Last Will and Testament Page 2

  “My grandmother made it,” I say flatly, taking from her hand and hanging it back up. “It’s not for this.” Not that my grandmother would recognize it, or remember she made it, with the way Alzheimer’s has completely eaten her brain. But I still can’t wear it to her daughter’s funeral.

  “Okay.” She digs back in. “What about a plain shirt and this skirt?” She bends down to pick up a skirt I’ve already discarded.

  “Too shiny.”

  “Just stop, Frank,” Cait says. The crinkling of plastic suggests she’s having yet another Twizzler. She’s freaking addicted to them, though they’re the only candy I’ve ever seen her eat. “She’s not going to agree to anything. She’s been doing this for like six hours.”

  I open my mouth to snap at Cait, and then shut it. She’s right. I don’t want to wear anything I own to the funeral. Whatever I wear, it’s pretty guaranteed I’ll never be able to look at it again. I don’t want to wear anything I’m not ready to throw in a bonfire as soon as the last lily’s been laid on the caskets.

  I’m not sure if she gets it or what, but Frankie just tosses the skirt back on the floor and says, “Hang on, I think I have something that’ll work.”

  While she goes back to her room, I sit back down at my computer desk, and see I’ve got a reply from Connor.

  Elizabeth,

  Nice try. I believe you used the “family emergency” excuse to get an extension for the first paper. I’ll see you at 9:00 a.m.

  Connor

  Fucking. Asshole.

  I click reply and type back my response, my fingers flying as I stab at the keys.

  Connor,

  Unfortunately, I’ll have to miss yet another enthralling session of talking about ancient buildings because I’ll be at my parents’ funeral. Perhaps if they were a thousand years older and lived on the other side of the world, you’d actually give a shit.

  Lizzie

  P.S. Research lover that you are, feel free to contact Professor Ozgur for copies of their death certificates.

  “How’s this?” Frankie returns with a black turtleneck and a surprisingly sedate gray kilt-like thing.

  “Perfect,” I say gratefully. “Thank you.”

  “Who were you just eviscerating via e-mail?” Cait asks as I slip on the kilt to make sure it fits.

  Of course she was reading over my shoulder. I must’ve been typing so loudly it covered the sound of her licorice-chomping. “Just my TA. He thought I was making up having a family emergency.”

  “Ooh, the hot TA?” Frankie asks as she gives the kilt a thumbs-up.

  “He’s so not hot.” I unzip the kilt and let it drop to the floor, then pack it and the turtleneck. “He’s a prick, and he lives in stupid striped button-downs. And pleat-front pants. What the hell kind of man still wears pleat-front pants?”

  “Lizzie has standards,” Cait informs Frankie, throwing her dirty-blond hair up into a bun on top of her head. “She only screws fraternity presidents who already have girlfriends and drive Mercedes.”

  “It’s a BMW,” I correct her as I toss in a few more T-shirts and some jeans. No one’s told me how long I’m expected at home, and I’m not sure what’s still in my old dresser. “And I don’t screw them anymore, after last night.”

  “He’s always been a complete asshole,” says Cait. “Just the fact that he’s been cheating on his girlfriend the entire time should’ve tipped you off. Glad you finally figured out that he isn’t worth your time. Though, obviously it’d be nice if it were under…better circumstances.”

  Understatement of the century, but I just nod. Both Cait and Frankie have been trying to be there for me in the best ways they know how, but that’s mostly involved trying to take my mind off things and using euphemisms to dance around what’s happened. As if talk of clothes and hot guys will help distract me from the fact that when I go home to Pomona, I won’t be greeted by one of my father’s woodsy-aftershave-scented hugs or a plate of my mother’s lumpia. Just thinking about it makes me wish I hadn’t told Cait and Frankie not to come down for the funeral, but I need to focus on my brothers when I’m down there, and I’m afraid I won’t be able to with my friends around.

  “Thanks for small favors, I guess. At least Sophie can’t kick my ass under these circumstances.”

  “I heard she threw a crazy shit fit on the quad this morning, though,” says Frankie, helping herself to one of the after-dinner mints I keep in a bowl on my desk. “There’s a rumor she slashed Trevor’s tires, too, but that one’s unconfirmed.”

  “Whatever. They deserve each other. I haven’t heard from Trevor once since I left the Sigma house in a cop car.” As if on cue, my cell phone starts ringing from my desk. My first thought is Mom, because she’s the only one who ever calls me instead of texting, and then I remember that it can’t be her and will never be her again and oh shit I need to throw up.

  “Is it Trevor?” I hear Cait ask as I run out to the bathroom and drop to my knees in front of the toilet.

  “Nah, random number. Who do we know with a five-oh-four area code?”

  “No idea. Here, bring it to her.”

  Frankie comes into the bathroom with my phone, ignoring the fact that I’m dry heaving to the porcelain gods. “Phone call from a mysterious stranger.”

  “Can you get it?”

  She does. “Lizzie Brandt’s phone.” Pause for response. “Who?” Another pause. “Oh! This is Frankie Bellisario. We met at the history department party.” Another pause, and then her face sours. “She’s here. Hold on.” She hands me the phone, despite the fact that I’m waving my hands in the air and mouthing hang up.

  I give her a demonic glare before taking the phone. “Connor.” I turn around and rest back against the toilet, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from my forehead. “How’d you get my number?”

  “It’s on the sheet I passed around on the first day. Listen, Elizabeth, I just spoke with Professor Ozgur—”

  “Wait. You seriously checked up on me? You thought I would lie about my parents getting killed?”

  He chooses to sidestep that one. I don’t blame him. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for your loss, and of course you are excused from the paper.”

  “Thanks so much for that. Means a lot that you’d let me out of homework so I can bury my parents.”

  “Yes, well, I’ve been known to be rather saintly in my time,” he replies just as dryly, and I’m so shocked at his attempt at humor that I actually laugh for the first time since the cops showed up the night before.

  I decide to be straight with him. “Look, I don’t know if or when I’m coming back, so, it probably doesn’t really matter if you just fail me or whatever.” Not like I still have parents to care.

  “I’m not looking to fail you. I don’t teach with the hope everyone will play games on their phone during lectures and then skate by with Cs.”

  “If you did, you’d probably be much happier.”

  “I’m going to ignore that.”

  “Probably for the best.”

  He sighs. “Please let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

  “I don’t suppose you want to drive me back to Rockland County, do you? I really hate the bus.”

  “Oh.” He pauses. “Well, I guess—”

  “I was kidding, Connor. I mean, not about hating the bus, but about you driving me five hours, yes, I was definitely kidding.”

  “Thank God.”

  “Maybe when we’re on better terms. Appreciate the check-in, Connor. I’ll see ya when I see ya.” I do him the favor of hanging up before he can respond. Then I pick myself up, wash off my face, and go back to my room.

  I have a bus to catch.

  “I’m so sorry for your loss, dear.” I accept my millionth cheek-kiss of the day from a woman I don’t even recognize, who reeks of Pond’s cold cream and cheap perfume. “Goodness, you look so much like your mother. She was such a lovely woman.”

  Where my parents picked up all these devotees, I have
no idea, but other than my grandmother, the neighbors, a couple of coworkers, and maybe two or three friends, I don’t recognize anyone at the funeral, or anyone who files into their house afterward, bearing casseroles and lasagnas. My aunt didn’t even show up.

  Thankfully, I hear a familiar clacking just then—my parents’ best friend and neighbor, Nancy, hopping over on her crutches, her prosthetic leg concealed by a pair of somber black pants. “One of your mom’s co-teachers. They never actually got along,” Nancy whispers to me. “That woman complained about everything. Nice that she’s here.”

  “Yes, we’re so lucky,” I reply dryly, and Nancy smothers a laugh as I get intercepted with yet another tin of something that undoubtedly contains pasta, sauce, and cheese. “How much longer do I have to nod and smile at these people?”

  “Hey, at least they’re bringing free food,” she murmurs back. “Go put that in the fridge and check on Ty and Max; I’ll handle the pleasantries.”

  I smile gratefully and head into the kitchen with my newly accumulated pile of foil dishes. The idea of eating any of them makes me sick to my stomach. All I really want to do right now is break into my dad’s liquor cabinet, but I suspect even Nancy would frown upon that. Anyway, there’ll be plenty of time for that once the boys are asleep.

  “Hey, guys.” I ruffle Tyler’s hair, but he’s thirteen, that way-too-cool-to-acknowledge-his-big-sister age. Apparently the day of our parents’ funeral is no exception. Max is stuffing cookies in his face, the natural seven-year-old response to tragedy. “Hope you like lasagna.”

  “Mom likes lasagna,” Max says, licking the cream off the center of an Oreo.

  “Liked,” Tyler corrects harshly.

  Happy Hour can’t come fast enough.

  “Yes, well, then we can eat it vicariously for her,” I say. “Did you guys talk to grandma?”

  “She keeps calling me Abe,” Max says sourly. “Who’s Abe?”

  “Grandpa’s name was Abe,” I remind him. “Grandma gets confused.”

  “She asked me where Mom was. Like, four times,” says Tyler. The words come out bitterly, but I can tell he’s trying not to cry. I don’t blame him; that combination sums up how I’ve felt all day. Maybe I’ll share the liquor stash with him. Thirteen’s probably old enough for a couple of shots of Jack. Or scotch. My dad always had good scotch. I was never allowed to touch it, for obvious reasons. No stopping me now.

  I excuse myself to my dad’s old study. It smells like rich leather and musty books. He loved that smell, almost as much as he loved the smell of cigars. I close my eyes and inhale deeply, remembering the way I used to play with the globe in the corner while he would read in his chair and randomly announce facts, like, “Did you know the male seahorse carries the baby?” I can still hear ice cubes clanging in his highball, and when I open my eyes, they’re burning with tears, and I need to taste that scotch ASAP.

  I don’t even bother filling a highball, just chug straight from the bottle. It burns like hell on the way down, but it feels purifying, like liquid fire. After a while, tears spring to my eyes and my stomach turns and finally I have no choice but to pull the bottle away from my lips. I’m not even sure how much I drink before I finally put it down, but my first thought when I see that the level has conspicuously lowered is shit, Dad’s gonna kill me.

  And then the laughter starts. Loud, hysterical laughter that brings footsteps running toward the study. I’ve locked the door, but someone knocks anyway, and says, “Honey, you all right in there?”

  I have no idea who’s talking, only that it isn’t Nancy, Tyler, or Max, so I say, “Just peachy!” until I hear a deep sigh and then footsteps retreating.

  I never was a favorite of the neighbors.

  I take the bottle and wedge myself into the big leather seat. I expect it to be warm and somehow feel like a hug from my dad, but it doesn’t even mold to my body; it just kind of sticks. It’s so depressing, I take another drink. And another.

  By the time Nancy comes to shake me awake, the house is empty.

  • • •

  I hate being in my old room again. The last time I was here, I was home for the summer, and constantly fighting with my mother over my grades. She wasn’t even really pissed at me; more like concerned. I’d gotten into Radleigh with an academic scholarship that depended on my keeping an A-minus-or-better average, and I was hovering around a solid B.

  She insisted she wasn’t upset because of the potential loss of scholarship money, though she would’ve had a right to be. She “just wanted to make sure I was okay.” The truth was, though, that I didn’t know how to explain my decline. College was just…hard. Harder than anyone had said it would be. And full of people who’d known what they wanted to study from birth, rather than having vague notions of this or that before settling on law school for lack of a better plan.

  So rather than try to be something I couldn’t, I just let myself spiral into being a raging letdown.

  If only she could see me and my C-minuses now. Not to mention the awesome homewrecker reputation I’m sure I’ve got on campus.

  I wish Nancy’d stuck around to talk to me for a while, but she has her own shit to take care of, which is hard enough for her since the cancer that took most of her leg. She used to be the one set to inherit Ty and Max if anything happened to my parents, but I was sixteen when she got sick and my parents changed their will pretty much the second I turned eighteen.

  Nine months ago.

  There hasn’t been any talk of what’ll happen with the custody arrangement. A lawyer’s coming to the house tomorrow, and I guess we’ll figure it out then.

  For now, I need to…something. Sleep feels out of the question. Instead, I crack open the window over my old bench seat, light up a cigarette, and text Cait. I should’ve let you come with me. This is horrible.

  Her reply comes less than a minute later. I’m not sure I would’ve made your day any better, but I’m sorry it was difficult.

  What the… Oh. Shit.

  Connor.

  I’d put him in my phone so I could let him know when I’m coming back to school, and of course he’s right under Cait, and of course in my stupid scotch-y haze I’d miss it by one. Of fucking course.

  I start to reply that the text wasn’t meant for him, but beyond the fact that it’s just telling him what he already knows, I know that’ll be the end of the conversation. As much as I hate to admit it, I could really use the company. You might’ve made the bus ride more entertaining, I write back, squinting to check for spelling mistakes. You could’ve described the Hagia Sofia the entire way down.

  His response comes far quicker than I expect. If I thought there was a chance you’d listen, maybe I would have.

  Touché, I think but don’t type as I stare at the screen. This is by far the greatest number of semi-friendly words Connor and I have ever exchanged. It’s almost…nice.

  Except Connor’s probably one hundred percent serious about the fact that he would’ve turned the ride into a lesson and then been disappointed in me when I failed to pay attention. He’s not exactly known for his sense of humor around class. Even now, I know he’s only being remotely nice to me because of my parents. Still, it makes me feel a little less lonely, and I stick my cigarette in my teeth and start to type back, when suddenly, my phone beeps with another text.

  Sleep well, Elizabeth.

  Oh. So much for continuing that conversation. I put my phone down on my nightstand, stub out the cigarette on the brick exterior of the house, and slip into bed. I curl up with Taco, my old teddy bear, trying to think about anything but where I am now and why, and praying for morning to come soon.

  • • •

  “Lizzie? Are you in there?”

  I jolt out of bed at the sound, thinking it’s my mother, but then reality crashes in through my sleepy haze and I recognize Nancy’s voice, fuzzy as it is through the door. Of course it’s not my mother. It’s never going to be my mother.

  I slip on my glasses and
glance at the clock. Naturally, I overslept. Not like I had anything important to wake up for. Just a lawyer coming to the house to determine everything about my future from here on out.

  I wonder if I can get away with a breakfast tequila shot.

  “Liz, the lawyer’s here.”

  Oh, shit. I’m even later than I thought. Not even time for a breakfast cigarette. “Just give me one second,” I call back, glancing down at my tank top and boxers. I know there are a few dresses in my closet, things my mom bought that I hated and had no interest in bringing with me to college, and I grab one now and throw it over my pajamas. I skip the shoes—not like I’m leaving the house—and brush my teeth so hard I probably take off a layer of enamel.

  Within five minutes of the knock, I’m seated downstairs at the dining room table. Tyler’s with us; Max isn’t.

  “Max is playing in his room,” Nancy responds to the question I didn’t ask.

  Personally, I think Max should be here, but if even Ty doesn’t object, I’m just going to keep my mouth shut.

  “Lizzie, John Burton. It’s nice to see you again,” the lawyer says with a grim smile. It takes me a few seconds to realize I have in fact met him before, at my parents’ fifteenth anniversary party. I’m pretty sure he’s wearing the same sweater vest today he was wearing then. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  I just kind of grunt in response. I don’t have the energy to pretend that anyone’s being sorry fixes anything. Whose idea was it to have this meeting at 9:00 a.m.? How am I supposed to pretend I can handle this conversation without caffeine?

  As if on cue, Nancy says, “I put on a pot of coffee, but I’m not sure how hot it still is.”

  Right, because I overslept. I’m already rocking this responsibility thing. I mumble my thanks and shuffle into the kitchen, the bitter smell of my mother’s preferred dark roast coffee assaulting my nostrils. I grab a mug from the cabinet, then flinch when I notice it’s the NYU Law one my dad used religiously on the weekends. I exchange it for a more innocuous one, pour myself a cup with plenty of sugar, and sit back down.