CHAPTER 24
Kelly
Her scream is cut short. It isn’t until I listen to the recording a third time—alone; Layla is in school—that I start to visualize some of what I am hearing. Lauren must have been startled awake by Brett, and Brett must have slapped a hand over her mouth when she cried out.
It’s me. Shhhhh. It’s Brett.
Bedsheets rustle. When Lauren speaks, her voice is rough and disoriented.
What . . . She clears her throat . . . why are you . . . ? Is it time for dinner? Fumbling. More rustling. You have my phone.
Just give me a sec.
Why do you have my phone?
Because Stephanie jacked mine up and I can’t get the button for J to work. Brett groans, quietly. You don’t have Jesse’s number?
Lauren is awake enough now to speak with some embarrassment in her voice: It’s a new phone. I have Lisa’s number.
I don’t want to talk to Lisa.
What do you need to talk to Jesse about at . . . a pause while Lauren strains to read the bedside clock, probably . . . three twenty-nine in the morning? I knew you guys were boning.
Lauren Elizabeth Fun, Brett reprimands, that word ages you.
People still say “boning”!
Old people. Like Stephanie. Who is out of her FUCKING mind right now. Do you know what she did tonight? She got up onstage at Talkhouse—
You guys went to Talkhouse?
After dinner.
Why didn’t you invite me?
Um. Because your hair caught fire and you came up here to fix it but, I don’t know, I guess you passed out instead?
I didn’t pass out.
You’re still wearing all your clothes. And your boob is hanging out of your T-shirt.
A pause while Lauren checks to be sure this is true. You love it, you little lezzie. What happened at Talkhouse?
So. The band let us come up onstage and sing with them—
What song?
“Bitch.”
Fuck you.
Brett finds this misunderstanding uproariously funny, laughing while she sings, I’m a bitch, I’m a mother, I’m a child, I’m a lover.
Ohhhh. Good one for us. Very on brand.
Why do you think I requested it? Even in her final hours, Brett couldn’t help but pat herself on the back. Anyway. So after the song was over I got off the stage and I thought Steph was behind me. But she stayed up there and, like, hijacked the mic and started saying all kinds of crazy shit. About us.
Did she say anything about me?
About all of us! How everything is made up. How we made up our fight and you and Jen went along with it. Stephanie didn’t actually mention Jen or Lauren by name, but this was Brett, recruiting allies. Just really bad stuff. It makes us look so thirsty. Oh. And then. She fucked a teenager behind the side of the bar. I’m not kidding when I say teenager. I would be SHOCKED if he was legal.
She was trying to make you jealous.
Why would she— Brett stops. She forgot her own impending storyline. The point is. Jesse needs to know before tomorrow. She can’t be allowed to go to the brunch. She’s totally unhinged and I don’t want her spouting off lies about me on camera.
Just tell Lisa.
Lisa won’t give a fuck. She would one hundred percent support anything bad Steph says about me. Talk about jealousy. You know Lisa is jealous of me.
Lauren’s pause is incredulous.
Don’t roll your eyes. You know it’s true.
I’m hungry.
Your boob is still out.
It sounds like Lauren throws off the covers. Come on. If I’m hungry I know you’re hungry.
I saw frozen pizza in the garage, Brett says. And seriously, put it away. I’m so sick of boobs.
I hear a pucker, the noise a fridge makes when it suctions away from the frame. Then my sister’s sarcasm, More wine is what you need.
My hair looks like Kate Gosselin’s.
Four million people used to watch Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Show some goddamn respect.
Make the pepperoni one.
I thought you weren’t eating bread right now.
Pizza isn’t bread.
Cabinets open: searching for a plate on which to nuke the pizza, maybe. Wait. Holy shit, Brett says. Does she not have a microwave?
Infrared light and cancer cells. Blah blah.
I can’t.
I know.
The silence stretches. Initially I thought that maybe Brett was trying to figure out how to turn on the oven, but on subsequent listens, I think she was debating whether or not to say what she said next. You know it’s not real. Her whole vegan shtick. She eats meat.
Lauren snorts. And I’m the one who sent the Post that video of me blowing the baguette at Balthazar.
I’m being serious.
Glugging. Lauren already on to glass two, maybe? I am too.
Lauren. Brett is astounded. Jesus.
Whatever. It worked, right? I got another season. I got to pretend to accuse each of you of doing it and have a reason to fight with you.
But you had to step down as CEO.
It was going to happen anyway.
Brett says, Damn, girl, which is rich, given her own duplicity. What are you doing?
I think there’s Tito’s in the freezer.
You definitely need vodka.
Like a hole in the head. That Lauren said that, given the way my sister died not even an hour later, feels like grazing the third rail.
They putter around the kitchen for a while. Looking for snacks. Making fun of the vegan items in Jen’s pantry that she doesn’t even eat anymore. Lauren’s voice grows increasingly garbled, and she’s having trouble keeping track of the conversation. A few times, she asks how long until the cabs get here. Brett corrects her in the beginning but eventually starts playing along. Twenty minutes. An hour. An hour? Lauren mumbles, with attitude. Get your shit together.
A loud crash marks the recording at fifty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. My best guess is that someone slammed the freezer door too hard, because they were just discussing how nut milk ice cream isn’t the most disgusting thing in Jen’s freezer. I think some of the platters that were stacked on top of the unit clattered to the ground. One dog barks, and then all three. I cannot believe I slept through this. And now, on my third listen, knowing what happens next, I wonder, Did Jen give me that Xanax on purpose to knock me out? Did she plan to confront Brett when she got home later that night?
Oops. Lauren giggles. After a few beats, there is a noise like rubbing somebody’s back over their shirt. Lauren climbing onto the sofa, just in view of the kitchen.
Don’t get up, Brett says. Really. Just lie there and spoon your Tito’s. I’m fine to clean up your—oh, God. What do you want?
You is Jen.
Go to bed, Jen pleads. For the love of God. You’ve been banging around down here for an hour.
Because we’ve had to, like, rub sticks together to make this pizza, Brett retorts, belligerent and rude. The two of them were never a good match, but that night, they were aluminum and bromine in a gas jar. I mean, Brett says, that shitty meat you’re eating from FreshDirect is more likely to give you cancer than a microwave.
Bretttt, Lauren croaks from the couch, in some half-hearted attempt to defend Jen, lapsing into a convoluted rendition—You’re a bitch, you’re a child, you’re a sinner and a mother . . .
Brett continues to open cupboard doors and drawers. The tape here is cluttered with the sound of utensils rattling, plates clinking into one another. I think, even as drunk as she was, that she was pretending to stay busy to avoid meeting Jen’s eye. I think she knew she had gone too far by saying that in front of Lauren. Not like either of them had to worry about Lauren remembering in the morning. She barely seems to remember what happened next.
I thought you’d like to know that I’ve crafted a statement with my PR team about my decision to step away from veganism, Jen tells Brett, eloquently. At this point in the tape, I have become so inured to Brett and Lauren’s slurring that Jen, speaking clearly and reasonably, is the one who makes me sit up and take note. Green Theory has and always will be about promoting what works best for your individual body, and shedding labels is truly a healthy step forward for all women. I have a good feeling about this. I’ve built a strong community and I have confidence they will support me, and by disassociating from veganism, my team believes I will attract a whole new customer base.
I know you’re talking, Brett says, but all I hear is this. She’s misquoting Emily Blunt in The Devil Wears Prada, making a closed beak gesture with her hand, I have no doubt.
I am talking, Jen snaps. She’s mad now. Brett embarrassed her. I know what it’s like to share something with Brett that you’ve put a lot of thought and effort into, and for the Big Chill to make you feel like a complete nerd for trying so hard. I’m telling you this for two reasons. One, because I’m no longer going to allow you to lord it over me, and two, I thought you might want to take a cue from me Prepare your own statement. Get ready for the ensuing shitstorm when everyone finds out that you slept with Vince.
Thudding silence. Whatever Brett was doing in the kitchen, she’s stopped.
Vince is foineeeee, Lauren says through a yawn.
Your sister told me, Jen says, probably in response to the stunned look on Brett’s face. That’s bad, Brett. Not just what you did and what you’ve lied about, but that your own sister is so done with you that she sold you down the river. You’re going to have no one, after this is over. You think Jesse will stand by your side after this? I know Yvette won’t. See, she might not always like me, but she will always love me. The same cannot be true of some girl she met three years ago.
Yvette. Ugh. Why did Jen have to bring up Yvette? Yvette was Brett’s do-over. She made Brett feel worthy of a mother’s love. Of all that Brett stood to lose if the truth came out, I believe she would have felt Yvette the hardest.
Brett makes a dismissive noise that just barely masks her full-blown panic. Tell me, did you work with your PR team to craft a statement about the year you spent fucking Vince?
Jen and Vince?! I scream-thought on the first listen.
Jen and Vince? On the second.
Jen and Vince. On the third, I remembered Brett trying to talk to me before we set out for the mountains in Morocco. Something about Jen. I had brushed her off. No. I hadn’t just brushed her off. I had screamed at her that I never wanted to hear another bad word about Jen again. I was just so sick of feeling like she didn’t have my back and also that she was set on sabotaging my relationship with the one person who did. Would things have been different if I knew?
Would I want them to be?
Vince is not my best friend’s husband, Jen says, cool as a cucumber, almost as if she was prepared for Brett to bring up the dalliance. That was your best friend. She was good to you. She loved you. And you shit all over her. Think about it, Brett. Women are going to hate you when they find out.
Brett does seem to think about it. Then she laughs defiantly. Was he your first or something, Greenberg? You are TOTALLY still writing Mrs. Jen DeMarco in your diary, aren’t you? You know I broke it off with him, right? You know he kept pursuing me, even after I got engaged? He is capital O Obbbbbb-sessed with me. That must killllll you. You got yourself a little makeover with your new boobies and your long hair and you thought you were gonna sweep in and win yo man back. Brett gasps, theatrically. Oh my God, look at your face! You did think that. You did. You thought you were going to show Vince what he was missing and instead, he only had eyes for my fat ass. See. This is what you have never understood. Actually, I think you do understand it, and that’s why you hate me. Nobody likes you, Greenberg. You are boring. Being thin is your full-time job and your hobby. Being thin is all you have to offer anyone, because you have no charisma, no sex appeal, no guts. Of course Vince would rather fuck me over a lonely bag of bones in an Ulla Johnson dress and your mother would still rather I was her daughter. Aw, are you going to cry? You know, I’ve never actually seen you cry. Do you cry, like, green kale smoothie tears?
I held my breath here, on the first listen, because I was so sure this was when it would happen. I would have understood, on some level, if Jen had snapped after an evisceration like that. It was so mean. It was so cruel. It was so true. But somehow, it manages to get worse.
Because Jen, from what I can gather, turned away. She didn’t engage. She didn’t give Brett the reaction she was looking for.
Jen, Brett hisses, trying to call her back. Jen. Stop. Jen! And then, I hear Brett’s fast feet on the limestone flooring, that unyielding flooring, and Jen’s grunt. Brett went after Jen. Brett started it.
Lauren snores lightly as Brett and Jen tangle on the floor, groaning, breathing hard, trading curses. They kept their voices down for a reason: they didn’t want to be stopped.
The crack reminds me of the coconuts Brett and I used to raise above our heads and slam into our driveway when we were kids. It is not the crack! of something breaking. It is the crack! of someone breaking something. The intention is deafening. Brett moans, almost in recognition. Ohhhh, this is it for me. Brett’s cause of death was acute subdural hematoma, a blood clot below the inner layer of the dura. The pathologist identified two contusions to the back of her head, caused by two separate blows, only one of which was fatal. But because they came in such quick succession, she could not determine their order. Listening to the tape, I am certain it was the first.
Still, Jen might have been able to spin this as self-defense, or even an accident, up until this point. She could have called for help, and maybe Brett could have been saved. But then, a second crack. What she believed to be the coup de grâce. There was no calling anyone after that.
For a while, Jen’s distraught breathing is the unstressed beat to Lauren’s snoring. Brett is silent. Brett died fast.
She tried to drag her on her own first. I heard it. But there was no way the show’s elfin flower child was going to be able to dispose of my sister’s sizely body without some assistance. A woman wouldn’t have been able to do that on her own, the officer had said, but two women could.
Lauren. Jen’s voice is a close hiss. Lauren. Wake up.
This continues for a good minute or so.
Stop, Lauren finally groans.
No, Lauren. Wake up.
No. Hey! Stop! What are you doing? I can imagine Jen dragging Lauren off the couch.
Help me! Jen snarls at her.
Is that Brett?
Get her feet.
Lauren laughs. Brett is DRUNK. Wake up, Brett!
Get her—that’s it. You got it. Keep moving.
Is this Brett?
Keep moving.
A door creaks open. A light clicks on.
Ow, Lauren complains, and there is a sickening plop, then another. Brett’s feet, being dropped to the concrete garage floor.
Get her feet again!
Is this Brett?
A light clicks off.
Just wait here, Jen tells Lauren. I’m grabbing my keys. Don’t move.
Lauren is actually able to wait quietly until Jen returns and opens the trunk of her car. It makes sense now, why both of them were so determined to take my car. It makes sense why Lauren didn’t seem to understand her own trepidation. She must have retained only spotty memories of stuffing my sister’s dead body in the trunk of Jen’s car, if any at all. What would Jen have done with Brett if Stephanie hadn’t done what she did, if not for that gruesome stroke of luck? She must have had a rough idea. She must have been the one to send a text to me from Brett’s phone—Called a car to take me back to the city. Over this shit. The police pinned that on Vince too.
Okay. Lift her up. That’s it. Let go. You can let go now, Lauren.
The hatch beeps once. I hear it latch shut. Jen waited to be sure it closed.
Help me, Jen says again, when they are back in the kitchen.
What is this?
Just help me clean it up.
But what is it?
It’s tomato soup.
Soup?! Lauren cries.
Shhh!
Why is there soup on the floor?
You spilled it.
I’m sorry, Jen.
It’s fine. Just help me clean it up. No! Don’t eat it. Gross. Lauren. No! Jen retches, or maybe that is me.
I’m hungry.
I’ll make you pizza after this.
Do I look like the Long Island Medium?
You’re fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing.
The two work without speaking for the next half an hour, cleaning up my sister’s blood.
Okay, Lauren? No, Lauren. Not on the white couch. Let me just get those off you first.
Don’t touch me, Lauren slurs.
Just let me get—
Don’t touch—
Your jeans off—
Wanna have sex with me?
Before you get on the couch, you fucking alcoholic fucking bitch! Jen comes undone, weeping from someplace deep and irrevocably broken.
I can imagine Lauren, regarding her friend contritely, before asking, Did I pee?
Jen sobs Yes! with relief, realizing this is the only way to convince Lauren to cooperate.
Don’t cry, Jen. I’ll take them off.
I hear the button of Lauren’s jeans cling to the zipper, the sound of denim, sanding skin.
Here, Lauren says, with so much sweetness that Jen sobs again. Her footsteps plod away, those of a woman heavier than she was an hour ago. Lauren starts to snore not long after that. From what I can gather, she never made it to the couch. It’s possible that she slept in the very same spot where my sister died.
There is always a choice. There is not always a good choice. I can go to the police. I can go to Jesse. I can do nothing. I can go to Jen. Jen, my friend. But I knew what I would do the first time I heard my sister moan, sounding nothing like I want to remember her. Why listen to the recording again and again? The same reason I made two appointments to terminate my pregnancy. I knew the day I missed my period that I would keep the baby. But I let my father and Brett drive me to the clinic twice anyway, to watch the angry men with their angry signs, to know with conviction that walking through the doors marked “Reproductive Services” felt like the wrong choice for me.
I hide the MP3 player in the leg of a skinny jean and shove it in a storage bin beneath the bed for now. Luckily, Layla rarely steals my clothes. “Too tight.” It is almost time to pick her up from school. I don’t need to look at a clock or my phone to know this, I hear Ellen greeting her audience through the thin wall I share with my neighbor. I am so sick of sharing. I share the bed with Layla and my drawers with Brett’s clothes. Arch folded them very neatly into garbage bags and left them with our doorman a few weeks ago, and this apartment has but one shallow closet by the front door, already stuffed to the gills. I used to hear the words doorman and luxury high-rise—which is how StreetEasy classifies my building—and picture Charlotte York’s apartment, but the reality is much less glamorous. This was Brett’s old apartment, the lease I took over when she moved in with Arch. It made for a suitable bachelorette pad, but it is not practical for a mother and a teenage daughter long term. I looked at a two-bedroom out of my budget last weekend. Fifty-five hundred a month in a failing school zone. No windows in the bedroom. No stove in the kitchen. That was not the first time I heard Stephanie’s voice in my head: Forty-one dollars and sixty-six cents a day.
I did some research after that. Not on the rental market in Manhattan.
I want to stay in this neighborhood. I want Layla to continue at the school where she is enrolled, the one with the “splendid” views of the Hudson, the one that scored an A+ on teachers and an A- on diversity from Niche. I want to retain my title at the company that is my joy and passion and finally, slowly, starting to turn a small profit. I want to receive letters from Imazighen women telling me they are the first women in their villages to go to college thanks to SPOKE. I want everyone to remember my sister fondly and I want to be properly compensated for appearing on a TV show that has increased viewership at Saluté by 39 percent. I do not want to be paid per season, or even per episode. I want residuals.
I find my phone. I have just enough time to call her before I have to meet Layla. The conversation doesn’t need to be long, and better to do it now while I’m fired up about it. I don’t want to ever listen to that recording again.
Jesse contacts me often, and I am expected to be available, whenever, wherever. But my call goes straight to her voicemail. I take a deep breath while I listen for the beep. “Hey, it’s Kelly. I need to talk to you about something.” My heart beats slowly and loudly. “It’s important, and I’d like to set a meeting to discuss it. Mornings after eight are best for me. Please call me when you can. Thanks. Bye.” I lose my grip on the phone before I can hang up, tacking on a muttered curse to the end of the message. Through the wall, Ellen’s audience cheers as she introduces her second guest. Time to go.
Outside, I am annoyed to find that it is sunny. It was overcast when I walked Layla to school earlier this morning, and I didn’t bother to grab my sunglasses before I left, thinking the day was still gray. Our apartment doesn’t receive a lot of natural light.
I decide to just squint and bear it, figuring that it will add another five or ten minutes to go back inside and grab my sunglasses. The elevators are in high demand at this hour, and I always try to beat the dismissal bell. Watching Layla exit the doors of her school tells me more about her day and her life than she will ever offer up to me.
I make the ten-minute walk in eight, lingering on the northeast corner of the block, knowing Layla exits the south-facing door, and that I will not be in her line of sight when she does.
I don’t recognize the two girls flanking Layla as she bounds down the stairs and onto the sidewalk. Then again, I don’t recognize Layla. I used to arrive early to her school in New Jersey too. She walked out alone most days, or with her friend, Liz, though less and less once Liz made the junior soccer team. Brett insisted that Layla was beloved everywhere she went, but she never saw her at pickup, at a school where so few students looked like her. She never saw what I saw, which was that no one had a problem with Layla, but no one went out of their way to befriend her, either.
The city has been good for Layla; her confidence has blossomed. She picks at her face less; she is rarely with the same group of girls, a sign of not just her popularity but of her generous spirit. She is invited to so many sleepovers and birthday parties that I have to say no to some of them, which of course only makes everyone want both of us more. If anyone were to ever find out the truth about my sister, we would be loathed with the same intensity we are loved now. We would not survive it. Going to the police was an option, but it was never one I was going to take.
Layla says something that gets a big laugh. She looks almost unbelievably happy, like a kid in an old Sunny Delight commercial. No teen is that excited to discover orange juice in the refrigerator. And yet, this likeness is real. Seeing my daughter’s earnest smile, her surefootedness with her new friends, I can say with conviction that I didn’t make the right choice.
I made the best one available.