Maybe I was no better than those I was criticizing, however. Maybe I was simply looking for something, someone else, to blame. Guilt and sorrow were too difficult to manage simultaneously.
These thoughts and feelings clung to me like leeches, sucking out my energy. When I turned to head back to the house, I plodded along like someone carrying twice her own weight on her shoulders. It shortened my breath and made me ache all over. People were working on the grounds as usual, but I heard nothing. It was as if I had gone deaf. When I raised my head, I saw Mrs. Duval waiting for me. She waved, but I didn’t respond. Drawing closer, I saw the look of terrible concern on her face.
“You have to eat more than you have, Sasha,” she said. “It’s why everyone everywhere serves food after funerals. It restores us. Please come to the kitchen. Mrs. Caro has made you a nice sandwich with poached chicken, just the way you like it. Come,” she urged.
She put her arm around my shoulders. Maybe it was the tender touch of someone who I knew sincerely cared about me. Or maybe it was my body fighting to survive and remain healthy and strong, but I let her lead me into the house and to the kitchen, where Mrs. Caro waited. She hugged me, too, and then put the sandwich on the kitchen nook table. Neither of them said anything. They were probably afraid that one syllable might set me back and I wouldn’t eat. Jordan realized that I was there, however, and came quickly.
“Oh, you got her to put something substantial in her stomach. That’s good, Mrs. Duval. Thank you, Mrs. Caro.”
From the look on her face when she sat at the table, I knew she had something to tell me. I waited, terrified of what else there might be.
“Dr. Steiner has arranged for every single student in your class to visit with a therapist this week,” she said. “In other schools, when someone young is . . . dies, they usually do the same thing. It’s much more difficult for young people to accept and understand.”
“That’s just a big publicity gimmick she’s doing,” I said, chewing harder and faster.
“What? No. I mean, why would you say such a thing?”
“Few, if any, students in my class got to know Ryder Garfield even well enough to say hello to him, Jordan. I doubt there’ll be an iota of emotional stress. Some of the girls who went gaga over him might moan dramatically about the great loss to their fantasies, but there will be little more than that, believe me. It will be like he came to our school one day and then transferred out, nothing more.”
“That’s so uncharacteristically cold of you, Sasha.”
“Not cold, just realistic, Jordan.”
“Well, I hope you don’t say something like that about the boy’s funeral. It’s being kept very private, which is understandable under the circumstances.”
“What does that mean?”
“No one who isn’t on their list can attend it at the church. You can understand how people would come just to gawk at them, and don’t forget all the paparazzi who would haunt them. It would be so disrespectful.”
“Then I won’t be able to go?”
“Would that be wise anyway? I mean, under the circumstances?” she asked softly.
The food caught in my throat. She was saying that Ryder’s parents might hold me somewhat responsible. I drank some water, glanced at Mrs. Duval and Mrs. Caro, both of whom looked as if they would break into tears, and then I finished the last bite of the sandwich and stood up. Everyone was watching me. I started to turn away to walk out, and then I stopped and looked down at Jordan.
“Would it be wise for the only person here who cared about him to be at his funeral? I don’t know. You figure it out,” I said, and left the kitchen. It was like walking out of a funeral, anyway. That’s how deep and dark the silence was in my wake.
When I was back in my room, I thought about all Jordan had said. I didn’t like doing it, but I realized that the only way to find out what was happening was to call Jessica. Yes, she could be the biggest gossip and very annoying at times, but she did look up to me, and she did have the fastest route to the best entertainment sources.
“Oh, Sasha,” she said when she knew I was on the phone, “I was so worried about you. All of us were, especially when you wouldn’t let us visit. Who could have possibly imagined that someone like that would commit—”
“What do you know about his funeral, Jessica?” I asked quickly.
“His funeral?”
“Don’t pretend you haven’t asked Claire about it all.”
“No, I did. I was hoping that maybe you would call me and I would have information you might want.”
“I do want.”
“The church service is at St. Luke’s on Monday, but their publicist is preparing a limited guest list. They’ll actually have someone at the door at a desk checking off names, and they’ve hired private security to enforce it. No one from any newspaper, except a few of their friends in the entertainment press, will get into the service. What they can’t stop is people going to the cemetery.”
“What cemetery?”
“Cypress Park, near Ojai. Everyone’s surprised at the choice. There are no famous Hollywood people buried there and—”
“Tell me the truth. Are any of you leaving school to go to the cemetery?”
Jessica was quiet for a moment. “Well, we thought that since we did know him, even for a little while, we might.”
“You just want to see movie stars, right?”
“Oh, no, no. Well, some of the others might go there for that reason, but you know I won’t. Do you want to go with me?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m not sure I’ll return to school on Monday.”
“I’ll pick you up at home, and we can go to the cemetery together.”
“No, I don’t think I’ll do that.”
“Oh? Can you tell me what happened? I mean, where did you go, and what did you do? I heard rumors, but no one seems to know exactly what happened.”
“Even Claire?”
“It’s like top secret.”
“Then we had better keep it that way. We don’t want to endanger the country,” I said. “Thanks for the information.”
“Sasha—” she started, but I hung up. She sent me an e-mail soon after to offer again to take me to the cemetery, but I didn’t respond.
Later, Jordan came by to ask me the same thing Donald had: would I like to go to dinner?
“He’s leaving tomorrow, and he would like to do something more for you,” she said.
Was Donald really feeling guilty about all of this? I wondered.
“I appreciate it, but I don’t feel up to it, Jordan. I’ll eat whatever Mrs. Caro makes for me.”
“Well, I’m not going without you,” she said. “If you change your mind, let me know.”
I thanked her again, and she left. Not ten minutes later, the call I most dreaded came. It was Kiera. She began by telling me that she had checked out of the motel and returned to the college dorm. For a moment, I thought she knew nothing about Ryder Garfield, but then she said, “Boy, I guess there was a lot more wrong with him than you first thought.”
“No, there was a lot more wrong with his parents than I first thought,” I said. “That wasn’t a very nice thing you wrote in your e-mail.”
“Well, I didn’t know it was going to turn out to be that dramatic an ending.”
“It wasn’t dramatic. It was tragic.”
“Same thing.”
“Did you confront your roommate about it?”
She was quiet a moment. “Oh,” she said, as if she had just realized what I was referring to. “That blabbering idiot? I told her about Ryder just to make her feel guilty and terrible. She ran out of here in tears. I’m going to see about changing my room. Maybe I can get a single and not deal with any of these pathetic airheads. I’m beginning to hate this place.”
“Why didn’t you just come home for a few days?”
“I’m not that desperate yet,” she said.
I wanted to ask why she felt that way now, especially considering how big
this property was and how much there was to do on it. What had happened to all of her high school friends? Why wasn’t she ever talking about any of them, and why didn’t she want to meet any of them here again?
But I had no patience for Kiera March right now. Her problems looked trivial and selfish to me.
“So what did you learn about his suicide?” she asked.
“Nothing more. It’s all too painful to talk about, Kiera. I’m tired.”
“You should have stayed with me,” she said. “You’re probably just moping about there, and my mother is probably behaving like a worried hen or something.”
I didn’t say anything.
“What new wonderful thing is my father doing for you?”
“I think he feels bad. He wants to take us out to dinner, but I’m not up to it.”
“You’ll break his heart,” she said.
“I’ve got to go, Kiera. I’m not feeling well,” I said to cut off her sarcasm.
“So go. Send me an e-mail when you’re up to it,” she said, and hung up.
Since we weren’t going out for dinner, Donald decided to leave on his trip that night. Jordan told me that he had told her the faster he went, the sooner he could return. I didn’t ask her where he had gone or why. Right now, none of that really mattered to me. So many things I had once thought important looked insignificant.
Dinner, with only Jordan and myself, reminded me of the earlier days when everyone was feeling uncomfortable being together. Conversation was forced, as were smiles. Donald was so formal, and Kiera was usually sulking or just sullen. Sometimes I had no appetite because of them but forced myself to eat so no one would notice. I thought Donald would think I was unappreciative and Kiera would be pleased.
“Donald thought it would be better for you if you did as originally planned and didn’t attend school on Monday,” Jordan said. “That way, you’ll have until Wednesday.”
I nodded. I ate as much as I could and then excused myself and went up to my room. Somehow, no matter what I thought to do, it seemed wrong. How could I distract myself with watching television? How could I read or do homework? It was even hard to return to the Internet. Doing anything made me feel as if Ryder’s death didn’t matter if I could return to my normal life that quickly.
Of course, I couldn’t. I did know from my own experience after my mother’s death that time would bring me back into the world. Right now, I hated the thought of it. I tried sleeping but couldn’t fall asleep for the longest time, and when I did, I woke frequently. A little before ten, Jordan knocked on my door and stepped in to see how I was.
“I was thinking,” she said after a few quiet moments between us, “that maybe we could go looking for your new dress this coming weekend.”
“I don’t know,” I said. The idea of attending the concert Donald was arranging seemed so far off. I couldn’t imagine not thinking about Ryder every single silent moment in my life. How could I concentrate on doing anything?
“It’s more for me than for you. Please,” she added.
“Okay,” I said.
That brought a smile to her face. She kissed me good night and left.
When I woke up in the morning, I knew I would go to the cemetery to see the last part of Ryder’s funeral. I would keep far back and hope that none of the girls from school would see me there. Jessica called to see if I had changed my mind, but I didn’t tell her my intentions.
“We heard they’re not letting Summer remain at Pacifica,” she told me.
“Lucky Pacifica,” I said.
“I know you haven’t been out and about, but they already have the story on the front pages of Hollywood Whisper magazine in the supermarket. There’s no picture of Ryder, of course, but there’s a whole spread on Bradley and Beverly. Someone shot photos of them from a distance with a super lens or something. Have you watched Entertainment Tonight? They did about ten minutes on them and Ryder.”
“No. I haven’t watched any television.”
“You’re better off,” she said. “I’ll call you after the funeral if you like.”
“No, don’t. I’ll see you when I return to school.”
“Okay,” she said. “If you’re sure . . .”
“Thanks. Good-bye, Jessica.”
I hung up before she could say anything else that might disturb me.
I didn’t tell Jordan what my intentions were on Monday. She had a luncheon to attend in Santa Barbara, which meant that she would leave early. She asked me all morning if I’d be all right.
“I could cancel,” she said.
“I’m fine,” I told her. To illustrate it and keep her from asking too many questions, I ate breakfast well and then went out with one of the books I had to read for English. I sat by the lake and really did try to read, although my gaze kept slipping off the page and to my watch.
As soon as Jordan drove off, I rose and went to my car. When I arrived at the church, I saw the crowd of gawkers and the paparazzi. The police were keeping everyone a good distance away. Apparently, Bradley, Beverly, and Summer had exited through a rear door. They were in a limousine with tinted windows. The line of cars followed the hearse out, and then the parade behind them joined. I stayed as far back as I could. I did see Jessica and the girls in one car but none of the boys from school. That didn’t surprise me.
By the time I pulled into the cemetery, the service had begun. I parked as far away from the other vehicles as I could. I watched from a good distance. The crowd of close friends hovered about Bradley, Beverly, and Summer like subjects protecting their royalty, but I was sure the photographers were still able to edge their way close enough to capture them sufficiently for magazine and newspaper front pages.
After the service ended, I stepped back behind a large oak tree to watch people leaving. When the last car pulled away, I stepped out. Two cemetery employees remained to finish. I saw a small backhoe with the driver waiting to operate it. They were talking but stopped when they saw me approaching. Neither said anything. I guess I really surprised them.
I stood on the edge of the grave and looked down at the coffin. I had this sudden vision that was both horrifying and glorious. The lid of the coffin was thrown open, and Ryder sat up, smiling.
“Hey,” he called up to me, “stop looking so sad. Remember, ‘for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so.’ ”
“How is this good?” I asked.
“I’ve escaped. Think of that.”
“But in escaping, you left me, too.”
“You’ll catch up with me later.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said.
“Think nothing of it.”
He smiled and then started to lie back in the coffin and reach up to close the lid.
“No!” I screamed.
“Excuse me, Miss,” one of the cemetery workers said. “But we think you should find your way home now.”
“What?”
“We’re finishing up here. The service is over.”
I looked at the two of them. The other man had boarded the backhoe.
“You can’t do that,” I said. “He’s not really dead. He’s just . . . doing this to annoy his parents. Ryder!” I called down to the coffin.
“Holy crap,” the cemetery worker on the backhoe said. He pulled out his cell phone.
“Now, just take it easy, Miss,” the one near me said. He put his hand out, palm up. “You back up a little now, please.”
I looked at him, down at the coffin, and then back at him.
“We’ve got a problem out here,” I heard the man on the backhoe say to someone on his cell phone.
“Now, you just take it easy, Miss,” the first worker said to me.
I backed away. Then I turned and ran to my car. As I was driving off, one of the police patrol cars that was at the funeral pulled in. In my rearview mirror, I saw the cemetery workers talking to the two patrolmen. I sped up, made a turn, and then pulled over to catch my breath. I sat there with my eyes closed. I was
shaking so much that my teeth tapped. I hugged myself and rocked from side to side until I heard someone tap on my car window and saw both the patrolmen standing there. When I didn’t respond, one tried to open the door, but it was locked. He knocked on the window again.
“Please unlock your door, Miss, and step out of the car.”
“Leave him alone!” I screamed. “If you hadn’t put those handcuffs on him and dragged him away . . .”
He knocked on the window again. “If you don’t open the door, we’ll have to break the window,” he said. “Shut off your engine, Miss.”
I took a deep breath and did as he asked. Then I unlocked the door, and he opened it quickly.
“Are you all right?”
“No, but there’s nothing you can do about it, and there’s nothing I can do about it,” I said.
“Can you step out of the car, please? Please show us your license, too,” he said.
“I don’t have my license with me. I got into my car without taking anything,” I said.
“Where’s your car’s registration?” he asked. I recalled Donald telling me that he had put it in the glove compartment. I reached in, found it, and handed it to the patrolman. I stepped out of the car.
“Sasha Porter?”
“Yes, that’s who I am.”
“What went on back there at the cemetery?” he asked.
“My boyfriend was buried,” I said.
“Boyfriend?” the other patrolman said, more to his partner than to me.
“Yes, he was my boyfriend.”
“Well, look, are you all right? Would it be better for us to take you home?”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
“We’ll follow you home anyway,” the patrolman with my registration said. He handed it back to me.
I nodded and got back into the car. I drove extra slowly and carefully, but they followed me all the way back and waited while the gate opened. Then they followed me up the driveway. Mrs. Duval came out onto the portico as I drove up. Someone, perhaps her husband, had alerted her to the police car.
The two patrolmen got out of their vehicle when I got out of mine.
“What’s wrong?” Mrs. Duval asked me.
“I don’t know where I would begin if I tried to answer that, Mrs. Duval,” I said, and kept walking toward the front door.