Cause of Death

  Cause of Death

  A Novel

  Laura Dembowski

  Woodhall Press

  Norwalk, CT

  For Mom and Dad

  I was born to run, I was born for this

  -Imagine Dragons

  Copyright © 2020 Laura Dembowski

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages in a review.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available

  ISBN Print 978-1-949116-28-1

  ISBN e-Book 978-1-949116-29-8

  Layout Artist: Jessica Dionne Abouelela

  Copyeditor: Melissa J. Hayes

  Proofreader: Grace O’Neill McGinley

  Cover Design: Jessica Dionne Abouelela

  Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855

  Woodhallpress.com

  Distributed by Ingram Publishing Services (800) 937-8000

  Chapter 1

  Margaret

  It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

  I did everything right as a mother. Breastfeeding. Organic food. Private school. Dance lessons. We even paid for college, master’s degree and all.

  I’m telling you, I did everything I was supposed to do. What all the books say you have to do. And the doctors. The talking heads, too. I even took advice from my mother. If that didn’t about kill me, my life now will.

  Here I sit on the deck of the house Dave and I bought twenty years ago when we both worked full-time and Lana seemed so happy and normal. The sun is shining, my coffee is hot, the flowers smell nice. Dave should be sitting next to me, but instead, he’s at work. And even though he’ll be signing up for Medicare soon, he’s not thinking about retiring. Well, he’s thinking about it, but he can’t act on it yet.

  What am I thinking about, you may ask. Well, a vacation for starters. Maybe the South of France. A nice pair of Louboutins. Hell, a new place to live. One where I don’t have to worry about getting someone to cut the grass and plow the snow. I’m thinking about having dinner with a friend. Or lunch. Even a drink would be acceptable.

  Yet, here I sit on the deck with coffee that’s slowly growing cold. I don’t even really like coffee. I drink it because it’s supposed to wake me up. Nothing wakes me up. I am a zombie walking through life, arms outstretched, searching for another person whose life is better than mine—or at least different, so I can suck the life out of them. It would be nice if I could pump that life into my own body, but I’d take just watching them suffer. It’s true, what they say—Misery loves company.

  I can’t do anything I want, and here comes the reason why.

  “Hey, Mom.”

  Lana plops down in the seat next to me. She’s petite and pretty. Could have been a model if she was half a foot taller, maybe. At least, that’s what she tells me when I suggest modeling as a career path. It’s not really on my list of priorities to know how tall Giselle is.

  Despite her stature, the way Lana uses her body is incredible. The deck shakes each time she moves. The stairs thunder with the noise of a herd of elephants as she ascends or descends.

  “Hi, sweetie,” I say, trying to be nice, hoping she doesn’t start complaining.

  Lana doesn’t really ever talk; she complains. I suppose some of her complaints have merit. She is a twenty-seven-year-old woman, living at home with her parents. She has no friends. She hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school. She is unemployed. And she’s more than happy to tell all of this to perfect strangers. She wants them to feel bad for her. Some do, some don’t; it depends on how hard she pours on the drama.

  What she doesn’t tell these people—in fact, she won’t even admit it to herself—is that all of her problems are really her own fault.

  She had a job as a consultant at one of the top marketing firms in New York. After three years of working eight hours a day, being wined and dined by clients, expensing practically daily sushi lunches, and being promoted twice, it all became too much. Because who would be able to handle such terrible work conditions? Instead of pushing through like Dave and I have done our entire lives, she quit.

  “Fine,” we said. “Move back home.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t possibly impose on you,” she sobbed over the phone.

  I’d gotten good at deciphering her words even when she was in full ugly-cry mode, because that seemed to be her default when calling home.

  “No, really, sweetheart,” Dave cooed, “you can’t be miserable. Come home. We’ll figure it out. You can get another job. Or take a little time off.”

  I would have shot Dave a look, or maybe shot him with a gun, but he was in the other room on a different extension.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she said, tears stopped now that she’d gotten the answer she wanted.

  So home she came. It wasn’t bad at first. She’s my daughter; I love her to death. After a while, though, she decided she wanted to work from home. I’m sure there are plenty of legitimate work-from-home jobs out there, but Lana hasn’t found any. I often wonder if she’s even looking. Of course, since she moved away from all of her friends, she has no one here other than Daddy and me. When we want to have a date night or meet friends for dinner, we have an additional, unwelcome guest. Sure, everyone pretends like it’s fine, but how fine is it when a twenty-seven-year-old who feels sorry for herself crashes all of your parties?

  It’s no mystery to me why she doesn’t have a boyfriend. My God, what guy wouldn’t want to date a needy, unemployed, friendless, living-at-home girl masquerading as a grown woman. Every man’s dream. Add to that her desire to remain childless, so as not to ruin her admittedly gorgeous figure, and her insatiable desire for all things expensive, and even the best matchmaker wouldn’t be able to do anything for her. She once asked her father to buy her a black Burgundy truffle, and he obliged. Even after he found out that one tiny little mushroom costs $200, it was too late to do anything.

  “What are you up to today?” Lana asks through a stretch.

  “I was thinking about meeting Vivian for lunch,” I say.

  I really had been thinking about it, but wasn’t going to act on it because I knew Lana would just whine. Complain. Threaten to kill herself.

  “Mmm, that sounds nice.”

  Well, this is weird. She’s okay with me leaving the house without her to do something fun, not something like getting a mammogram to make sure I’m not dying. (We can’t have half of Lana’s only support system dying now, can we?)

  I say nothing. I don’t know what to say. This is uncharted territory.

  “What time? I need to get ready.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Oh,” she tilts her head, softening her look, though the evil glow in her eye remains. “Am I not invited?”

  Nooo! I want to scream. You are twenty-seven. You should have your own friends, your own life. But I don’t. I’ve said things like that before. This is not a new conversation. Whether I’m good cop or bad cop, the outcome is always the same. Nothing changes.

  “Oh, of course you are. I’ll just text Viv to make sure of the time.”

  “Okay,” she chirps.

  I text Vivian to see if she’s available at all. I hadn’t planned on having lunch with her today because I’m typically kept prisoner in my home by my own daughter.

  I debate with myself over whether I want Vivian to be able to go or not. A day out would be nice, but a day out with Lana typically isn’t.
I debate for just a second over whether to text Vivian at all. I could just tell Lana she’s not available. But then there’s always the chance that Lana will check my texts and find out it was all a lie. That wouldn’t end well.

  I text Vivian. “Want to do lunch today with me and Lana?”

  Just a few seconds later, she writes back, “After dr appointment. How about 12:30?”

  “Sure,” I send back, before heading inside to tell Lana and go get ready myself.

  A day away from the house I am beginning to hate can only be a good thing, even if Lana is tagging along. I used to love our house, but ever since I started feeling like I can’t escape it, it makes me claustrophobic. It suffocates me with its blinds that remain dusty no matter how many times they are cleaned. It makes me crazy with the doorknobs that fall off no matter how many times Dave fixes them. I only see flaws like a woman does when she wants to divorce her husband. Though Dave is far from perfect, I’d much rather divorce the house than him.

  I also used to truly love Lana. Maybe I still do, and it’s just buried under her laundry and bills.

  “Oh, Viv, do you have any pictures of Tommy?” Lana asks, seemingly completely interested in looking at the photos as Vivian pulls out her phone and scrolls through the never-ending stream. Either Lana has learned tremendous people skills in the past two hours, giving her the ability to pretend she’s interested in Vivian’s ugly grandchild, or she’s actually interested. That thought sends a shiver down my spine.

  I recover quickly and ooh and aah at the pictures myself. Even if my nose starts growing like Pinocchio’s, I want to make Vivian feel good. It’s only a matter of time before dear Tommy heads off to school, where he will no doubt be ridiculed day in and day out.

  “He’s so cute,” Lana exclaims.

  “Oh, and he’s so smart,” Vivian says. “He already knows his ABCs, and he can count to twenty. I’m gonna have him reading in no time. He’ll be the smartest kid in preschool.”

  “It’s nice you spend so much time with him.”

  “I’m lucky they live close. I can’t imagine living far away from them.”

  “That’s why I had to move back,” Lana explains as I roll my eyes. “Mom and Dad missed me too much, and I missed them.”

  “Awww.”

  Vivian is practically crying over how sweet she thinks Lana is.

  “You must be so proud, Maggie. I’d give anything to have my kids still living with me.”

  Oh you would? Really? You just keep telling yourself that, Viv.

  “We’re very lucky,” I say, almost choking on my words.

  I look around for the waitress and don’t see her. I’d like to order a martini, so it’s probably best I can’t find her. I still have to drive home, because after living in New York and not driving for so long, being behind the wheel makes Lana nervous. We wouldn’t want to push her out of her comfort zone.

  The way Vivian calls me Maggie, too. I’ve known Vivian since high school, which if you ask me is too long to be friends with someone. We know too many things about each other, and though neither of us will admit it, we’ve grown apart over the years. We keep pretending like we’re the best of friends, because I suppose any friend is better than no friend at all—especially once they start dying off.

  For the record, I would have more friends if it wasn’t for Lana. She makes me feel so guilty every time I leave the house that I’ve started shunning my friends to the point where they’ve stopped asking me to take a walk in the park or go to lunch, or inviting me to parties, or, God forbid, to go on vacation with them. They have friends who actually do things, so they focus on those people.

  When I get to leave the house, it’s Vivian or nothing, so I put up with her, even if I’m secretly making a voodoo doll of her and her perfect life in my mind every time we meet. Today it’s an extra big voodoo doll, since she and my daughter are hitting it off so well. Instead of Lana being the third wheel, here I sit, barely part of the conversation, daydreaming the afternoon away without anyone so much as noticing I’m at the table, in body only, my mind in a distant land.

  “You’ll figure things out soon, Lana. Don’t rush it, and don’t be too hard on yourself. These things take time,” I hear Vivian saying as I tune back into the conversation.

  This can only mean one thing. Lana has been telling her tale of woe. I figured that would happen sometime today. She relaxes a little, feels comfortable with the company she’s in, and opens her mouth to sing her sad little song and hopefully get some positive reinforcement. Someone to tell her everything will be okay. What they don’t tell her is that maybe everything won’t be okay. Maybe she won’t fall in love or get her dream job or have a group of friends that will rival those in Sex and the City. Maybe she’ll live at home with her parents forever.

  Maybe they’ll get really tough and tell her she should get off her ass and do something about it. Unfortunately, we save that kind of talk for social media anonymity these days.

  Shit. That means my dreams won’t come true either. You know, to be able to leave the house for lunch without Lana tagging along or sobbing that she’s too lonely. Or to go on vacation for a whole week. I don’t even care where I go—beach or snow, city or deserted island—as long as it doesn’t involve me cooking or cleaning or doing laundry or having to comfort a crying child. It means I might never have sex with my husband again because Lana could burst into our room at any moment, having had a bad dream.

  What did I do to deserve this? I must have been a real bitch in a past life.

  Maybe I treated my mom like Lana treats me. I don’t think that’s the case, but perhaps I’m remembering things incorrectly. That could be the only logical explanation of why I am being so punished now.

  “Thanks for bringing me along today,” Lana says as I drive us home and she blares Taylor Swift a little too loudly over the car speakers. I know the words as well as her. I don’t mind the music, but I wouldn’t mind playing some Cher or Barbra Streisand every now and again. That’s forbidden, however; Lana’s eyes would pop out of her head at the mere suggestion. Oh, and if I tried to sing along, forget it. She’d probably grab the steering wheel and drive us right into a tree to end the pain. She’s allowed to sing, though.

  “No problem,” I say. She actually seems like she’s in a good mood at the moment, which does happen sometimes. She’s not a devil child. She does some cleaning, on her terms; you know, the things that don’t gross her out too much. Or scare her. For some inexplicable reason she’s afraid of the vacuum cleaner. She buys gift certificates to my favorite local spa so we can go get mani-pedis together. I know it’s really just so she can have an excuse to be pampered without having to ask me outright, but at least I get the pampering, too. Sometimes she even sits with her father and me while we watch a movie instead of retreating to the privacy of her room. While it’s nice to spend time with her, it means the movie we chose is now most likely out of the question in favor of some deep, Oscar-winning documentary.

  “It was good to get out. I spend too much time at home.”

  “I agree,” I say, perhaps a little too eagerly. “Why don’t you give some of your old high school or college friends a call? I bet some of them still live in town. Maybe you could reconnect. Or hang out at a bar. Do things the old-fashioned way.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she says.

  That’s a lie. She won’t think about a damn thing other than the next pair of Louboutins she’d like us to buy for her, which after weeks of begging, prodding, and crying, one of us will give in and purchase, if only to make the whining stop.

  “You never know. Might be good for you.”

  We don’t talk the rest of the ride home. Instead, I am treated to one hell of a pitchy concert. Luckily, I’ve learned to tune Lana’s singing out most of the time.

  “It sounds like you two had a pretty nice day,” Dave says, climbing into
bed with me.

  Maybe it’s my upbeat mood, since today wasn’t a total disaster. Then again, it’s probably that Dave looks like he’s been spending extra time in the gym. His body is warm and comforting, so much better than any blanket. I really hope this muscle definition isn’t a symptom of cheating. He couldn’t really be blamed—who wouldn’t want an escape from this. On the other hand, it may be just the thing to put me over the edge.

  I push those thoughts aside and live in the moment, as though I have another choice.

  “We did,” I say, nestling my head into the crevice between his arm and chest, more comfortable than I’ve been in weeks.

  I wrap the covers around me tightly, inhaling their fresh, just-washed scent. I don’t think I look too bad either—not that I have ever let myself go, but since I’ve been home so much, our elliptical trainer is my only escape.

  Lana never complains when I go to the exercise room. She wants me to be a pretty mom, in prime cardiovascular health. Even though Dave works ten, sometimes twelve hours a day, if he doesn’t hit the gym to work out with his trainer or jump on the elliptical, she lectures him, sometimes for the better part of an hour. He’s learned that this time is better spent just doing the workout.

  Lana might not readily admit this, but she’s always been more of a daddy’s girl. Me dying is unacceptable, particularly since she spends all day long with me, but Dave dying is catastrophic. He’s her favorite; plus, he’s the breadwinner. Without Dave there would be no more fancy designer clothes, expensive wild fish, or house, for that matter. Really, Lana might be right on this; I mean, if the two of us were left on the street, surely we wouldn’t survive.

  “Your arms feel so strong,” I say, rubbing them.

  “I’ve been working out more these days.”