Cancer

At the visitation, I stood up in front of the altar, with my back turned carefully to the casket behind me (I couldn't bear to look at him), and shook hands with every friend or long-lost family member or business associate that had come to pay their respects.

Dad was a good businessman, and to be a good businessman, you have to be a people person; Dad knew more people than anyone I had ever met in my life. One of my cousins later told me that the line of well-wishers had wound its way through the entire funeral home and two blocks down the street outside. I think I shook hands with half of Las Vegas that night.

So of course the Uries came.

Dad had still been living in that same house, and the Uries (minus Brendon) still lived in theirs next door. They had been neighbors for almost fifteen years, and while Mrs. Urie was a little too much of the gossipy housewife type for Dad's taste, he had been good friends with Mr. Urie. So--even as I first spotted them there, standing in the middle of the aisle between intimidating men in suits, and a jolt of shock shook my whole core--I knew that I should have seen it coming.

"Oh, Kelsey, dear," said Mrs. Urie sincerely, and I couldn't help but notice that Brendon had her eyes--eyes that were watery and red from crying, currently. "I'm so sorry. Your father was such a good man--we couldn't have asked for a better neighbor...."

The tears quivering in her eyes broke free of their restraints and spilled down her cheeks, bringing trails of pale gray mascara streaks with them. She reached out and pulled me into her embrace, wrapping her arms around me and holding me tight as she cried on my shoulder. I patted her back lightly, murmuring generic words of comfort in her ear; after doing this all night for almost every other visitor, I was a pro.

She finally released me, dabbing at her eyes (again, Brendon's eyes--damn it, Kelsey, stop thinking about him!) with a tissue that was already stained with ruined make-up. Then she gave me a watery smile and said, "If you need anything--anything at all--you just give us a call and we'll be glad to help. You know where to find us."

She seemed genuine, but at the same time, I couldn't forget that day in Brendon's garage and the withering looks she'd given to all of us--me and Ryan and Spencer and Brent. I couldn't forget all the times Brendon had vented to me about some silly conflict she had caused. I couldn't forget how she had made him move out, how she had completely abandoned him in his time of need, pushed him away the moment he failed to meet her expectations....

No. Stop thinking about Brendon. He's not important anymore.

I fought hard to suppress the little voice in the back of my head that was calling me a liar.

"Thank you very much." I forced myself to smile at Mrs. Urie, nodding. "That's so kind of you."

She took my hand in both of hers, smiling sadly. "It's a shame we didn't get to meet your mother tonight. How's she holding up?"

I sighed, thinking of Mom, bundled up on one of the twin beds in our hotel room with a carton of sherbet ice cream and two boxes of Kleenex. "She's alright," I told Mrs. Urie, and it wasn't entirely a lie--I suspected that the better part of Mom's grief was fabricated. It wasn't that she wanted to put on a show for anyone else as much as she thought that was how she should react, and she threw herself into the role with vigor.

And then there was me: I stowed my feelings away inside of me, where no one would ever find my weak spots, so that I could never be hurt like that again...

"Will you be staying here in Vegas, then?"

I was abruptly jerked out of my thoughts as I realized that Mrs. Urie had asked me a question. "Only for a couple of weeks, until I can sell the house," I managed.

"Oh." Mrs. Urie looked pained. "You're selling, then?"

"Yeah," I said, trying my best to sound regretful, "I've already got a place in New York, I don't really need it...and it's such a big place to keep up...."

"It is a big house," put in Mr. Urie out of nowhere, nodding gravely.

"So you'll only be staying there for a few weeks then? In the house?" asked Mrs. Urie.

"Uh, actually..." I gave a little nervous half-laugh and looked around for Aunt Tricia, wishing someone would come and save me from all these questions. There were still a million people standing in line behind the Uries, waiting not so patiently to express their own condolences. "Actually, we're staying in a hotel right now. My mom and I."

"Oh, really?" Mrs. Urie looked, and sounded, rather hurt again. "Well, I suppose that's... Oh, you should come over and have dinner with us!" she exclaimed, her whole face brightening drastically. "You and your mother, on Friday night. I'll bet both of you could use a good home-cooked meal." She turned suddenly thoughtful. "Do you like rump roast?"

"Uh..." I wasn't quite sure how to respond to that. "Um--sure--"

"Well, that's settled, then, you just have to come over!" she insisted shrilly, beaming. "We'll see you on Friday night, then--six o'clock sharp!" She then proceeded to pat me once more on the hand and kiss me on the cheek before bustling out of the chapel. She was by far the most cheerful person in the funeral home.

As I watched her go, somehow, I felt like I had just been drafted into the army without my knowing. Needless to say, it wasn't a pleasant feeling.

-----

Climbing out of the car at six o'clock sharp on Friday night, my poor mother was all knees and elbows. She floundered around in the passenger's seat for a few moments, making last-minute dabs at her ruined make-up in the rearview mirror with a crumpled, already worn-out tissue before I had to all but lift her out of the car myself. She was all dressed up in a sophisticated salmon-colored dress with a matching cardigan and old-lady heels; she was wearing make-up and had styled her hair for the first time in several days. If her eyes hadn't been all red and watery and if she would have stopped making all those horrible crying faces, she would have looked pretty.

But Mom was a mess of hysterics. She had been grieving a bit more heavily than I thought neccessary, given the fact that she had never really been nice or even very civil to my father for as long as I could remember--she seemed to be realizing this now, a bit too late. Four days of lying around a hotel room wallowing in her own self-made misery had done nothing for her looks, which did nothing for her confidence, which, in turn, did nothing for her looks.

So, as I gripped her wrist firmly and practically dragged her alongside of me up the Uries' familiar front walk to their familiar front door, of course she was blubbering about how awful she looked. I spouted out the same generic bullshit I'd been soothing her with for the past three hours as I rang the doorbell, wondering briefly why I wasn't more annoyed with her than I was.

Probably because she was doing a damn good job of distracting me from the fact that the only person I'd ever truly trusted, ever truly loved, with all my heart, used to live here.

Cut the sappy paperback romance crap, Kelsey, I told myself irritably. You're only making it worse. Just walk in there, introduce Mom, have dinner, smile and laugh and be polite, and you're done. Finished. Through with Vegas forever. Quit being such a baby and put the past behind you already.

But that quickly became quite impossible as the door opened and all at once, my past was standing right in front of me.