Cutting Teeth(29)
“Don’t be silly.” It comes out more like a barked order, and in its wake, the sounds of the surrounding neighborhood feel embarrassingly loud—a car honks at the light, somewhere down the street a mower chainsaws up and down a grass lawn, squirrels chatter in the oak outside. Darby winces. “I just mean I left Jack with a babysitter and we can all squeeze in just fine.”
“Yeah, but we don’t have to squeeze at all. You guys look, you know, fancy,” Rhea says, searching. “I don’t want you showing up looking all rumpled on account of us. It’s no big deal.”
“Rhea.” Darby puts her hands on her hips as though Rhea’s being a child who refuses to cooperate.
“What?”
“Well, you know.” She sounds exasperated and taps her foot on the floor. “I couldn’t bear the thought of you going alone.”
“Marcus will be there,” Rhea answers. Griff still won’t look at her. She wonders if he’s secretly hoping she’ll insist on driving herself and whether that makes her more or less likely to. “And Bodhi.” It’s amazing how terrified other people are of her being alone.
“You know what I mean,” says Darby, skirting a glance at Griff. “Please.” And Rhea has the creeping feeling that maybe Darby is the one who doesn’t want to be alone—with her husband.
* * *
A little more than an hour later, Rhea is forced to sit and stare as Tamar Filbin picks her nose on stage. And George Hall sticks his finger in Zeke’s ear. And Noelle Brandt performs the large hand motions that go with the hymn “All Is Well” to perfection. Bodhi stands watching like he forgets whether or not he’s even supposed to be a part of all this.
The church pianist slows the tune way down to give the kids a fighting chance. Marcus sings softly beside her. His large hands crease Miss Ollie’s face in two from where she smiles out of the glossy program. Something about that picture, maybe the perma-grin, maybe the red eye that didn’t get photoshopped all the way out, gives Rhea the willies.
The chapel is hopped up on chrysanthemums and gladioli. She scans the crowd, made up entirely of Little Academy families. Her phone vibrates. She checks the number, recognizes it. Her investment advisor calling. And her heart skips. Two days she’s been waiting for this call to find out which, if any, of the angel investors the advisor reached out to have chosen to invest in this round of funding and here it comes now. She watches it ring, ring, ring, wondering if there’s a socially acceptable exit plan.
Then it stops. She can’t believe she missed it. Now what happens? What if her advisor doesn’t answer when she calls back because she’s at back-to-back children’s birthday parties or something awful like that? Rhea chews her lip. She pored over those profit and loss statements, those projections, those slides on growth opportunities and target demographics. How much longer is this service going to last anyway? This fake funeral business.
A slideshow plays. On the projector screen, pictures of Miss Ollie dressing up on Dr. Seuss’s birthday, of her posing at the teacher appreciation luncheon, of her doing shaving cream paintings with the kids. Marcus pulls out his handkerchief.
Three staccato pulses from her phone: a voice mail. Chill. Be cool.
She slowly reaches her hand into her bag and slides out a white capsule. The slideshow ends. During the prayer, she bows her head, slips earbuds out from the case, and nestles them into her ears.
Distracted by her movement, Marcus glances over and real-quick registers the earbuds. He tilts his chin like, Are you kidding me.
“Just checking a voice mail,” she whispers, maybe too loud given that a few heads turn in her direction, it’s hard to tell with these things in.
She presses the “play” icon on her phone even though it’s hard to focus, what with Marcus trying to stare her into an early grave of her own.
The voice of her investment advisor, Margot, comes through: “Sorry not to reach out with better news, but I heard back from one of the angel investors from our last meeting and I think they still want to see a slightly broader reach before committing to financing. We’ll circle up and get back to the drawing board next week. Again, sorry not to have a more positive update. Have a great weekend!”
Even once she’s capped the earbuds, Rhea’s ears feel clogged. She swallows, her insides smarting. Nothing to do but look straight ahead. Pretend it’s all good. But disappointment pumps into her bloodstream. Negative energy for days.
Think, Rhea, she wills herself. She wants this, wants this so badly she could scream and that’s what’s scary, wanting something so badly it forces the insides of herself out into the wide-open world.
Eyes glazed, she listens to the rest of the ceremony. Erin Ollie was a beautiful soul. Erin Ollie was a light that touched every person she met. Erin Ollie is in a better place. Erin Ollie was a fraud, she thinks darkly.
* * *
Only once they step into the sun outside the chapel does she notice how the air-conditioned cold has been seeping into her bones, and she tilts her face to the sky to let the rays in. She tries dialing Margot.
“Well, that just about ripped my heart out of my chest and stomped on it, how about yours?” Darby rejoins her, Griff having run off somewhere.
Little does she know how fucking true that is for Rhea. She’s mourning, all right. If she would have been able to answer her phone, maybe she would have gotten some answers, some context, a goddamn workaround. Maybe she could have convinced Margot to fix this with the angel investor. Get her the money, some way, some how. Now Margot’s not answering her phone.