Dead To You

29. happy and safe and laughing

It had been almost an hour before my arms were finally rid of those stupid Tupperware containers for more than a few minutes while Victoria watched over the footage on her camera before deciding that there had been something off with the lighting or that there was an awkwardly displaced and distracting strand of hair sticking out from my head, occasionally coaching me on how to speak less stilted and more natural.

I was quiet and nodded obediently as she advised that I talk a little slower, a little more casually, a little softer, adding in the word little to almost every piece of constructive criticism she gave me, all of which seemed to indicate that I was coming off as wooden and inauthentic on camera while I explained the food I had prepared and told Victoria you're welcome, I was happy to do it. The lines she had prepared for me, although she hadn't quite referred to them as that, but that was how it felt, just barely reminiscent of the elementary school Christmas play except I was acutely aware that instead of a couple hundred parents and relatives, I was about to be broadcasted to millions all from the comfort of Victoria's kitchen.

I had considered recanting my offer to be a part of her video after reading in between the lines of what Noel had told me, but every time I thought I took in a breath and thought I might be able to force it out of my mouth, Victoria said something. First, it was thanking me again for doing this, then it was pointing out the origins of a few of the bouquets she had brought from the foyer—the healthier ones, apparently one from Bridgette's vocal coach, another from a fellow vlogger, she seemed proudest of the lilies sent from a prominent luxurious cosmetic line—and I chickened out completely when she mentioned how much Bridgette would've liked my lasagna.

It really had nothing to do with the video she was trying to film, but I didn't want to seem rude by backing out after already saying that I would do this for her. I hadn't completely overlooked how strange it was to film so much of their lives, with clickbaiting titles and exaggerated thumbnails with shocked faces—always the shocked, wide-open mouthed expressions—but this was just a small clip of something I did technically do. I did bring them dinner, so it wasn't really a lie when the camera was turned on and Victoria approached me while addressing an invisible audience by declaring, "You guys, we have a special visitor! One of Bridgette's sweet friends made us dinner tonight and it looks so yummy. This is Ivy. Say hi, Ivy!"

In one of the takes, my smile must have looked more like the type of sincerity she was searching for and less like a barely suppressed flinch at being referred to as one of Bridgete's friends, the tacked on sweet cloying and just as hard to swallow as saccharine syrup. Each time, I waggled a few of my cramping fingers at the camera and laughed, for some reason. "Hi."

After the second time, Victoria asked if I could just greet the camera normally, like I would a person, without nervously laughing. I could not. Eventually, she waved off one of my apologies and told me, "It's alright, sweetheart. The shyness is pretty endearing."

The breeze drifting in through the opened door had begun to cool against the backs of my arms by the time she finally seemed satisfied with the footage she had taken, both of the food I purposefully positioned on the island countertop where I had been instructed earlier and the flower bouquets she left behind the dishes, with her camera lens slowly zooming over all of the blooming dahlias and orchids with their cards just as prominently placed, emblazoned with gold foil like the names of the people who went them were as precious as jewels. And perhaps they were from the way Victoria spoke, thanking an unseen people for their continuous love and support for their family during this time.

I stood there awkwardly, not sure what to do, as Victoria then angled her wrist to turn the camera on herself, gripping it by a small knobby tripod attached to the bottom, and I watched her expression shift when the viewfinder was flipped up and reflected her image back to her like a mirror. Flowers and lasagna with the tinfoil peeled back were gathered behind either shoulder, her chin tilting toward the one over the flowers, and lines formed around her lips as her voice became softer, more delicate, with an almost rigid quiver for what felt like a prolonged second.