“Oh, Lizzie. Oh, oh.” Before Lizzie knew what was happening, a soft rotund woman rushed up and threw her arms around her. “I’m so so sorry about your father,” she said. “He was wonderful.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie said, her cheek pressed into the woman’s wiry earring. She smelled of baby powder. Who was she? And then it clicked: her father’s former secretary Pat. She had worked for him for a year, maybe two, tops, ages ago. It was during the time when his practice was booming, when Joseph issued limos to bring patients in for their cataract surgeries. All the Beverly Hills ladies loved him. He was raking in the profits and was eager to spend—on trips to Hawaii and Morocco, two-seater Italian convertibles, artwork that he liked to show off during dinner parties. All Lizzie remembered about Pat was that she was a rabid Clippers fan and lived with her brother. In fact, Lizzie now recalled, the brother started coming into Joseph’s office, hanging around until his sister got off work. The patients don’t like it, Lizzie could remember Joseph complaining. I don’t like it. Pat was still hugging Lizzie, an awkward intimacy. But Pat felt strongly about her father, and Lizzie held on.
“I hadn’t seen him in months,” Pat said, finally pulling back. “Maybe even a year. What kind of person am I? It had been so long. Why hadn’t I made plans?”
“It’s okay,” Lizzie said. “I’m sure he felt the same way.” She added this even though she couldn’t remember the last time her father had mentioned Pat.
“But I should have known better. I knew better. And now he’s gone. It’s too late. I can’t believe he’s gone.” Pat’s voice trembled.
“I know,” Lizzie said. She couldn’t bring herself to say anything more. Remove yourself, she could hear her father say. Where was Sarah? Claudia? She wanted a rescue.
“He was still young. And now he’s gone, just like that. I can’t believe it. You poor girls.” She gave Lizzie’s hand a squeeze. “I’m going to miss him so much.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie managed, “I have to—” and with her sentence unfinished, she fled.
At the back of the gallery, she stood against the wall, praying that it was close to five p.m. They had called for the memorial to end then. There were fewer people back here, no one who seemed to recognize her, and that enabled her to breathe. It was hard to be around people. But she did not want to be alone. She gazed at a large photograph of a man’s torso, elongated and stretched thin.
“There you are,” Claudia said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Found,” Lizzie said as she threw herself into her friend’s arms, desperate for solidity.
After a moment, Claudia pulled back, cocked her head to the side. “How are you doing?”
Lizzie touched the back of her head. Her hair felt frizzy, her body unclean, her eyes itchy from lack of sleep, all the coffee she’d been drinking. She kept waiting for Joseph to emerge from the crowd. “I’m okay,” she said.
Claudia looked at her steadily and didn’t say a thing. Finally she said: “Have you eaten? I have to say, the food is shockingly good. Your father would be proud.”
“All Angela’s doing.” Lizzie’s sister’s girlfriend was the one who had reached out to the gallery owner, an old friend of Joseph’s; Angela had set up the caterer, she hired the bartender and arranged for the chair rentals too. “I feel like I should be doing more,” Lizzie confessed.
“Are you kidding me? Today, of all days?”
“I know,” Lizzie said. Still, it made her uneasy.
“That’s Angela. She’s probably making you feel that way.”
“I don’t think so. She’s been great.”
“Uh-huh. I spoke with her earlier, and she seemed as prickly as ever.”
“You’re terrible,” Lizzie said, laughing. It felt good to laugh.
“I’m right. You know, it stems from insecurity. She’s just afraid your sister’s going to leave her for a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Angela is a doctor,” Lizzie corrected her. “An anesthesiologist, remember?”
“Oh yeah. Well, then, a doctor with a dick,” Claudia said, unperturbed. She chewed on a strawberry. “You didn’t answer me: Have you eaten today?”
“A little,” Lizzie lied.
“Come on,” Claudia said. “Let’s get you some food and libation.”
Soon Lizzie was biting into a bagel that Claudia had loaded up, eating it for her friend’s sake. She truly wasn’t hungry. The bagel itself was dry, but the lox was fantastic, not too salty, buttery—where was it from? she found herself wondering. Then she realized her father would wonder. She turned to the lukewarm Chardonnay. Last night, despite the Ambien, she’d woken up in a sweat around four in the morning in her sister’s guest room, her heart galloping, not remembering where she was or what was so criminally wrong. A maw of fear overtook her. Oh God, her father.
Claudia fished through her bag. She picked up her buzzing phone, rolling her eyes. “This had better be crucial. I told you I’m at a fucking funeral,” she said. “Uh-huh, okay.” She mouthed to Lizzie, I’ll be right back.
Lizzie nodded but she felt a flip of panic. She couldn’t handle another conversation like the one she had with Pat. Where was her sister? She eyed the narrow room. The crowd had thinned. She didn’t see Sarah. She went to the bathroom, found the door locked.
As Lizzie waited against the wall, she looked at a nearby canvas: A large-scale painting, depicting a couple sitting on a boat-sized couch, watching TV. The man’s feet were propped up on an ottoman, the woman sitting up straight, only inches apart, but a discernible distance. Sunlight spilled in from a window but their eyes remained on the glowing screen. They paid no mind to the largest object in the room: an elephant, standing to the right of them.
The elephant in the room. Lizzie let out a snort. It was funny, but it was more than that. The painting itself was beautiful: the elephant’s leathery wrinkly hide, the polished elegance of his curved tusks. And it was this gorgeously rendered specificity, the fact that the painter was willing to bestow such attention, that made her think of Ben. He would like it too.
Did he know about her dad? She wanted him to know. And yet she didn’t feel like she could call him. It had been nearly three years since they had broken up. She still sometimes wondered if she had made a mistake.
The bathroom door opened, and an old woman Lizzie didn’t recognize came out. She saw Lizzie looking at the painting. “What do you think?” she asked, her hands on her hips like a general.
“I like it,” Lizzie said. “You?”
“Not really,” the woman said. She was tiny, in a dark tailored suit with a brightly colored scarf at her neck. She spoke with a gravelly voice that made Lizzie think of peeling paint. It carried a hint of an accent—British?—that she could not place.
“You don’t?” Lizzie asked. What was there not to like?
“She’s not working hard enough. I’ll bet you she’s capable of more. At the end of the day, what are you left with?”