Dead To You

37. checkmate

I stood there, the phantom weight of Mrs. Rosenbloom-Preston's hand on my shoulder lingering even after she had retracted it to reach for a bubbling champagne flute from a passing server, and nodded politely as she informed us of all the preparation she had done for the repast. According to her, this entailed hiring the best catering company that came recommended by Wendie Malick—and did we know that she was from the Buffalo area, because she was, she was nominated for an Emmy, you know—and hand-selecting the menu for that night, with an emphasis on the words hand-selecting like this was an especially strenuous endeavor, reminding us of how much Bridgette loved brie cheese so she made sure to have extra rounds of it on the charcuterie table, and wasn't that just darling?

When she asked us if we tried it yet, I told her that I had and added with a somewhat strained smile that it was very good, as if I hand-selected something, and ignored the aftertaste of the mealy pear still against my teeth. Then we listened to her defend her choice to hire a party planner—although she referred to him as an event coordinator, but when I translated what she was saying to Dylan, I still called him a party planner—because this has all been so much, you know?

And I nodded, again, like I did but I felt nothing when I watched the crinkles form at the corners of her eyes and her lips become a wobbly downturned smile as she said, so plainly the first thing I felt that entire conversation was stung, "After all, my only child just died. I don't have the energy to even get out of bed most mornings. I couldn't do something like this on my own, I just couldn't."

"Right," I replied, although I wasn't sure if it was, then as I signed it back to Dylan and my hands formed the words my only child, it felt as if they snagged somewhere in my mind as I remembered what I overheard in the stairwell to the wine cellar just a few minutes earlier, her placating voice affirming to Noel that he was her only child now. I took a brief glance around the garden, wondering if I would glimpse him attempting to do the damage control she demanded of him, but it seemed like, despite her insistence, he still hadn't joined the party.

"But I had to make sure tonight was perfect for her. She deserved to have the very best," she said to us now, gesturing with her rapidly dwindling champagne flute, as if she were spinning it around to show its sparkling gold to the rest of the garden. "This is the last time I'll...I'll ever throw a party for my baby girl."

I blinked, my fingers beginning to curl in on themselves instead of translating the second half of Mrs. Rosenbloom-Preston was saying when I realized just what she was saying, spoken with the slightest quiver in her voice as she gulped down the rest of her champagne, staring down at her lipstick smudge on the glass while I swallowed down a tightening knot in my own throat.

This is the last party Bridgette will ever have.

I knew that she wasn't here, and that this party was really more for her mother than anyone else, but it never occurred to me that this was the last party where Bridgette would be the guest of honor, even posthumously. I imagined her birthday becoming just a regular date on the calendar, something that only came to mind hours too late and right before falling asleep, with the number eight of a candle set lost in some junk drawer forever unlit, just as frozen in time as her smile from the last picture ever taken of her.

The high school graduation I had been dreaming of would become marred by her absence, the gown and tasseled cords sealed in their plastic, never to be opened by her, and this garden will be empty all those summer weekends instead of barely containing the elaborate graduation party I was pretty sure Mrs. Rosenbloom-Preston had already begun planning before Bridgette disappeared.

Maybe I would've never been a part of those things, restocking the shelves in my mother's bookstore instead of taking group pictures underneath balloon arches and laughing at how Bridgette rolled her eyes at it all—her mother's idea, she would remind everyone when each new attraction was unveiled—but my eyes started to mist over at the thought that Bridgette would never have any of that.