do. Leave me explicit directions on how to arrange her send-off, from start to finish, as well as how to live my life each day thereafter.
Cissy took that moment to clear her throat gently, and I braced myself. Mother’s throat clearings were often a warning sign in the vein of a tornado siren; a portent of bad things to come, like breaking a mirror or stepping on a crack.
All hands on deck! Lower the rowboats! Grab your life vests!
“Speaking of Bebe,” she began, benignly enough, “I have a few questions about what happened, if you don’t mind.”
We had passed a pair of elevators with polished gold doors and walked down a hallway lined with wrought-iron sconces that illuminated gilt-framed oils of landscapes and seascapes.
Annabelle didn’t slow down, merely inquired over her shoulder. “What kind of questions?”
“How exactly did she die?” Cissy asked without further preamble, the directness of it apparently catching Annabelle off guard. She stopped in midstep, swayed, and paused before a large painting of a shipwreck.
The music seemed louder where we stood, and I could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of silverware, so I figured the dining room wasn’t much farther. My stomach must’ve heard as well and started grumbling.
Annabelle hesitated, gnawing on her bottom lip a moment before she answered my mother. “When she didn’t show for her water aerobics class on Thursday morning, I called to check on her, but got her voice mail. I didn’t think too much of it, knowing what a busy woman Bebe was, until she missed lunch as well, and she never misses the Niçoise salad. It’s one of Chef Jean’s specialties.”
“Go on,” Mother prompted.
Annabelle fidgeted, fussing with the oil, straightening a corner that didn’t appear to be crooked. “Well, I tried calling again to no avail, and I got worried. I was heading over when I was paged by Elvira from Housekeeping.” The pitch of her voice fell. “Elvira was babbling that she hadn’t known Mrs. Kent was home and had let herself in, not aware that anything was wrong, until she went up to the master bedroom and found her. It must’ve happened in her sleep, because she never rang her panic button.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed fingertips to forehead, as if to clear her mind of an unpleasant image. Then she went on, more slowly. “I got over there as fast as I could. Bebe was lying in bed, neat as could be, with her eyes closed and in a lovely nightgown with lace trim on the neck and sleeves. I immediately phoned our doctor—Arnold Finch, you’ll meet him at the reception, Andy. There wasn’t a thing he could’ve done. Our Bebe had gone quietly while she dreamed.”
“You found her on Thursday, you say,” Mother repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t understand because she was absolutely fine at bridge on Wednesday. No complaints about anything except the bad cards we were dealt and needing a refill of her allergy prescription because the mold count was up.”
“That’s how it happens so often, without a warning to anyone.” Annabelle wrung her hands. “Just nature running its course and us powerless to change it.”
“But she looked well, except for the ragweed . . .”
“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Cissy,” Annabelle snapped; then seemed to realize her bad manners. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t easy to discuss. I wish we could’ve done something for Bebe, I really do. But the Man Upstairs must’ve called her back so she could be with her beloved Homer again.”
Mother didn’t seem at all convinced, if the hard set of her jaw was any indication. “So you discovered her on Thursday, and she was buried on Friday.”
“Yes, those were her own instructions, to be interred beside Homer in a speedy fashion.”
“So speedy that no type of . . . physical examination was done,” Mother said delicately, and Annabelle shook her head. “If that’s the case, how can anyone know for sure that what
Cissy took that moment to clear her throat gently, and I braced myself. Mother’s throat clearings were often a warning sign in the vein of a tornado siren; a portent of bad things to come, like breaking a mirror or stepping on a crack.
All hands on deck! Lower the rowboats! Grab your life vests!
“Speaking of Bebe,” she began, benignly enough, “I have a few questions about what happened, if you don’t mind.”
We had passed a pair of elevators with polished gold doors and walked down a hallway lined with wrought-iron sconces that illuminated gilt-framed oils of landscapes and seascapes.
Annabelle didn’t slow down, merely inquired over her shoulder. “What kind of questions?”
“How exactly did she die?” Cissy asked without further preamble, the directness of it apparently catching Annabelle off guard. She stopped in midstep, swayed, and paused before a large painting of a shipwreck.
The music seemed louder where we stood, and I could hear the murmur of voices, the clinking of silverware, so I figured the dining room wasn’t much farther. My stomach must’ve heard as well and started grumbling.
Annabelle hesitated, gnawing on her bottom lip a moment before she answered my mother. “When she didn’t show for her water aerobics class on Thursday morning, I called to check on her, but got her voice mail. I didn’t think too much of it, knowing what a busy woman Bebe was, until she missed lunch as well, and she never misses the Niçoise salad. It’s one of Chef Jean’s specialties.”
“Go on,” Mother prompted.
Annabelle fidgeted, fussing with the oil, straightening a corner that didn’t appear to be crooked. “Well, I tried calling again to no avail, and I got worried. I was heading over when I was paged by Elvira from Housekeeping.” The pitch of her voice fell. “Elvira was babbling that she hadn’t known Mrs. Kent was home and had let herself in, not aware that anything was wrong, until she went up to the master bedroom and found her. It must’ve happened in her sleep, because she never rang her panic button.
“Oh, dear.” She pressed fingertips to forehead, as if to clear her mind of an unpleasant image. Then she went on, more slowly. “I got over there as fast as I could. Bebe was lying in bed, neat as could be, with her eyes closed and in a lovely nightgown with lace trim on the neck and sleeves. I immediately phoned our doctor—Arnold Finch, you’ll meet him at the reception, Andy. There wasn’t a thing he could’ve done. Our Bebe had gone quietly while she dreamed.”
“You found her on Thursday, you say,” Mother repeated, shaking her head. “I don’t understand because she was absolutely fine at bridge on Wednesday. No complaints about anything except the bad cards we were dealt and needing a refill of her allergy prescription because the mold count was up.”
“That’s how it happens so often, without a warning to anyone.” Annabelle wrung her hands. “Just nature running its course and us powerless to change it.”
“But she looked well, except for the ragweed . . .”
“Looks can be deceiving, Miss Cissy,” Annabelle snapped; then seemed to realize her bad manners. She sighed. “I’m sorry, but this isn’t easy to discuss. I wish we could’ve done something for Bebe, I really do. But the Man Upstairs must’ve called her back so she could be with her beloved Homer again.”
Mother didn’t seem at all convinced, if the hard set of her jaw was any indication. “So you discovered her on Thursday, and she was buried on Friday.”
“Yes, those were her own instructions, to be interred beside Homer in a speedy fashion.”
“So speedy that no type of . . . physical examination was done,” Mother said delicately, and Annabelle shook her head. “If that’s the case, how can anyone know for sure that what
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