Clara lived through the days after Amanda shot herself as if her hair was on fire, her body underwater. When she broke through the surface, gasping for air, she felt the full force of grief hurtle through the ground beneath her feet. It aimed straight toward her, and settled in her gut.
She couldn’t eat. She slept fitfully. Anger showed on her face, distorting her features. There was no privacy in her physical being, no place to hide her feelings, so when she met with Mandy’s friends at the coffee shop, her lips were pinched into a grimace only distantly related to a smile, and the women approached her as if she was some untamed creature. Clara slipped into her sister’s old place like a spy, warding off the proffered hugs. She couldn’t bear to be touched, especially in such a crowded space, and they seemed to understand that. She took off her sunglasses but quickly put them back on again. The bright lights that usually made the shop so cheery blinded her now. “I’m so sorry,” one of the women began to say. ”I can’t believe it.” “We just saw her last week…” Clara heard the phrases as from a great distance, vibrations in a chorus, echoing syllables divorced from meaning. A lukewarm interest was all she had expected, or at most, a wave of fabricated sympathy. Looking at their faces, she wondered why she had sold her sister’s friends so short. These were the same people who had challenged a psychotic Mandy when she characterized Clara as a thief who had stolen her art. That doesn’t sound like her. Your sister would do anything for you. “Are the authorities sure it was suicide? I can’t find any official news about it. I never thought I’d miss my policeman ex-husband, but he would have known what’s going on.” If we made a pact, who would be the suicide and who would be the murder? The back of Clara’s neck prickled. When a shooting occurs, suicide is only one explanation, but these women had already settled on it. They would need more information if the scope of possibility was to be stretched. They would need to be convinced. The flow of information should go both ways. Clara wanted to pick the women’s brains as well. She had plenty of questions; what she wanted now were answers. The whole point of coming here was to uncover something she did not know or had not absorbed about her sister, some detail to help her to understand what had really happened to Mandy. “It might have been an accident,” she said in an almost inaudible voice. That possibility was swallowed by a commotion in the corner. The manager was loudly shooing a homeless man away from the door. “Suicide is so hard on the survivors,” said one woman, whose voice rose above the disturbance. The voice itself startled Clara more than the words. Harsh and grainy, it reminded Clara of quicksand somehow. By the time both the sound and sense settled into the folds of Clara’s brain, the woman had already moved onto her next thought. “We all think it must be our fault, the way little kids look at their parents’ divorce.” “I bet that any catalyst in Mandy’s case had more to do with her last show flopping. Wasn’t all of that Richard’s fault? He was the one who arranged it.” “The review mentioned an anonymous collaborator wrecking the pictures. They were talking about him, am I right?” “Right. So why didn’t she shoot him, you know, for messing her work up? Or maybe they had a suicide pact and he chickened out after she went through with it?” “Maybe he’s hiding while his wounds heal.” “You’ve been watching too much Netflix! Seriously, though. Has anyone heard from him directly? He should know there’s interest in what he has to say for himself.” “Not to speak of his moral and civic duty. I don’t know what kind of a man he is, and I couldn’t pick him out of a lineup.” “Mandy never really showed him off.” “Let’s not turn this into a whodunit, people. Show some respect.” Cherie jerked her head toward a stony-faced Clara. A half-beat of silence, followed by another opinion: “I always thought Richard was an imaginary friend.” “Mandy was calling all men Richard for a while. It was like calling guys John Doe.” “That’s her sense of humor, alright.” “The police should want to speak with Richard about the death. Also, to find out if there’s anything to the art forgery rumor that involved Mandy.” To Michi, the conspiracy theorist of the group, the mere suggestion of a crime surfacing in their small community excited her, whereas it only embarrassed the other women. “The authorities probably have spoken to everyone involved.” “Even if there are two different cases?” “Sure. They wouldn’t bother to report on either one to us. We don’t figure in the whole mess.” “Nobody’s asked any of us what we know, true enough. They probably think we’re not important enough to question. And as for anything to do with the art world, we’re dilettantes at best.” “Yes. Mandy was the only real artist among us hobbyists,” said Aurora. Michi flushed with irritation, and shoved the sketchbook she had brought to show them deeper into her bag. ”We probably seem like casual friends to outsiders. We only have coffee together once a week. Most people wouldn’t think we’re all that close.” “I felt close to her, but none of us looked out for her enough. We knew she was sick. Did any of you have any inkling this was going to happen? And how did she manage to score a gun with her record of mental illness?” Kim, although she had known Mandy the longest, had the least information. “She’s had it for ages. The guy at the gun store just handed it over. Haven’t you kept up with the news? It’s easier to buy a gun nowadays than practically anything! You can be crazy or blind or still in your teens, it doesn’t matter. The NRA doesn’t care how many innocents get murdered as long as all the fear and loathing increases gun sales!” “And thar she blows! Come back, come back, Michi, we’re trying to discuss suicide here. As I was about to say, suicides plan it all carefully and then feel better because they’ve made a decision. They get all cheerful, and so nobody is suspicious about their plan.” Aurora looked at Clara for some response. It came in a voice knotted tight. “My sister was not suicidal. Neither depressed, manic, unusually cheerful, nor resigned. The doctors considered her stable. She was living in the actual real world, not in some hallucination. She was not psychotic when she pulled the trigger, I’d bet my own life on it. There must have been a reason. We’re missing something. It doesn’t make sense.” Clara cursed the quaver in her voice. She had not forgotten how Aurora had advised Mandy, in the throes of her breakdown, to exercise her political freedom and just spit out her drugs if she wanted. Now Clara wanted to spit her own words in Aurora’s face, in all these women’s faces. How dare they think of her sister as a freak, and therefore less-than the likes of them? Had their friendship merely been extended to her out of pity, or even worse, voyeurism? Had Mandy known? “Yes, there could be something we’re missing. It’s best not to take things at face value.” The woman with the loud voice had modulated it, but the voice itself bothered Clara. It was so familiar that it made her ask, “Have we met?” “Yes. I’m Brenda, Mandy’s old friend from art school. You and I knew each other too, from when you sisters lived in that apartment with the blackout drapes and the foam mattress on the living room floor. The grand piano in the corner always looked like a ship lost at sea in the midst of all that makeshift stuff.” Clara focused her memory inward. Mandy had insisted on those blackout drapes, the better to sleep all day after drinking all night. Her drinking buddy was most often Brenda, until they fell out, first over a competition for a place in an art show; then Brenda’s jealousy over the sisters’ own attachment to one another. Mandy and Brenda always made up in the end, and Brenda was the one who witnessed Mandy’s first psychosis on the day she was admitted to the hospital. Did she remember tearing down the blackout drapes from the window after Mandy was carted off screaming about stolen paintings? “Brenda! Of course I remember you.” Brenda: drama queen, would-be star-maker and saboteur. “Do you live here now?” “No, I heard about Amanda, and came to attend whatever service you’re planning for her, and to see if you needed help with cataloging her work or anything. That’s a big part of my job now that I’ve got my own gallery. But for however long you need me, I’m here. I’ll be staying with my old friend, Lauren.” She patted Lauren’s arm, who added, “Yes, we were all wondering about the memorial. We certainly understand if you want a private funeral, but we’d all like to pay our respects.” Who gave this stranger a vote? Clara wondered. Mandy never mentioned a Lauren. “Did you know my sister well?” Lauren blinked the way people do when they’re about to lie. Then she reconsidered. “Not so much,” she admitted, and the image of a churchgoer who stalks funerals just because she can, flashed through Clara’s mind. The director of the art museum came by the table. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said, looking at Clara, “but I couldn’t help overhearing. I’m so deeply sorry about Amanda and I’d be glad to arrange a memorial show for her at the museum, if you’d like. She was one of the city’s bright stars and her loss is a great wound for the arts community.” “Thank you kindly, Director,” Clara said. “How about we organize a celebration-of-life kind of a thing?” Brenda suggested, looking from the director to Clara and back. “We could put Mandy’s art up at the museum, especially since she hated church. Mandy never did get religion, did she? So I suppose a church setting would be hypocritical. Remember when I organized that show in my apartment for her, Clara?” Clara remembered. She also remembered how, when Mandy’s pictures dwarfed the response to her own lesser works, she had turned up the music, taken off her clothes, and danced on her sturdy wood dining table. Redirecting attention from Mandy’s work had always been her goal. “An art-themed memorial is a great idea!” This from Kim, Mandy’s oldest friend. From the second grade onward, Kim had attended all Mandy’s events and shows, celebrated her birthdays, and later posed for portraits. “She was always trying to get people to look at her work.” Kim didn’t mean it the way it sounded, but her words were enough to ignite a memory for Clara: Mandy explaining her pictures to an audience made of thin air, like an actress playing a part against an actor not on set; turning, bending, pointing out elements on the canvases. Clara, standing in the doorway, knees just beginning to buckle, a strangely calm question floating through her mind: Does the rule to never interrupt a sleepwalker apply to this kind of altered state? As in a dream, she had tried to scream, but no sound came out. It was the first time she had witnessed her sister hallucinate. Remembering, Clara covered her face with her hand. Brenda was the first to misunderstand the gesture. “Sorry, girl. We didn’t mean to overstep.” Clara glared at them all, to acknowledge that indeed they had. “It’s ok, but it’s not as if Mandy will come back if only we throw a good enough party. She’s not ever coming back.” “We didn’t mean it like that. Oh god, we didn’t mean to make you cry.” Clara leaned back in her chair, dabbed at her eyes, and then opened her mouth to say something about accidents versus suicide. Before she could, Cherie had jumped in to ask everyone in general, but nobody in particular, “What are the stages of grief, by the way?” To delay a discussion of Mandy’s details in favor of the universal experience of sorrow was a good move. The general is always the safer choice. People want to relate things to their own lives. “There’s shock and denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance, right?” The pride of the good student, third seat on the left. “By that token, having a memorial does seem like bargaining with God to let her come back.” “That’s more like acceptance.” “What about not throwing away the deceased person’s shoes, in case they might need them when they finally show up again?” “That’s more like magical thinking.” Aurora always needed the last word. Her restless fingers clicked her phone, and she pulled up an article about Kubler-Ross. “Five stages. Looks like you’re in for quite a trip.” She read more about each of the stages, aloud. Then, this: “Hey, it sounds like the country’s reaction to the orange yam in the White House!” “Yeah, America’s abusive boyfriend.” “He’s like Mandy’s Richard. Two huge losers, twins separated at birth.” A tentative wash of laughter. “Also take into consideration the various types of grief. What you’re suffering from is called complicated grief.” This one’s tone was authoritative, and the company came to attention, backs suddenly meerkat straight. Clara stifled a giggle at the sight, and fumbled for the speaker’s name. She often saw her marching across campus in hiking boots; they’d nod but had never spoken until today. Susan? Sharon? Stephanie? “It’s not the same as anticipatory grief, like with your Mom’s Alzheimer’s, which can only end one way. But they both involve mourning the final loss of somebody who’s already left the building in important respects, like the case of your mother’s faculties, and your sister’s mental health. It’s a real pile-up.” Sharon (yes, that was it— Sharon) looked down at the balled-up napkin in her hand. The gesture related the subject at hand to her own experience, whatever it was, but nobody wanted to hear about that. Michi rattled the newspaper featuring a gossip column blaring Which local artist is suspected of making art forgeries? Watch this space. She shook it as if the whole truth could be forced from it. “They really are talking about Mandy here, aren’t they?” “What, because she’s the only artist you know?” snarled Susan. “Fake news!” Feigning ignorance was the safest move when Clara didn’t know whom to trust. She could have given a fuller answer about the origin of this rumor. She could have talked about the day she unrolled the many paintings taken from Richard’s closet, and Mandy was as outraged as if they had caught him cheating. “How many artists must Richard be using anyways? There’s no way all these are mine.” “Maybe some of them are much older, painted over who knows how long ago?” Clara had gently offered. Mandy examined the pictures closely and pronounced a sharp “Nope. They’re fairly new, even the ones painted to look old.” The Art of Cracquelure. “And you’re sure they couldn’t all have been painted by one person?” “Impossible. Not by me at least. Look how long it’s taken me to do the few reproductions Richard wants, to decorate our walls.” But when Clara, without the knowledge of the family, had taken the paintings to a lab outside the city, the expert had said, “These are all done by the same hand. And she signed them very cleverly and imperceptibly. She wants to be caught, but only by the worthiest of sleuths.” Nobody at this table filled that particular bill, and the gossip columnist was only that, a small town gossip. To Michi and the others Clara said, “Since my sister is not able to defend herself, or explain, please regard all this as mere speculation, or worse, idle trouble-making. I’d like to know who started such a vicious rumor.” She shook her fist at the unknown perpetrator, and the women shrank back. None of the women wanted to be pasted with a label like gossip, or to be considered gullible, so they sat in their seats, chastened. No one spoke. Michi winced at the coffee grinder’s noise, as if she wished she could shush it. Did any of the women remember that spreading rumors is part of schizoaffective disorder? Clara glanced at Michi’s newspaper. How long had she been carrying the column around, anyway? Did she show it to everyone she met? It was a strange way for the would-be artist to claim connection to Mandy. Michi unfolded the paper and handed it to Clara, who had not asked for it. “Who would start a rumor like that?” Michi thought she found an opening. “What would they have to gain?” She looked at Clara, who stared back this time, both women unblinking. “It’s probably Richard, doing misguided public relations for Mandy.” Aurora wasn’t ready to let her own tangent go; she wanted to compare-and-contrast Richard with the president. “Like our great leader. Did you read that Trump used to impersonate his own PR person? These guys are both psychopaths, gas-lighting everyone in sight.” Aurora’s quirks and leaps of logic were tolerated by the women who had gone to elementary school with her. “Amanda’s very ambitious, and she probably thought Richard could deliver on his wild promises, whatever they were, by whatever means.” “Richard was more likely blackmailing her,” Brenda, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, said. “It couldn’t have been blackmail. What could she have that he would think was valuable?” Susan said. “Her talent. He preyed on artists with talent,” Clara said through gritted teeth. Susan saw her mistake and stuttered an apology, or something close to it, ending with, “Of course. We all know she’s a genius! We each have a portrait by her! She gave us the friends-and-family discounts!” “Friends and family? You mean the people who should support the artist most fully? Then again, I suppose everyone wants a bargain.” An uncomfortable silence spread across the table until it had stretched so thin, anything could have broken it. “It seemed like Richard was doing a good job for Mandy’s career, at least.” “What was his job title anyway? I heard her refer to him as her agent, her gallerist, her broker, her manager, and her boyfriend. Seems like a lot of hats for one guy to wear.” “The whole relationship was confusing. Was Mandy afraid of him? Forgive me, but is it at all possible he abused her?” “The cops would have looked at that.” “Not necessarily, if they knew she was sick. Her whole point of view on everything would not be credible in that instance.” Clara thought of all the times the police had come to determine Mandy’s mental state during some emergency or other, and left without believing what they saw with their own eyes. “Cops know those folks live in some kind of alternate reality that seems real to them.” Those folks. “You mean like the alternative facts that are currently all the rage?” A dodge by Aurora, backed up with snickering from the gallery. In another era, it would have been called cackling. No wonder Mandy had sometimes referred to these women as The Coven. Brenda cleared her throat. “Be that as it may, the docs probably wouldn’t have discharged her to go live with an Alzheimer’s patient if she wasn’t up to it. But she wasn’t even in charge of your mother, was she, Clara? You hired lots of aides, and you and your brothers were on site. Mandy knew that she didn’t really have to do anything other than paint. You said she was free as a bird, I bet. She could’ve even got a job if she wanted. I bet a few of us wish someone would make us an offer like that.” Have I gone mad? I’m afraid so…All the best people are. “It would be so cool to have a patron!” Several women laughed in agreement. Clara understood they thought Mandy had been too spoiled to consider something as mundane as an ordinary nine-to-five. The possibility that the family was protecting her, and had always protected her, didn’t occur to any of them. They had no idea that when she moved back home after art school all those years ago, she took a job as a waitress and it nearly broke her. She would be so wound up by the end of her shift that she couldn’t sleep until dawn, so she’d spend the night drinking in the local bars and obsessing over whichever young man had last attracted her. When one romance backfired, her paranoia erupted and she bought a German shepherd for protection. She took the big dog everywhere, like an eccentric from the jazz age strolling with her leashed leopard. The guard dog waiting in the red Camaro outside the strip of bars had taken on the mystique of an urban legend. Bar-keepers still had a customer or two who kept the story alive. “She had limitations that most of you can’t imagine.” Clara’s voice came in low and dangerous. “You whine about your headaches and colds, your stiff muscles, bad choice of men and thwarted careers. Talk about thwart! My sister was capable of extraordinary art, but ordinary things threw her for a loop. Yet her doctors said her disease was in remission and she was stable. Not suicidal. How many times do I have to say it? The shooting must have been an accident.” “Don’t get mad. It just goes to show how fluid the medical definition of stability must be.” Susan saw things as black or white, and had no use for fluidity in definitions of any kind. Leaning forward on her elbows, Clara put her head in her hands. She realized she had come to the wrong place at the wrong time. She had come hoping these women could give her insight about her sister, somehow mitigate her grief. She had received nothing she could use, and still the voices droned on. “If she hadn’t shot herself first, wouldn’t she have had to go to prison for the forgeries? If all that’s true, I mean. Or would they just have hospitalized her?” Someone stage-whispered the phrase criminally insane and someone else hushed her. Suddenly, Clara couldn’t stand to be with her sister’s friends for another moment. Pushing away from the table, she stood up and walked away without a word. The women’s eyes followed her out of the door. “She looked like she didn’t even recognize me.” “Did you hear what she said to me?” “She’s usually so nice.” At dinner that night, Ed dangled a piece of broccoli in front of Mom, cooing about little trees. Mom giggled and pried the vegetable off the fork with her fingers. “How was your visit with Mandy’s artistes?” he said, not looking at Clara, unwilling to break eye contact with their mother. “They decided it was a suicide, unless Richard was involved. In that case it might have been a suicide pact, with him backing out of it. Those are the two main theories. That it may have been an accident is too basic for them. I kept saying the one thing and they kept insisting I meant something else. It was surreal.” “Sounds like the whole taking-the-knee debate.” “Yes. Also, now they’re experts on grief. They googled it right in front of me.” “Really. Like, the stages and all?” Eddie’s mouth turned up in a smirk. “Yep. They want to plan a memorial service.” Eddie shot his sister a sharp look. “What did you say to that?” “Nothing. I just went with it.” He didn’t respond for a moment. “Are you going to tell them not to?” “I wasn’t planning on it.” She had gone to the café with a view to telling them everything, but she was too angry now. Besides, she didn’t owe them a thing. They were Amanda’s friends, not hers. “I suppose I should, though. I’ll get around to it later.” Eddie considered this, and finally said, “Well, it’s not as if they’ll ever see her again anyway.” “No.” And so they were agreed.
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AuthorCheryl Snell is an award-winning poet and novelist, author of the new family saga Bombay Trilogy, a retelling of her previous novels Shiva's Arms, Rescuing Ranu, and Kalpavriksha. Archives
October 2020
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