Kelly
Her scream is cut short. It isn’t until I listen to the recording a third time—alone; Layla is in school—that I start to visualize some of what I am hearing. Lauren must have been startled awake by Brett, and Brett must have slapped a hand over her mouth when she cried out.
It’s me. Shhhhh. It’s Brett.
Bedsheets rustle. When Lauren speaks, her voice is rough and disoriented.
What . . . She clears her throat . . . why are you . . . ? Is it time for dinner? Fumbling. More rustling. You have my phone.
Just give me a sec.
Why do you have my phone?
Because Stephanie jacked mine up and I can’t get the button for J to work. Brett groans, quietly. You don’t have Jesse’s number?
Lauren is awake enough now to speak with some embarrassment in her voice: It’s a new phone. I have Lisa’s number.
I don’t want to talk to Lisa.
What do you need to talk to Jesse about at . . . a pause while Lauren strains to read the bedside clock, probably . . . three twenty-nine in the morning? I knew you guys were boning.
Lauren Elizabeth Fun, Brett reprimands, that word ages you.
People still say “boning”!
Old people. Like Stephanie. Who is out of her FUCKING mind right now. Do you know what she did tonight? She got up onstage at Talkhouse— You guys went to Talkhouse?
After dinner.
Why didn’t you invite me?
Um. Because your hair caught fire and you came up here to fix it but, I don’t know, I guess you passed out instead?
I didn’t pass out.
You’re still wearing all your clothes. And your boob is hanging out of your T-shirt.
A pause while Lauren checks to be sure this is true. You love it, you little lezzie. What happened at Talkhouse?
So. The band let us come up onstage and sing with them—
What song?
“Bitch.”
Fuck you.
Brett finds this misunderstanding uproariously funny, laughing while she sings, I’m a bitch, I’m a mother, I’m a child, I’m a lover.
Ohhhh. Good one for us. Very on brand.
Why do you think I requested it? Even in her final hours, Brett couldn’t help but pat herself on the back. Anyway. So after the song was over I got off the stage and I thought Steph was behind me. But she stayed up there and, like, hijacked the mic and started saying all kinds of crazy shit. About us.
Did she say anything about me?
About all of us! How everything is made up. How we made up our fight and you and Jen went along with it. Stephanie didn’t actually mention Jen or Lauren by name, but this was Brett, recruiting allies. Just really bad stuff. It makes us look so thirsty. Oh. And then. She fucked a teenager behind the side of the bar. I’m not kidding when I say teenager. I would be SHOCKED if he was legal.
She was trying to make you jealous.
Why would she— Brett stops. She forgot her own impending storyline. The point is. Jesse needs to know before tomorrow. She can’t be allowed to go to the brunch. She’s totally unhinged and I don’t want her spouting off lies about me on camera.
Just tell Lisa.
Lisa won’t give a fuck. She would one hundred percent support anything bad Steph says about me. Talk about jealousy. You know Lisa is jealous of me.
Lauren’s pause is incredulous.
Don’t roll your eyes. You know it’s true.
I’m hungry.
Your boob is still out.
It sounds like Lauren throws off the covers. Come on. If I’m hungry I know you’re hungry.
I saw frozen pizza in the garage, Brett says. And seriously, put it away. I’m so sick of boobs.
I hear a pucker, the noise a fridge makes when it suctions away from the frame. Then my sister’s sarcasm, More wine is what you need.
My hair looks like Kate Gosselin’s.
Four million people used to watch Jon & Kate Plus Eight. Show some goddamn respect.
Make the pepperoni one.
I thought you weren’t eating bread right now.
Pizza isn’t bread.
Cabinets open: searching for a plate on which to nuke the pizza, maybe. Wait. Holy shit, Brett says. Does she not have a microwave?
Infrared light and cancer cells. Blah blah.
I can’t.
I know.
The silence stretches. Initially I thought that maybe Brett was trying to figure out how to turn on the oven, but on subsequent listens, I think she was debating whether or not to say what she said next. You know it’s not real. Her whole vegan shtick. She eats meat.
Lauren snorts. And I’m the one who sent the Post that video of me blowing the baguette at Balthazar.
I’m being serious.
Glugging. Lauren already on to glass two, maybe? I am too.
Lauren. Brett is astounded. Jesus.
Whatever. It worked, right? I got another season. I got to pretend to accuse each of you of doing it and have a reason to fight with you.
But you had to step down as CEO.
It was going to happen anyway.
Brett says, Damn, girl, which is rich, given her own duplicity. What are you doing?
I think there’s Tito’s in the freezer.
You definitely need vodka.
Like a hole in the head. That Lauren said that, given the way my sister died not even an hour later, feels like grazing the third rail.
They putter around the kitchen for a while. Looking for snacks. Making fun of the vegan items in Jen’s pantry that she doesn’t even eat anymore. Lauren’s voice grows increasingly garbled, and she’s having trouble keeping track of the conversation. A few times, she asks how long until the cabs get here. Brett corrects her in the beginning but eventually starts playing along. Twenty minutes. An hour. An hour? Lauren mumbles, with attitude. Get your shit together.
A loud crash marks the recording at fifty-seven minutes and thirty-two seconds. My best guess is that someone slammed the freezer door too hard, because they were just discussing how nut milk ice cream isn’t the most disgusting thing in Jen’s freezer. I think some of the platters that were stacked on top of the unit clattered to the ground. One dog barks, and then all three. I cannot believe I slept through this. And now, on my third listen, knowing what happens next, I wonder, Did Jen give me that Xanax on purpose to knock me out? Did she plan to confront Brett when she got home later that night?
Oops. Lauren giggles. After a few beats, there is a noise like rubbing somebody’s back over their shirt. Lauren climbing onto the sofa, just in view of the kitchen.
Don’t get up, Brett says. Really. Just lie there and spoon your Tito’s. I’m fine to clean up your—oh, God. What do you want?
You is Jen.
Go to bed, Jen pleads. For the love of God. You’ve been banging around down here for an hour.
Because we’ve had to, like, rub sticks together to make this pizza, Brett retorts, belligerent and rude. The two of them were never a good match, but that night, they were aluminum and bromine in a gas jar. I mean, Brett says, that shitty meat you’re eating from FreshDirect is more likely to give you cancer than a microwave.
Bretttt, Lauren croaks from the couch, in some half-hearted attempt to defend Jen, lapsing into a convoluted rendition—You’re a bitch, you’re a child, you’re a sinner and a mother . . .