Seven
The forest rangers find Paisley’s body in a coyote den on a scorching hot Sunday the third week of June. The news goes public via Mrs. Horne’s social media along with a humble request for loved ones to join in burying her daughter in Forest Lawn Memorial, near Harlow and Opal.
I lock my bedroom door behind me the moment my mom finishes reading out the post. I look through every ranger report and national forest forum I can get my hands on.
With every word I take in, the less connected to my body I feel.
Some part of me can feel my throat getting dryer with thirst, but I never reach for my water.
The prevailing theory is that Paisley’s body spray attracted the coyotes, and they dragged her away from Harlow and Opal.
The pack fed off her skin and muscles and the organs being protected behind them.
Her body was stripped down to the bone; then they ate many of her bones too.
So, there was very little left of her that truly resembled her.
Her pretty face, her orange-painted nails, and everything that made her human was gone by the time rangers and the national forest agents found her.
But this dog-chewed skeleton did have clumps of hair that matched what was found near Opal and Harlow, and most damnably, the pale-pink fleece windbreaker she wore to the woods that night was found in shreds in the coyote babies’ nest.
When I read that Paisley’s teeth were so cracked and damaged that they couldn’t use them to identify her via dental, I fall into chills that leave me sitting on the floor of my shower, burning my skin under the water.
I can’t stop thinking about her blue eyes bursting in those animals’ mouths.
At some point, Mom pulls me out of the shower and gets me back to bed, but I don’t remember her saying anything.
So, needless to say, I’m a bit of a wreck when I walk into the cemetery grounds with my family the next morning.
Liam pulls at the same suit he wore to Opal’s and Harlow’s funerals, which is now so short that his Superman socks show underneath the slacks.
I know time has passed, but back at Forest Lawn Memorial, it’s like we’re right back in October again.
Junior year slipped away and, ironically, I did survive without my friends.
As the world grows fuzzier and my hearing cuts in and out, I’m not so sure I’ll survive this burial, though.
I didn’t have any appetite this morning and it’s turning into a bigger mistake than I could’ve anticipated.
As we trudge through the hills to Paisley’s burial plot, Mom eyes me with pity etched deep in the downturn of her mouth.
“We’ll get you into a seat soon,” she says. “Just let us say something to Leslie and Mark.” Mom looks directly at me. “Remember to be soft with them, Em.”
As in, don’t be too honest. Mom has never trusted me to follow social cues a day in my life, despite me being so much better than I was as a kid who said exactly what was on my mind.
The casket sits in the pulley, ready to be lowered, surrounded by folding white chairs only half shaded.
Men and women alike with surgery-puffed lips and bug-eyed sunglasses fan themselves and chat with those around them.
The same Hastings crew and celebrity friends as the funerals and the vigil.
But it’s like the crowd has collectively grown weary of these gatherings.
Some folks aren’t wearing the customary black.
Everyone forms big circles, rearranging the chairs to face away from Paisley’s closed casket.
Mrs. and Mr. Horne are swamped by adults clutching their teenage children like misbehaving toddlers to go give condolences.
Mom pushes her way into the crowd, the rest of us cowering behind her.
“We’re so sorry, Leslie,” Mom says, giving Mrs. Horne a stiff hug. I actually have no idea how old Mrs. Horne is, but a career in Hollywood makes that impossible to discern even this close up. Some aging cracks through, but her face is still so sharp, long blond hair still shiny, her skin smooth.
Mrs. Horne tries to turn her lips up into a polite smile, but it’s like her face is holding her back.
No crinkles around her eyes or on the tip of her nose, no movement on her forehead.
“Thank you.” Mrs. Horne looks directly at me.
“Hi, darling Emma. I don’t know where my Bex is, but I’m sure she’s around here somewhere. ”
I’ve never heard anyone use that nickname for Beck. “Thank you. I’ll find her.”
After Paisley’s vigil, Beck and I hardly spoke. A few brief text exchanges, but nothing more. I don’t even know what I’d say to her at this point, if there’s a connection still there to continue forward with. But honestly, I’d take that awkwardness over whatever’s happening with Mrs. Horne now.
Meanwhile, the heat is relentless, forcing me to fan myself with the burial program. Mrs. Horne gives me a nod. “I know, it’s so hot today, isn’t it?” She shakes her head. “I told Mark we should think about weather. People should be inside right now, not out here.”
“Right, dear,” Mr. Horne says, giving his wife a squeeze on the shoulder.
“It’s mall weather. Have you been to the Bloomingdale’s inside the mall in Sherman Oaks?” Mrs. Horne asks me. “It’s quite lovely. Great selection and it’s got a wonderful little cafe upstairs.” Her lips twitch downward. “Lee and I used to go all the time.”
“I, uh.” I tuck a hair behind my ear. “I haven’t. But that mall is nice.”
Mom gives me a look, but I don’t know what on earth else I could’ve said. Why are we talking about this? I look to my parents, but they’re both nodding along like this is all normal. And I still haven’t spotted Bex. With the way Mrs. Horne is spaced out, I almost wonder if they forgot her at home.
Mrs. Horne looks back to me, a wistful smile forming on her face. “The only heat I really like is my sauna back home. Late nights are the best times to be in the sauna. Bexy’s father recently put in an infrared light. It’s supposed to help you live forever.”
Her smile breaks then, but twitches back up before settling into her neutral expression. As if asking, why would you want to live forever if your baby is dead?
Sweat drips down my back as my heart breaks a little for her.
I’m about to eke out some kind of reply to Mrs. Horne’s strange musings, but a dizzy spell hits me. I stumble over into Owen. Mrs. Horne gasps.
“Oh, love, go find Bex. She’ll find you some water,” she says.
Mom shoots me a look that’s both a little fed up with me and also concerned.
“Owen, help Emma out, please,” Mom says. “She wasn’t able to eat this morning.”
Owen glances at me and holds out his arm like a Regency gentleman, but as soon as I clutch his sleeve my fingers sink into a line of sweat. I want to pull away in disgust, but he is helping with the wooziness. Liam follows behind us.
Once we’re away from the Hornes and Mom and Dad, Owen asks, “Did you bring a granola bar or something?”
I shake my head. The heat of embarrassment only adds to the burn of the Burbank sun barreling down on us. Mrs. Horne is right. There’s something unintentionally cruel about being out in ninety-degree heat in our funeral best.
I take a seat at one of the white plastic chairs under the shade.
“Here,” Liam says, suddenly holding out a pack of Sour Patch Kids. “I’m gonna go talk to Henry.”
“Thanks,” I say as I accept the candy with one hand. Most of them have melted together in the sun, so I start the process of peeling one off the sugar-coated rainbow mass.
Owen jumps to his feet, seemingly done with babysitting too. “Yeah, Xavier’s here too.”
I watch my brothers leave and force myself to eat a couple candies. The sugar and sourness are an instant punch of life. I rake my non-candy-covered hand through my part; I never should’ve read so much about that damn incident report.
Someone takes Owen’s seat next to me.
“You sharing?”
I look up to find Beck beside me. She’s wearing sunglasses, stiff black heels, and a black romper with an ostentatious Gucci G on the belt, something so obviously forced on her by her mom.
I stare at her in a strange moment of disconnect.
My heart aches for the fight that must’ve transpired before this, but my stomach flutters at the sight of how the romper cinches at her waist and flows to her muscled legs.
I’ve never seen her in something that hugs her body this way and I’m suddenly eager for my sketchpad I left at home.
That is, until she pulls her sunglasses off to wipe her eyes.
Her face is bare. It makes her look so much younger than eighteen and emphasizes how red her skin is from the crying.
The splotches sit as bruises under her eyes, redness around her nose and mouth.
Grief like a creeping skin condition. Paisley would hate to look that way if everything had been reversed.
I hold out the candy. “Please.”
She chews slowly, each twinge of her jaw and bob of her throat a reminder that she’s alive while her sister was torn to pieces and guzzled away by animals. How are you doing? It’s such an easy script to say. But all I do is keep staring.
“Thanks.” Her voice is even deeper than usual. She really does sound like her mother. It’s sad, in a way: Beck has an actress’s natural timber that she has no interest in using that way. Was Paisley jealous of it?
I’ll never get to ask.
“You know a bunch about dead celebrities, right?” Beck replies.
And that question is nowhere in my grief scripts I’ve been refining the past eight months. I chew the Sour Patch Kid until it’s completely dissolved to buy some time.
“Uh,” I say, rubbing my flaming neck. “Yeah.”
“Can you take me to one of their graves right now?” She wipes her nose. “I don’t wanna be here anymore.”