“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.
Mary Beth’s charm bracelet jangles on her wrist as she joins their little clump. “Hi, Marcus.” Her eyes are soupy and her mouth, when she smiles, is a pathetic squiggle, but she’s holding it together, just like everyone else.
“Sorry for your loss.” He bows his head, looking sharp in his navy blue suit and fresh haircut. “She was a good teacher. We were lucky to have her.”
Rhea feels the weight of both of her friends’ gazes moving over to her. “Marcus, why don’t you go find our son?” she says, even though she can see Bodhi and the other children on the side of the chapel, near the reflective pond, milling together with freshly cut, long-stemmed yellow roses.
Marcus squeezes her hand when he leaves and, yep, Darby and Mary Beth clock that, too.
“Guess you two didn’t discuss how much you loved Miss Ollie.” Darby tries to make the jab sound good-natured, but the circumstances turn it sour.
“Don’t say it like that.” Mary Beth swipes at her nose. Rhea would have expected Mary Beth to be buzzing about, organizing the children with their roses, delegating whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing with them other than wielding them like lightsabers.
“There was nothing to discuss,” says Rhea. “She wasn’t my favorite. I didn’t want her dead. End of story.”
“I’m just saying, you might do a better job of showing it.” Darby flips through the program for the service. That photo of Miss Ollie again. Staring at her accusingly.
“Darby,” Mary Beth scolds. Like she’s everybody’s mom, not just Noelle and Angeline’s.
“What? You could have come to the meetup at the park, that’s all I’m saying. I’m allowed to say that, aren’t I? You said so yourself.”
What’s that saying? Friends are the family you get to choose. Only, at a certain age, it’s: Friends are the family your kids choose. Rhea wonders if she’d make the same choice under different circumstances. Maybe not, but also maybe.
“I’ve got a lot on my mind,” says Rhea. How’s that for the understatement of the year.
A uniformed police officer stands next to a Black woman in a gray pantsuit. He leans over to talk in her ear. The woman listens carefully to what the officer tells her and turns to look at something. As she does, Rhea can just make out the metal lump of a gun holstered underneath her blazer. A steely cold nestles between Rhea’s shoulder blades. Then she realizes what the something is that the woman has turned to look at: Rhea.
Their eyes meet. And Rhea feels her edges crackling like a paper set on fire, the perimeter burning first, a red, uneven line, brittle ash crumbling around as it spreads.
“Yeah, I think we all do.” Darby is doing her exasperated voice, the one she usually reserves for discussing Lola. “Apparently they found footprints at the scene. Did you know that?”