The Girl in the Park (9 page)

“Don’t worry about me,” says my mom. “Just say whatever it was.”

I smile weakly. Then say to Detective Vasquez, “No, it was girl stuff. Party talk. Boys.”

“Any boy in particular?”

His voice is casual; I can’t tell what he’s heard about Nico. “Well, you’ve looked at Wendy’s Facebook page, right?”

“We’re aware of it.”

“So, you know she liked Nico Phelps.” I’m not sure; does he nod or not? But he’s writing it down.

As he writes, I get up the courage to ask, “Have you talked to Jenny Zalgat?”

He flips through his notebook, nods.

“Jenny said she thought maybe Nico and Wendy left the party together. Did she tell you that?”

“We have several witnesses who say that Ms. Geller left the party alone that night.”

“Oh.” So, Jenny was wrong. Wendy didn’t get Nico.

Abruptly switching tone, Detective Vasquez says, “Can I ask if you observed anything else about Ms. Geller that night?”

“Like what?”

“Well, for example, did she seem intoxicated to you? High?”

Startled, I say, “No.”

“Can you tell us if she took drugs of any kind?”

“No, I can’t. Why do you want to know?”

He shrugs. “A young woman ends up in the park late at night—we need to know her state of mind, that’s all. Some of the other kids at the party indicated that Ms. Geller was maybe … a little altered.”

“Not when I saw her,” I say firmly. I’m not even sure that’s the entire truth; but if people are blaming Wendy for what happened, I don’t want any part of it.

“Okay,” he says easily. “Anything else?”

I struggle. Something more needs to be said.

“Just … Wendy wasn’t stupid. You know? She wasn’t a bad person.” It sounds ridiculous, even to me, but it’s important to say.

“I know she wasn’t,” says the detective kindly. “Thank you, Ms. Donovan—Rain.”

My mom shows him out. Then she sits down next to me and gives me a hug. “I’m proud of you, honey. I know that was not easy.”

I smile. But I know: I didn’t do anything.

I’m so sorry.

I’m so sorry.

 … so. Sorry.

God, Ms. Geller, I am …

There’s no way, I think on the morning of Wendy’s funeral. No way I will be able to say the right thing to Ms. Geller. Because there is no right thing to say.

There’s a full-length mirror on the front of my closet door. I turn, examine myself.

A nice black suit—my mother says everyone should have one. Skirt almost to the knee, jacket fitted. Black shoes, heel not too high. Red hair, twisted up and out of sight. Pinky-beige lips, not terrible. Brown eyes, not terrible, except … brown. Pale face, rounder and fuller than I’d like. Body, same. Thin people look like they do things. Soft people look like they listen.

God, girl, I hear Wendy say. You look like you’re going to a funeral.

I go to my bureau, take out my best chopsticks. Black and red with gold tips. Gently, I slide them into my hair. Then I ring my mouth with lipstick.

Better, Wen?

Better. Except, oops, still going to a funeral. What’s up with that?

I don’t know, Wendy. I don’t know.

I’m sorry, Ms. Geller. I am so sorry.

Wendy was murdered early Sunday morning. She will be buried today. Before the burial, people are invited to give their condolences to the family at the Riverside Memorial Chapel. This won’t be a funeral where a priest or rabbi talks and people say prayers—all that will happen later at the gravesite with just the family. Today will be more like a wake or shiva; people come and say how sorry they are and the family pretends it makes them feel better.

That afternoon, I take a cab to the funeral home. Taylor is meeting me there.

What can I do? I think as we sit in traffic. What right thing so that I don’t say the horribly wrong thing?

I can say something not completely stupid to Wendy’s mom.

Be there for Jenny Zalgat if she needs me.

Ellis. Definitely say something nice to Ellis.

Will Nico come? Can’t imagine it. Probably he wants everyone to forget he ever knew Wendy.

I hear the cabdriver say, “This it?”

I look out the window. There are a lot of people outside. And cameras.

“This is that girl,” says the driver. “The one in the park?”

“Her name was Wendy,” I say, handing him the money and getting out.

Cruelly, it’s a beautiful day. The gray clouds of November have cleared and the sky is bright blue overhead. The air is sharp
and clear, but not too cold. It’s a day to walk for miles, think big ideas, and dream of the future—not attend a funeral.

I’ve passed by Riverside a hundred times, but I’ve never been inside. It’s a pretty building of red stone and granite. A square brown awning stands above the entrance. The big heavy doors have curtains over the glass. No peeking inside. Real life happening in here. And real death. As I wander through the crowd outside, I spot Taylor by the doors. Seeing her, I feel a rush of gratitude. Taylor didn’t like Wendy, but she knows Wendy was my friend.

Taylor’s hand on my arm. “Okay?”

I swallow. “No—but yeah.”

We go through the doors and into what looks like the lobby of a cheesy hotel. Gilt and mirrors everywhere you look. Old-fashioned lights with plastic candles on the walls. Standing on an easel, a sign with the name
Geller
and a room number. This isn’t about judgment or life or death. Now I feel like I’m at a wedding or bar mitzvah.

In a low voice, Taylor asks, “Is she here?”

“Who?”

“Wendy. Is … she here?” She doesn’t want to say the word
body
. “Just sometimes they do open-casket. So, be ready for that.”

No, I think. Not ready. There is no way I could be ready for such a thing. Why would you do that? I wonder, feeling panicked. Why would people want to see?

A small sign with gold letters tells us that Rooms A through D are to the left. Wendy is Room B. We go down a narrow hall. There’s a long line to get into the room the Geller family has taken; I wonder if they knew there would be this many people. The walls are wood-paneled on the bottom, cream paper on the top. No windows, and I suck air, just to make sure I can. The carpet
is thick, so no sound as you go, almost as if you don’t exist. You’re a ghost, entering a place between life and death, where everyone becomes a shadow.

As we finally make our way in, a man in a dark suit bows slightly and says, “Would you like to sign the book?”

Book? For a crazy moment, I think, Welcome to the afterlife. Please sign the Book of the Dead.

Taylor glances at me. I will have to go first. Stepping up, I find a leather book with a lovely pen resting in the spine. And lots of names. Some neat and tiny, some scrawled and rolling. Some are so small you can’t read them, some so big you know whoever wrote them thought, Oh, I have the whole page.

I stare at them, trying to decipher the loops and lines. There, straight, small, precise, is
Ellis Patel
. Below his, in plump, friendly swirls,
Lindsey Adams
. Messy, jagged script—hurried, uncomfortable—
Karina Burroughs
. Two names in handwriting from another century:
Emile Dorland
and
Emily Laredo
.

I can’t help it. I scan for Nico’s name. I don’t see it. Maybe he’s on another page. I thumb the pages, wanting to look, but behind me I feel pressing, impatience. Taylor shifts nervously. I’m holding up the line. Quickly, I take the pen, write
Rain Donovan
. There are no lines on the page, so my name slopes down, looks like it’s falling off a cliff. I hand the pen to Taylor, move away quickly.

Then I see the coffin. So much bigger than I expected. And brighter. Made of honey-brown wood—like violins, I think stupidly—it’s the brightest thing in this horrible room. Small brass handles on the side. The top is open. I can see Wendy’s hair.

I make a little noise, and immediately smack my hand to my mouth. Nobody needs to hear me cry.

I gather myself, crossing my arms tight around my middle, hands gripping my elbows. The room is ugly, I think fiercely. Red, white, and gold, the furniture overfussy, but cheap—so if someone spills, you can clean it easily. I hate the ugliness of this room.

Slowly, Taylor and I make our way through the crowd to a table where water, juice, and coffee are set up. Coffee and water are something to do. Safety. Taylor pours coffee into a plastic cup. I open a bottle of water.

“Is that her mom?” whispers Taylor, sipping.

I look where she’s looking. A row of chairs. The family row. Ms. Geller is in the center, wearing a perfect black suit. Her back is straight, her chin up. Hands tight in her lap. Another woman—I’m guessing Wendy’s aunt—sits near her. People approach in a steady stream, but they don’t stay long. I see why. Ms. Geller radiates rage. Like the sun, her emotions are too intense to gaze at. You have to look away.

I’m so sorry, Ms. Geller, so sorry.

Who cares if you’re sorry? I imagine her screaming at me. How does sorry help my daughter?

Taylor asks, “Is it Ms. Geller or something else?”

“Geller. She built up her real estate business with it, so she wanted to keep the name.” Wendy always said it made her mom a hypocrite. “Oh, yeah, dump him, but keep his name—nice.”

“Is that Wendy’s dad?” whispers Taylor, pointing to a tall gray-haired man. He’s surrounded by people, chatting away as if he’s at a cocktail party. Disliking him, I remember Wendy saying, My dad? Oh, you’re like the most important person in his life. For the five whole seconds he notices you.

Next to him is a younger woman, also in a black suit, but
somehow it makes her look like a kid. She has long blond hair and keeps licking her lips nervously. Her eyes dart around the room. When someone speaks to her, she nods too quickly, says “Um-hm” a lot.

Gee, Dad, trophy wife, how freakin’ original. I mean, couldn’t you at least pick one with a brain?

“And stepmother,” I whisper. “Heidi, I think.” This is better. Standing on the side, figuring out the who’s who.

“Let me guess,” says Taylor. “Wendy hated her.”

“Not her favorite,” I say, smiling. In a weird way, talking about the drama of Wendy’s life—Wendy’s favorite subject—makes her seem still alive.

I point out Wendy’s aunt, who gave the statement to the newspaper, then a cousin and maybe an uncle. A few couples look slightly out of place; Long Island friends and neighbors, I would guess. Under the “I’m so sorrys” and the “So terribles,” you hear murmurs of “the guy.” “The crazy.” The one who’s still out there.

I see teachers. Ms. Marengi, who teaches math at Alcott, and Mr. Alexandrov, who does history. I look for Mr. Farrell, feel a thud of disappointment that he’s not here.

I hear Taylor say, “There’s Karina.”

I see Karina talking with Amy Charteris. Instinctively, I look for Nico; if he’s here, he’ll be near this crew.

While I’m searching, Mr. Alexandrov, who’s the advisor for the newspaper, comes up to Taylor. Taylor starts complaining about Dorland’s censorship. For a few minutes, I stand awkwardly, pretending I’m part of their conversation. But Taylor won’t stop talking until she gets the change she wants or she gets tired, which could take quite a while.

Edging toward the window, I think, I should be able to do this. Be alone in a group. Taylor does not have to take care of me. I can nod, say hi. Possibly even have a conversation. Although, what do you talk about? “Wow, Wendy’s dead, that’s horrible.” “Yeah, totally sucks. Hey—did you do the reading for English?”

What would Wendy do? I ask myself. If this were her, and I was the one who was dead?

Well, I realize, she wouldn’t be standing in a corner, terrified to make eye contact. She wouldn’t be hiding from my mom. Wendy would plop herself right down next to my mom, give her one of those big hugs, and come up with ten amazing things to say about me.

Or she’d find some cute guy and flirt with him. But she wouldn’t be hiding. She wouldn’t be scared.

Making a decision, I raise my head. Eyes now available for contact!

And who do I make eye contact with? Karina. Great.

She’s several people away from me—on her own, which gives me a certain bitchy satisfaction as I remember all the times she chanted Rain, Rain, go away. DON’T come back another day.

I smile vaguely, expecting a dismissive eye roll in return. But instead, she gives me a small wave.

And then actually starts making her way toward me.

Amazed, I wonder, did Karina overmedicate this morning? Has the funeral parlor formaldehyde gone to her head? But before I can deal with the utter bizarreness of a friendly Karina, I hear a moan of sorrow. Turning, I can see Jenny Zalgat through the crowd. Her hand is pressed hard to her mouth. Her knees are folding. Her eyes are fixed on the coffin.

Karina can wait. I push through the crowd, grab Jenny’s free hand. Thinking of Wendy’s hugs, I hold it hard. Jenny clings on to me, her eyes still on the coffin.

I whisper, “You want to say good-bye?”

Her hand tightens on mine. She nods again.

As we move toward Wendy, I think how much easier this is with Jenny here. Jenny can be the one who’s scared. I’ll be the one who’s calm. I take a deep breath. Look down.

What I see is not Wendy. It’s a bad doll someone clumped together with clay and paint, using some old photo of Wendy bored out of her mind at a family event. Wendy’s hair is brushed in a way she never wore it, high and off her forehead. The hands on her chest look like wax. There’s beige makeup smeared all over her face. The lipstick’s too red, the eye shadow too dark. Someone put her in a black dress with a cardigan. There’s a scarf around her neck, an ugly green thing.

“Okay,” I hear Jenny whisper, “what she would say if she could? ‘Get these ugly-ass clothes off me.’ ”

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing, because it’s so true and it’s so good to think of Wendy saying that. It’s stupid—who cares what you wear when you’re dead?—but appearance was important to Wendy.

Then I see the bruises. Dark shadows under the thick yellow paste. One high on her cheek, near the eye. Another on her chin. And, just visible at the edge of the scarf, the stain of death on her throat.