’s standing right beside us.

The wider I wander, the farther I roam

The more your love finds me

And leads me back home

Closer home, closer home

You always bring me closer home.

As the familiar music curls around me, heat rises through my blood. My jaw sets in a hard line. My shoulders go tight.

“Easy,” Dale whispers in my ear. He reaches for my hand, but it’s clenched into a fist and I can’t—won’t—let it go.

God knows I loved my sister. How could I not? I half-raised her; she is a part of me. But my anger matches that love, measure for measure. Standing at the place where she will be forever laid to rest, with her voice singing out the loss and betrayal that is “Closer Home,” all of my heartbreak hardens slowly into hate.

CHAPTER TWO

Dale can’t stay. Nor does he want to, although he doesn’t say so. His small-town roots run even deeper than mine, and I can tell that the constant invasion of privacy and the pressure from the paparazzi and curious fans grate on him.

Besides, he has responsibilities back home that outweigh any reason to hang around after the funeral. Spring is a hectic time for his contracting business, and while he’s got good workers who can cover for a day or two, he needs to be on-site to make sure his projects are up to the standards that have made him a success.

He could have taken a cab to the airport, but by tacit agreement I drive him instead. I’ve got the keys to one of Callie’s cars, the subdued Lexus with dark-tinted windows. We drive in silence, partly because I hate driving in traffic and need to focus on the road, partly because we are both busy with our own thoughts. My emotions are a confusing mess of grief and anger, and it’s a relief when Dale leans over and turns on the radio. His preference tends toward classic rock, but he scans through the country stations, abiding by the rule we made up when we first got licensed to drive—the driver controls the tunes. He settles on a station and I draw a deep breath, sliding into the music and letting it take me into a better space as it always does.

Until “Closer Home” starts to play.

“Sorry.” Dale reaches for the knob, but I put a hand on his wrist.

“It’s everywhere. Leave it.”

My whole body feels sore, as though I’ve been systematically beaten from head to toe. The muscles of my shoulders and thighs and lower back are all clenched into knots. I make an effort to relax, but the minute I loosen up a little, the tears threaten. If I ever really get started crying, I’m afraid I’ll never stop. I opt for letting the tension stay.

The airport exit comes up. I pull over to the passenger unloading area and we sit looking at each other. Dale leans over and pecks me on the cheek. “Don’t worry about anything back home. I’ve got it.”

“Call me when your plane lands.”

The car door slams behind him. He turns to wave, and then he’s walking away. Something breaks inside my chest and I almost fall out of the car in a sudden rush to call him back. I can’t get any sound past the tears that are flowing now in earnest. So I just stand there, weeping. The door to the terminal opens, and I feel like if he walks through it, he’ll be lost to me forever.

“Dale!” I barely manage to croak his name, but still he glances over his shoulder and then runs back to me. I fling myself against him, and he wraps his arms around me and squeezes me. Tight. Tight.

Strong. Solid, like always.

Only this time his breathing, too, is ragged, and his heart beats faster than its normal steady tempo. I’m reminded, again, of how small and selfish I have become. Callie was his friend, too, and unlike me he has never been on the outs with her. He must be grieving. Maybe sometimes I should be strong for him, instead of the other way around.

So I pull myself together, sniffle, and edge away from his embrace. “I’m all right, really. It’s just . . .”

“It’s just that she’s dead,” he says, softly. “You do know that grief is not only normal but also sort of expected, right?”

I snort-laugh at that, and he uses his T-shirt to blot my tears.

“TSA might consider that too much liquid for carry-on,” I quaver, surveying the wet patches.

Dale grins. “Fuck ’em. You okay?”

I nod.

His thumb catches one last stray tear, and then his warm hand cups my chin. There’s a softness to his face and his eyes hold mine in a way that makes my insides shiver. He bends his head and kisses me. Just a gentle kiss, but his lips linger long enough to make my heart do a double flip.

“Don’t forget to come home,” he whispers, and then I’m standing alone and cold, watching him walk away from me.

I wake to a gentle tapping at the door. My eyes open on a strange room, morning light creeping across the floor through a crack in the window blinds. For a minute, I can’t remember where I am or what I’m doing here, and then my memory floods back. I’m in the guest suite at Callie’s Vegas house, which means she’s really dead and the funeral wasn’t some horrible dream. Whoever is knocking is not going away, so I get out of bed and pad across the carpeted floor, limping a little on feet that feel bruised as well as blistered from yesterday’s punishment.

My room in the house I rent back home is just big enough to hold a twin bed, a dresser, and a nightstand. This room reminds me of a suite in a luxury hotel. There’s a microwave and a fridge in an alcove, and an open door reveals a small sitting room complete with a sofa and armchairs.

The tatty sweatpants and tank top I’ve slept in look grubby and inappropriate to the surroundings, and I know my face is a mess because I didn’t wash off the makeup last night. So I barely crack the door and peer out. A young woman clad in a crisp white blouse and black slacks stands there, holding a breakfast tray.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

My stomach lurches at the thought of food. My head feels stuffed full of cotton, my tongue like sandpaper.

“What time is it?”

“It’s almost nine,” she says, brushing past me and carrying the tray into the sitting room.

That can’t be right. I’m normally awake at five. I rub at my gritty eyes and try to think, but my brain refuses to get with the program.

The young woman sets the tray on the coffee table and crosses the room to open the blinds. As she expertly adjusts the strings, warm light pours into the room. “Ricken said I was to bring you breakfast and let you know that everybody will be here by eleven to go over the will.”

“Everybody who?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know. Can I set up your tray?”

She doesn’t wait for approval, lifting lids and arranging pretty little glass bowls of fruit, yogurt, and oatmeal. I swallow again and shake my head. “I don’t think I can eat. Coffee, maybe?”

“I’d be happy to get you some.”

She closes the door just in time for me to make a mad dash to the toilet and heave repeatedly, and uselessly, into its perfect porcelain whiteness. My empty stomach tries to turn itself inside out. When the nausea eases, I cross to the sink and rinse my mouth, then splash cold water on a face that is far too pale. There are bags under my eyes that weren’t there a couple of days ago. I look old and tired. My whole body feels heavy and strange, like it doesn’t really belong to me.

The girl returns with a carafe, a cup, and a little silver pitcher of cream. My stomach is still iffy and the first swallow is touch and go, but by the bottom of the cup I begin to feel vaguely human, enough for my brain to start engaging with the day. I can’t face some sort of meeting without getting cleaned up a bit, and I don’t want Callie’s people to think I’m a total backwards hick. I should shower and put on makeup and try to find something decent to wear. I opt for a long soak in the Jacuzzi instead.

I’m only five minutes late, but when I limp down the spiral staircase and find my way into the study, four sleek, shiny-looking people are already there, waiting for me. Ricken has shed the suit but manages to look even more pretentious in blue jeans and a silky black turtleneck. He makes the introductions, not bothering to get out of his chair, and I try to file their names away for future reference.

Morgan Jensen, attorney, is a suit-and-tie guy who could be typecast for a legal thriller. He gives me the tips of his fingers to shake, and his pale eyes don’t hold my gaze for more than a heartbeat before sliding away. Genesis, the accountant, is young and curvy and giggles as she air-kisses my cheeks. Her fingernails are a high-gloss pink with sparkles, and her blue eyes are a hue not known to nature. Callie’s agent, Glynnis, looks like a woman to be reckoned with. I’m pretty sure her sharp gray eyes don’t miss a solitary detail about me, including the run in yesterday’s stockings. She looks like she might even know things that haven’t happened to me yet.

Everybody has a drink in hand, and Ricken goes to the sideboard and pours one for me without asking what I want. It’s amber colored and tempting, but I just sit there, holding the glass, feeling disembodied and out of place. A tray of appetizers sits on the table—tiny toast and cheese and what I think is caviar. My eyes focus on the shiny purple-black spheres. Somebody is talking, but the words fade as I drift into another memory.

Blue sky overhead. Bright sun on water. A breeze thick with the smell of the lake. Small waves slap against the sides of the boat and wash up against the shore. My fishing rod feels alive, the tip bent, and my skinny arms feel the strain of trying to hold it and wind the reel at the same time.

“Catch a big one,” Callie squeals, bobbing up and down. The boat rocks and she sits down, fast and hard, catching hold of the side.

“Easy,” Dad says. “You’ll have us over the edge. Just sit still.”

There’s a glint of silver as the fish breaks the surface of the water, shining in the sunlight before going back under. I crank the reel faster, my arms aching with the effort. A piece of hair is stuck in the corner of my mouth, but I can’t let go to fix it. Again the fish breaks clear, and then it’s beside the boat, flipping its tail and splashing. It’s enormous. My blood runs high with the hunt. It’s the first fish I’ve ever caught by myself.

Dad drops the hand net under it and scoops it up.

Wrapped up in the orange netting, thrashing about in the bottom of the boat, it doesn’t look so big. All at once I want to put it back, but it has a hook stuck through the side of its jaw. Dad picks up his heavy silver fishing knife and hits it on the head.

Smack.

The fish goes still. Its jaws gape. One of its eyes is smashed, and it’s not pretty anymore. Dad works the hook out with a little sucking sound.

“Way to go, Lise!” he says. “Big enough to eat for dinner.”

He holds up the limp body, slippery in his hands, and examines it. “This looks like a girl trout. Let’s see if she’ll help us catch more fish.”

His blade flashes and slits my trout’s belly. He digs in with his finger, stripping out a glistening sac of pale-orange eggs. Dad rinses his hand and the egg sac in the lake, blood swirling into the clear water. Then he hands the eggs to me. I show them to Callie, wanting her to see how beautiful they are with the light shining through, each one a little jewel.

She makes gagging noises. “Gross. How can you touch that?”

Dad laughs. “People eat ’em, Callie. Rich people pay a heap of money for fish eggs. Call it ‘caviar’ and serve it up on a silver platter.”

“You’re making that up.” But she takes another look at my handful of eggs all the same.

“Nope. All true,” Dad says.

“I’m going to be rich when I grow up,” Callie announces. “But nobody’s gonna make me eat fish eggs. Not ever.”

“Annelise?” Ricken’s voice startles me back into the present.

“Did Callie eat caviar?”

He blinks and stares at me blankly, his mind having stayed right here while mine went traveling. “It was brought in fresh,” he says finally. “Today. If you don’t like caviar, we can certainly get you something else.”

“Never mind,” I tell him, shifting my gaze down to the array of tabloids and newspapers splayed out on the coffee table in front of me. Most of the rags are focused on Ariel, poor little motherless heiress of Callie’s fortune. There are lots of pictures of the casket and the celebrity mourners. There’s even a graphic shot of Callie sprawled on the ground beneath the hooves of the horse that killed her.