THEY SCATTERED HER ASHES underneath the old sugar maple. In a small ceremony restricted to family and a few close friends. There had been a funeral in Blue Bell, their tiny church overrun by more than two thousand mourners, many forced to remain outside listening through stereo speakers. At least it was summer and a glorious day for it. If one didn’t know any better—although it would have been a stretch to find some such person in town—the scene might have resembled the annual church picnic, minus a few punch bowls and barbecue tables, or one of those outdoor rock concerts Brooke had always loved. Closer, though, the tone was unmistakable: not a steady jaw among the masses who’d politely set out blankets, rising with the omnipotent vibrato coming from the speakers and bursting forth in tearful funeral hymns. Watching segments of it later on the local news, Mildred thought Brooke would have been pleased. Above all, she’d wanted to be adored.
It was Cynthia who’d insisted on having her sister cremated, and in the absence of a will or any other written direction, they listened as she told them about a night she and Brooke had driven down to Tijuana, and while drinking shots of tequila underneath a net of twinkling constellations, promised never to let the other one be buried, each terrified of being caged in the earth, if perhaps for different reasons, and spooked by the prospect of having one’s life reduced to an inscription on a grave. “She never understood how people talked to tombstones, you know? She thought it would make much more sense to, you know, stand under a tree and say, ‘Oh, hey, here you are. I’ve got something to tell you …’” Cynthia choked up, which got Mildred going, imagining her daughters, after only two decades of life, barely old enough to vote or drink or drive, talking about death and dying in a way Mildred had never examined herself. Now that she thought about it, she’d just assumed they’d all end up together in one of the family plots. How remarkable that these two had discussed alternative plans, and how tragic that their world, so different from Mildred’s own, had warranted such a conversation … and yet they were right, Mildred thought, besieged by a deeper sadness than she’d ever known, waves of hopelessness infected with a clenching anger and resentment. She wanted the girl to die!
Quickly, she pushed the thought aside—though in all her years she couldn’t remember ever having such trouble with repression. Festering over the next few days of outstretched arms, phone calls, pity casseroles, that feeling seeped into everything, morning and night, coloring her actions so that even an innocuous act like preparing her cup of tea brought visions of pouring the one-hundred-eighty-degree water over the girl, and then, of course, scalding herself for the evil act. Why couldn’t she be more like her husband? Her rock. So far he’d only cried one time that she knew of, that first day in the hospital when he pounded his fist through three layers of drywall and plaster in the operating room and shouted, “Goddamn you!” He was sedated and, a few hours later, had ten stitches knitted into his hand, which seemed to strengthen his lean-on-me shoulder. He was never far from Mildred when she needed a hug or a few soothing words, though the two of them often passed each other like soldiers in war films, moving slow-motion through a haze of useless opulence, everything couched in absurdity. Everything except the details. Tom had taken charge there, concentrating on the minutiae, perhaps to avoid the very feelings that Mildred herself couldn’t contain.
She went to see the pastor. Ralph Rickett had baptized both of her daughters. He’d married Mildred and Tom, and in his heartfelt eulogy for Brooke had spoken about her in terms of the small-town girl they all knew, the one who’d visited Blue Bell Nursing Home since she was a child and who came back every year to see the play at the rec center, the young woman who above all honored and cherished her family. She believed the world was a wondrous, loving place, he’d said, and in her optimism she elevated us all. But Mildred was having trouble ascending. She wanted answers. She wanted justice. She wanted revenge. Ralph Rickett, if anyone, had to understand that.
In his study, he took Mildred’s hands in his and explained that everything she was experiencing was indeed normal, and together they prayed, although Mildred couldn’t see what good it would do. God had obviously deserted their house. Still, she returned a few times more and, one day in an uncharacteristic display of emotion, confessed the anger, the guilt, her inability to occupy herself for longer than a minute, and again they prayed, Ralph guiding her with soft, easy words, at this point merely asking for guidance.
“It’s not enough,” Mildred blurted out, springing from her seat.
“Be patient, Mildred. Only through understanding will you be able to forgive.”
“I don’t want to forgive!” she shouted. “My daughter is gone. Don’t you see? She took her from me. She took away my baby …” Mildred cried, and Ralph Rickett came out from behind his desk and wrapped his arms around her, perhaps reasoning that she needed a friend more than a man of the cloth, and Mildred took comfort in his light offduty clasp, so different from her husband’s fervent clinging, a reminder of the agony they might never be able to squeeze from each other. How did anyone ever get through this? She cried deeply, wholeheartedly, as if it were the first time she’d shed a tear, and Ralph told her to embrace the grief, to let it flow, and soon her focus shifted to him. What a good man, she thought, living his life through the heightened moments, good and bad, of others, and for one second she could see how a pastor might take advantage of this situation—the priest who’d played opposite Brooke’s character on World Without End, for instance—and with that thought, she trembled, fearing something in her own composition had been permanently altered. “I’m becoming a bad person,” she said softly.
“No, Mildred,” Ralph said, leading her back to her chair and kneeling in front of her. “You’ve suffered gravely. Whatever you’re feeling is entirely reasonable and true, and nobody will judge you for it, least of all God. He knows exactly what He’s handed you and how much and why.”
“Do you expect me to believe there’s a reason for this?”
Ralph sighed, “I think there is. Perhaps it’s something you and I will never know, but you’ve got to believe. Have faith in God, and He will take care of you.”
“And if it were your daughter, Ralph?” Mildred spit out the words, ambushed by the bile in her own voice. She tried to lighten the tone. “Would you be sitting here telling me the same thing?”
From the pastor came another meaty sigh, then he backed up and walked to the window. Sun splashed through the trees outside, casting sinister shadows onto the opposite wall. He lowered the blinds and turned to the grieving mother, his eyes ragged and cavernous, as if all the suffering he’d seen throughout the years had suddenly laid claim to his face, and Mildred had to fight the desire to soothe him, saying something nice or lighthearted to temper the mood, but she was tired of keeping things together. Defiantly, she said, “That’s what I thought.”
“Oh, Mildred,” Ralph turned to her, merely a sliver of his long-suffering self. “What can I say? This is an unspeakable tragedy … it just sucks!”
“Ralph!” she blushed, half angry, half amused.
“Forgive me, but I’m at a loss and I’ve known you too long to play it any different,” he said, his voice recovering a bit of bounce. “The only thing I can assure you is that I have an unshakable faith in God, and mine is a Christian God, remember? A God who sacrificed His own son for the good of mankind. So if I were looking for answers, I couldn’t think of a better place to start.”
“You’re only saying what you’re supposed to say.”
“I’m telling you what I believe.”
“Well, at the moment, ‘it sucks’ is a little more restorative.”
“I understand, I truly do, but you have to trust that these feelings will pass and you’ll be whole again. And this is where faith comes in. Look, if you’re too angry at God, try talking to Brooke.” Mildred eyed him as if he’d gone mad. “She’s still here, Mildred. Maybe you can’t see it now, and this is why you must be patient, but Brooke is with you. She’ll be there whenever you’re ready.”
In the weeks that followed, Mildred in zombielike wanderings found herself drawn to the old maple. Many hours did she spend, barefoot, circling in the shade, or from the swing dangling her toes over the just-shorn grass, its tentacles prickly and stinking of summer, deep green leaves swaying in the breeze above her head. It wasn’t even their true color. That would come in a month or two when the chlorophyll drained into a gorgeous burst of yellow and orange, which every year reminded Mildred that Brooke’s birthday would be coming soon. It was impossible to believe there wouldn’t be another one, ridiculous to think she was here and her daughter wasn’t. Those colors were going to be difficult. She still couldn’t stand too long in the green before thoughts of sawing down the tree surfaced. Sometimes it was just too painful to look, let alone to begin a conversation.
Then one day from the kitchen window, Mildred spotted Cynthia idling in the swing, which in high summer seemed to drop straight out of the sky, its strings were so absorbed by the thick leaves. John Strong sat at her feet, his legs outstretched, hands planted casually behind his back, staring up at her with what Mildred could only describe as stars in his eyes, and she knew immediately that he’d never gazed upon Brooke with such intensity, and something in their easygoing yet intimate body language informed Mildred that this was no fly-by-night union. The two had been cavorting excitedly, hatching a plan to start an organization for families who’d been affected by violent crime, and they’d even appeared onstage together at the memorial in L.A.—another event attended by thousands, only this time it was held in an old Hollywood theatre, featuring a list of speakers any young actress would have been thrilled to number as friends. For her part, Mildred was numbed by the service, everyone saying essentially the same thing, some speaking with performer-like grace while others couldn’t get through their remarks, but all of it was too much.
Worse was the trip to clean out Brooke’s apartment. How difficult to assess which of a person’s belongings had merit or meaning, what to cart home or divvy up or hand out. And there were too many hands in the pot. Friends and neighbors and colleagues they’d never met before … Why were they all here? It felt like a tag sale, a bargainbasement free-for-all—who wants the Cabbage Patch doll? Brooke’s videotape collection? The Russell Wright dishes? After bunching a pile of old birthday cards and photographs and Playbills, Mildred felt dizzy. John led her to the couch they’d labeled for the Salvation Army and said he’d return with a glass of water. Mildred watched him take a few steps then pivot abruptly toward the bedroom. “What the fuck are you doing?!” he shouted. Some of the mumbling and sorting ceased, attention turning toward the inflamed voice. Mildred saw John jump a few feet into the room, his finger pointed, screaming, “Get your grubby hands out of there … !” Despite her headache, Mildred stood and ambled to the bedroom, where she came upon John Strong and a young woman engaged in a tug-of-war over a pink cotton robe. Mildred felt sick to her stomach. “Let go!” John shouted, face contorted, veins the size of earthworms in his forehead, and still she pulled. “You stupid fucking cunt, let go or I’ll smack your fucking head into the wall!”
“John, no!” Mildred covered her mouth.
Ignoring the plea from his girlfriend’s mother, he twisted the young woman’s arm up toward her face. “Ow!” she said, yanking back and tearing the robe. They scrutinized the severed garment.
“You ruined it,” she said. “And it’s Gita Moonsa.”
John grunted incomprehensibly as the woman, prize thwarted, turned and left the room. He watched her through the rictus mask of shock then tipped back against the wall, Brooke’s torn robe cradled in his palms. Slowly raising his head he caught Mildred’s doleful stare and frowned. “It’s her bathrobe,” he said softly.
“Oh, honey.” She went to him, arm curling around his shoulder, and every bone in his body seemed to collapse. She sat him down on the floor. He was hyperventilating so deeply his limbs shook. Tears streaming, he burrowed into Mildred’s embrace, and though she, too, was infuriated, she tabled her aggression and rocked him with all the compassion and succor she could muster, gently assuring him that nobody was going to take anything else. Not while she was there. And in her ability to afford a bit of relief to the grief-stricken boy, Mildred felt the bubble around her beginning to crack.
They took more, of course. Smuggled out things they thought they could collect or trade or sell. And why shouldn’t they? Once Brooke had become Jaymie Jo Rheinhart she belonged to her fans as much as to her family, and this is what Mildred, no matter how she reasoned it, could not forgive, even as she watched Cynthia and John gregariously plotting away underneath the old sugar maple as if they were on a mission guided by Brooke herself. And while it made sense that these two, so similar really, would dedicate themselves to Brooke’s memory, Mildred was besieged by a familiar worry about her younger daughter: that she would remain forever in the shadow of her sister, and with that came a certain solace that she was again fearing for Cynthia, although she knew there was not one thing she could do about it. As a mother you want to give your children the world, she thought, but in the end you give them to the world.
At dusk she walked to the tree. A misty pink glow on the horizon, smell of the earth rising up through the air. Mildred Harrison kicked off her sandals and raised her head to the leaves. “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, and told Brooke what she did that day.