More Like Her (25 page)

As we drive to the Marin County Country Club, we are quiet. My hand rests on the gearshift. Lisa looks out the passenger-side window, her hair blowing in the wind. Jill is biting her nails. Gnawing and chewing as we go. There’s nothing to say. It’s all been said. Now it’s just about showing up and paying our last respects.

We pull up to what looks like a large, traditional mansion set up on a hill. Valets rush around in red vests, taking keys, handing out parking slips and speeding off to places unknown.

“I’ve never been to a memorial service with a valet,” Lisa says, waiting in line.

“This is a country club. I’ve actually never been to anything here. Heard about it though,” I say, watching the lines of mourners hike up the steep hill to the country club’s main house.

I step out of the car, handing the keys to the valet and receiving a ticket in return. Jill and Lisa step out of the car. Not a word. We join the rest of the mourners in the migration up to the main house.

This place is big. Beyond big. If I were to blur my vision for a moment I could mistake it for the White House. The columns, the white official-looking exterior, the sweeping driveway. So out of place in this woodsy, casual setting. As we get closer, no one makes eye contact with anyone else. What do you say? Emma didn’t die of old age or a terrible disease or even in a car accident. Emma Dunham was murdered. By her husband. Whom everyone here knew. None of us know how to unpack that.

The crowd at today’s “celebration” offers no surprises. All white, all moneyed and all completely at a loss for words. We climb the steps up to the vast porch and finally into the club itself. I look up and take in the coffered ceilings, the sweeping staircases with marble floors . . . the sheer expanse of just this first room. I feel like I’m on some museum tour and in line to see Michelangelo’s David.

A quartet plays tasteful chamber music in the corner as tuxedoed staff with trays filled with appetizers wend and snake their way through the mournful crowd. Flower arrangements are abundant, set atop any available surface, the smell of stargazer lilies thick in the air. I begin to search the crowd for Clara.

“Hey there.” From behind me. I turn. As do Jill and Lisa.

Ryan.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” I ask as he leans in for a hug. Jill and Lisa are quiet. Seething, yet quiet.

“I’ve come to pay my last respects,” Ryan says.

“You didn’t even know Emma,” I say, feeling protective of her.

“I knew her as well as you did.”

“I’m not going to . . . you have every right to be here. Godspeed,” I say, lifting my hand in a wave.

“Frannie, I—”

I stop. Wait.

“Can we have a second?” Ryan says to Jill and Lisa.

Jill leans in close and whispers so just Ryan can hear her, “I hear that’s
all
you need.” A quick wink. Ryan clears his throat as Jill and Lisa make their way over to the bar.

It’s just Ryan and me. We move into a more private corner. I’m already annoyed.

“What do you want?” I ask, scanning the room again for Clara. I don’t see her, but I do see a large painting swathed in white silk. That must be Emma’s. Clara is here.

“I thought we could be there for each other. You know? To get through this?”

“I’ve already slogged through quite enough without you, but thanks anyway.”

“I’m here for you now, Frannie.”

“What’s happening here? Do you want to get back together with me? Is that what’s happening here? At a funeral . . . I’m sorry, a memorial celebration?”

“What?”

“What exactly do you want?” I remember what Pamela said about not going back if I didn’t want to. And I don’t want to. It’s up to me to make sure I never do. Going back means going back with Ryan. This can’t happen. I won’t let it.

“I want to be there for you.”

“What does that mean? What does ‘being there for me’ look like for you?”

“You know . . .”

“No, I don’t. I know that I thought being in a committed relationship meant that you didn’t sleep with other girls, but apparently our definitions were different.”

“I want to make this work.”

“What does that mean?”

“Why are you so caught up on what things mean?”

“Because I don’t know what you’re talking about. Like, what you’re actually saying. Do you even know anymore? ‘Be there for you.’ ‘Make this work.’ These words are meaningless, Ryan.”

“It took a lot for me to come up here.”

“What does that mean? ‘Took a lot’? How so?”

“I took a chance.”

“There’s no chance. You knew I’d be here. We know each other. Of course I’m going to talk to you.”

“Why are you doing this?!” Ryan’s voice is sharp and angry. It cuts through the room. Jill and Lisa look over from the bar. I wave them off.

“Doing what?
Be. Specific.
”

“Twisting my words around. This.”

“I still don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing has changed. Still so intense.”

“No, Ryan. I’m clear. I say what I mean and mean what I say. So, when I tell you that we’re through, reeeeeeally through, you’d better listen.”

“It took a lot for me to come up here,” Ryan says again, turning to leave.

“
I still don’t know what that means.
” He doesn’t turn back around, but I can see from here that the curl in his lip is disdainful yet snubbed and insecure. God, that felt good. After years of filling in all the holes of his verbal ambiguities, all it took was pushing him to be clear about what he actually meant that finally shooed him away. The terrifying prospect of specificity ran Ryan off.

“Good riddance,” Lisa says, handing me a sparkling water.

“What was he thinking?” I say, taking a long sip.

“That he could swoop in as you grieved,” Jill says.

“That felt good,” I say.

“For all of us,” Jill says.

“I don’t care if Sam ever comes back, I’m never going back with Ryan,” I say, turning around once again and searching the crowd.

Lisa and Jill just smile.

“What?”

“Our girl’s all grown up,” Jill says, wrapping her arm around Lisa.

“I have to go to the ladies’,” I say.

“Okay, we’ll be right here,” Lisa says.

“You’ll be right here?”

“Yep,” Jill says, nodding.

I walk through the crowd of people—no one makes eye contact with me—and wait behind a trio of women for the bathroom. They’re speaking in hushed tones. No one can believe it, they say. She was such a pretty girl, they say. He seemed like such a nice man, they say. A woman in a tasteful black Chanel suit steps out of the bathroom. The trio of women immediately goes to her, surrounds her and steadies her.

“Jane, honey? Do you need anything?” one of the women says. It’s her. The woman from the graduation picture in Emma’s bathroom. Jane Stanforth. Emma’s mother. She looks exactly like Emma, just a few decades older. Her blond hair is curled just at her shoulders; her high cheekbones and bright blue eyes are effortlessly aristocratic. Her smooth forehead, no longer capable of furrowing, is cast down; she doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone.

“Please, let me get you something,” Jane Stanforth finally says, holding out an extended hand to one of the women.

“Jane?!” the women say in unison.

“It helps to be busy. Let me get you something,” Jane Stanforth says, again now using one of the women to stabilize her. To hold her up.

“Mrs. Stanforth?” I ask, stepping forward. The trio of women take my measure, are unimpressed and are just about to tell me to leave Mrs. Stanforth alone, when. . .

“Yes, dear,” Jane Stanforth says, her pool-like blue eyes falling on me.

“I worked with Emma,” I say, each word a triumph.

“Oh . . . ,” Jane Stanforth says, her head bowing.

“At Markham . . . ,” I say, trailing off. Looking at her. Hoping that she understands the significance.

“At
Markham
,” Jane Stanforth repeats, looking directly at me. Through me.

“Emma was a remarkable head of school. Truly a master,” I say, the emotion bubbling up at the truth to these words.

“You . . . you were there,” Jane Stanforth says, reaching out to me. The trio of women crowd around us.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say gently.

“You were
there
,” Jane Stanforth says again.

I nod. Yes. Yes, I was there.

“You . . .” Jane Stanforth can’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t want to know, but I can see her trying to read me. Trying to pull answers from just under my words, my skin, behind my eyes. It’s all there. The nightmares. The horror movie slide show. The blood.
Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack
. She can see it in my eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, looking away.

“What’s your name?” Jane Stanforth asks. The trio of women stand sentry. I can see Jill and Lisa out of the corner of my eye. They’re watching. Now they’re setting their glasses of water down and walking toward me. Quickly.

“Frances Reid, ma’am,” I say. Lisa and Jill are now standing in the archway of the hall. Watching, craning to see what’s going on. Another step forward.

“Frances Reid,” Jane Stanforth repeats in a daze.

“Yes, ma’am,” I say.

“You knew my daughter,” she says, wobbly on her feet.

“I did,” I say.

“You knew my daughter,” she says again.

“Yes, ma’am. She was one of the most admirable women I’ve ever known,” I say, my throat closing. Was.

“Jane?” A small man in a perfectly tailored suit strides over to our little group. His face is . . . unruffled.
Blank
. His skin is pale and transparent. His long, white fingers curl around the stem of a wineglass. My stomach drops and I feel instantly sick. I look from him to Jill and Lisa. It’s as if my nightmares are real. Again. They’re . . . it’s happening again. It’s happening again. I panic. I can’t breathe. My eyes are darting wildly, my legs are unsteady and I can’t—

“Nigel, honey, this is Frances Reid, she—”

“Jane, I need you to ask someone to check in the cellar for some more of those Spanish reds. We’re out,” Nigel Stanforth says, his eyes bored and inconvenienced. I purse my lips together as tears pool behind my eyes. The trio of women have disappeared.

“Mr. and Mrs. Stanforth, I’m so sorry for your loss,” Lisa says, extending one hand to Nigel and pulling me in close with the other. Nigel languidly extends his hand to Lisa, thanking her for coming today. Jane is wobbly and can’t stop staring at me. Her eyes are glassy and unfocused.

“She knew our girl, Nigel,” Jane Stanforth says, looking at me.

“Everyone here knew Emma, that’s how memorial services work, Jane,” Nigel says.

“We have to go,” I say suddenly, blinking back the tears and trying to steady my breathing. I have a primal need to get out of here. A gut feeling. This place is bad. Nothing good ever happened here. I gulp back the tears as Lisa extends her hand once again to Nigel and then to Jane Stanforth, trying to take the focus off me. I’m in a daze as we head toward the front door.

How stupid. I thought it was my conversation about Harry Sprague that changed things. As we walk back out into the main room I know with everything in my being that . . . that Emma never had a chance. She just never had a chance.

“He was Jamie. I mean, he
was
Jamie,” I say, my voice a whisper.

“I know,” Jill says, picking up three water glasses from a passing tray.

“She married her father,” I say.

“I know,” Jill says, her jaw tight.

“And her mom . . . I mean . . . ,” I say.

“I know,” Jill says, her voice elsewhere.

We are quiet.

“How many people do you think knew?” I ask.

“About what?”

“About it all! The parents, Emma. Jamie! I mean, everyone knew and just signed off on it. Why? Because they’re wealthy and they have a big house?”

“People know how to hide things, Frannie. We didn’t know about Emma and Jamie until . . . well, until it was too late,” Lisa says.

I can’t stop shaking my head.

“Frannie?” I look up to see Clara. I take a deep breath.

“Hey,” I say, giving her a big hug. I continue once we’ve broken apart. “Oh, I’m sorry. Clara Grey, this is Jill Fleming and Lisa Campanari. We all work—
worked
with Emma.” Jill and Lisa offer Clara condolences and respect. Clara nods and thanks them. Bruce comes up behind Clara with two glasses of wine.

“Oh, hey, babe. Bruce, you remember Frannie. And these are her friends . . . I’m sorry . . . I’ve already forgotten your names. I’m . . . this is all a bit much for me. I’m so sorry,” Clara stammers, taking a glass of wine from Bruce.

“Bruce Grey,” he says, extending his hand to Jill and Lisa as they introduce themselves. He pulls Clara in close, soothing her. Easing her.

“I see the painting is all ready to go,” I say.

“Oh, yes. It’s ready to go,” Clara says, eyeing the swathed gilt frame that hangs over today’s proceedings. Bruce rubs her back.

Minutes pass. We are quiet. Clara and Bruce share a few glances as Jane and Nigel Stanforth make their rounds. The resemblance to Jamie is uncanny. I can’t wrap my head around it.

“So, you were the black sheep because—”

“I didn’t play by the Stanforth rules. So many rules,” Clara says. I flick a quick glance to Jill. She looks away.

“Have you talked to your parents?” Jill asks.

“No. I’m sure they’ll send over one of their cronies when it’s time for the unveiling,” Clara says.

“They haven’t seen it?” Lisa asks.

“Not yet,” Clara says, her eyes flicking from the painting to her parents. And just like clockwork a fragile-looking doyenne approaches our little circle by the bar.

“Clara, dear. It’s time,” she says with nary a glance our way.

“I’ll be right here,” Bruce says, giving Clara a final squeeze.

“I can’t . . . I’m—” Clara looks like she’s going to faint.

“For Emma,” Bruce says. His eyes bore into her. “For Emma, baby.”

Clara nods. Curt. Once.

Clara walks toward the swathed painting and stands to the side of a podium that’s surrounded with more flowers than I’ve ever seen. The woman who fetched Clara begins speaking.