Some Deserve To Die

My mom died last night. I haven't shed a single tear. I haven't told my wife yet. Or my kids. Soon.

"Anthony, get yourself dressed. We're going to be late," Sheila says, striding into the kitchen. Her honey-blonde hair is tucked behind her ears, and her arms sway at her sides. She is wearing a silk gown with an open back and gold hoop earrings. 

“You look stunning.” She drapes her arms around my shoulders and rests her piercing eyes on me. The green in the gown brings out the green in her gaze. She raises an eyebrow. 

“Don’t flatter me. No more compliments, remember? I don’t need them.” She brushes her fingers through my hair. “The kids are asleep. The babysitter will be here momentarily. Get dressed.” She commands. Sheila has always carried herself with the confidence of a lioness and the grace of a swan. 

I walk back into my carpeted closet and see the freshly ironed suit hanging from the rack in a sealed bag. I reach for it and grab it off of the hook. 

I didn’t ask how she died. I would assume she died of natural causes, but Penelope Lowell is far too dramatic to die of old age. Her old friend Melissa had called me up to tell me the news. 

“Hey kiddo, how are ya?” I could hear the gum she was chewing over the phone. “Something happened to Penny.” She said without waiting for me to respond.

“What did Penelope do this time? You know what, don’t tell me,” I said angrily. "Just tell me how much money she owes. What address should I send the check to?” I was at the office, and I had started to rummage through my desk in search of my checkbook. Melissa sighs over the phone. 

“She’s dead, kiddo.” All the oxygen had left my body at that moment. No air. No thoughts. Nothing but the imagined version of my mother's cold, dead body lying in a ditch somewhere. 

I inhaled sharply and mustered a solemn, “Thank you for telling me,” before hanging up. I haven’t heard anything since. Part of me still wonders if she actually is dead. Maybe it's all a scheme to evade some kind of debt. Regardless of the truth, I lack sorrow. My heart is hollow. I feel nothing. 

I tie my tie neatly, grab my car keys, and walk to the car, where Sheila is patiently waiting. She is glossing her lips through the dashboard mirror. Sheila always drives. She is always in control of every situation. The ultimate authority figure. I uncomfortably climb into our green Mini-Cooper. A small, classy car that Sheila insisted on despite my tall figure having to contort to fit in the seat. 

“Anthony, dear. Pull up the GPS.” I turn to face her and take her hands into mine. 

“Penelope is dead.” Her face falls with a deep sadness. Penelope and Sheila only ever met once when we were 18. Penelope was drunk out of her mind, and after she found out Sheila was a vegetarian, she leaned over to me. 

“This girl is a total snob. She looks down on me," she slurred, "she thinks I am a bad mom.” My mom had said this loud enough for Sheila to hear, and then she threw up all over our dining table. I had been deeply embarrassed, but Sheila handled the situation with such grace. She helped my mom change into pajamas and put her to bed before helping me clean the vomit off the table. 

Penelope had been so cruel to her. I was ashamed. Sheila was kind. Penelope wasn’t there the next morning. That was the last time we ever saw her. Sheila even tracked her down to some group home in Missouri to send her a wedding invitation. Penelope didn’t show, obviously. 

Yet my beautiful wife had always spoken of her kindly. When the kids asked about their grandma, Sheila told them she was a wonderful woman. Nothing more. Sheila has both a beautiful heart and a beautiful mind. And now, she learns of her death, and she is able to feign despair for my sake. 

“I am so sorry, dear.” She says, touching my face and stroking my eyebrow with her fingers. “Will there be a funeral?” I shake my head. 

“No one would show.” Why would they? There are few in the world who don’t deserve to be mourned, but Penelope deserves to be forgotten. She puts the key in the ignition, and we drive silently to the function.

It's a gala for Sheila’s business. She works in advertising, and tonight is celebrating the campaign she just finished. 

I am in constant awe of how well Sheila manages everything. Her business, her husband. Her children. Devon and Lucille. She drives Devon to every soccer practice and watches intently every time. She takes an interest in Lucille's ballet lessons, often searching for an excuse to spend any time she can with her.

Penelope was the opposite. She didn’t have the motivation nor the funds to sign me up for any extracurriculars, let alone take an interest in me at all. Every summer, from 8 in the morning to 9 at night, she would push me outside of our condo and lock the doors. 

“Don’t come home until dinner. Go touch some grass.” There were nights when she went to the bar and forgot to unlock the doors, so, at age 12, I had to watch my half-naked mother stumble home in the early hours of the day, slurring every word. There were even a few times when she had brought a man with her. 

She never drove me anywhere. If I wanted to do something with a friend, I would have to find a ride or walk. She didn’t care who my friends were. She didn’t care about me. I remember asking her about college, and she laughed in my face. I had spectacular grades and glowing recommendations from my teachers but no support whatsoever from my mother.

Penelope Lowell is a terrible person. The scum of the earth. A complete flake. I have a good life now, and I refuse to let her death haunt me further. People like Penelope don’t deserve to be missed. People like Penelope don’t deserve to be mourned.