***

The next day I drove to Mom’s house to discuss the funeral preparations. She moved from our childhood home after Tim died, and I had not been to her new house yet. The new house looked similar to the old one, though, another mansion on another street in the Hollywood Hills, immature palm trees in front of the two-story façade. What she needed four thousand square feet for was beyond me.

Inside, the décor was equally tasteless and pointless. A concrete faux-ancient-Roman statue stood to the left of the door, rebar sticking out of the man’s nonexistent arm. A Jackson Pollack rip-off hung on the right. An ornate red and brown rug, no doubt from someplace going out of business, led into the living room, past the dual staircases on each side of the grand entryway.

Mom called out to me from the patio when I closed the door. She was sitting on her teak patio furniture, reading a large book with a woman being swept up into the arms of a cowboy on the cover.

“How was your day off?” she asked, setting her book down on the granite bar.

Sitting down next to her, I didn’t acknowledge her question.

“Mine was full of planning Ethan’s funeral without you,” she said.

I didn’t acknowledge that either.

“What do you need me to do?” I asked.

“Help me with the program.”

“Alright. What’s first?”

“I can’t decide when it will be best for you to perform. Do you think before the priest talks or after? Or should you play when everyone is coming in?”

“I’m not performing. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Ok,” she said, sighing and holding up her head with two fingers. “Why don’t you go back to your hotel and pout until you’re ready to be an adult?”

“I’m not—“

“Or better yet, go up to your room. It’s the first door on the left, not that you’ve ever used it. It’s a little better suited to how you’re acting.” She sneered at me, pointing to the second floor of her house.

“I’m not acting like a child if I don’t want to perform at my brother’s funeral. It’s too close. I don’t want to do it.”

“You performed at Tim’s funeral.”

“That was different.”

“Yeah, because you weren’t feeling so much petty spite towards Tim.”

“What’s so wrong about me not being totally over it? He killed Tim.”

“It’s selfish. And childish.”

“Selfish?”

“You resent him. I get it. Our relationship was a little strained, too, but you don’t see me refusing to do anything.”

“I’ll help out, just not perform.”

“And that’s the help you need to give. That’s what people expect. What they need. Do you think anyone else would play, and it would matter? No. You’re the only one that can do that.”

“There’s nothing wrong with me putting myself first. He was my brother.”

“And there we go with the selfishness. You think you’re more important than everyone else there. That what makes you happy is more important than what will help them. Everyone needs to see you play. They need to watch you walk up there, sit down, and play some song that tells everyone it’ll be ok. Because if you can sing it, everyone else will feel it.”

“And what about my grieving process, huh? I guess it doesn’t matter.”

“No, it doesn’t. Not more than everyone else’s. That’s what being selfish is. This funeral needs to be perfect. You’ll go on after the priest. Get it together.”

If she wasn’t going to be reasonable, I wasn’t going to stay. I got up, walked out of the house, and went back to my hotel room.