Psychos: A White Girl Problems Book (29 page)

T
he funeral was beautiful. The sun broke through the clouds, giving the entire outdoor service a glowing aura. The guests were all seated in a circular formation around a simple closed oak casket out on a lawn next to the barn where all the drama had gone down just a few weeks earlier.

The harpist, a local friend of Donna and Gina’s, who was hired to play Radiohead songs during the service, was a delight. For someone who played a classical instrument, she was actually very chic. I mean, aren’t the types of people who play violin and piano or whatever so awkward normally? It’s like they never had a chance to learn how to make themselves cute because they’ve spent their entire lives behind an instrument with a fat instructor breathing down their necks. Not this woman. She had long black hair and wore all white everything, a very bold move
for a day about death, but it totally worked. She was the perfect amount of chic for a perfectly chic funeral. It was like she knew that everyone there would be chic, so she chic’d herself for the occasion. Wherever you are, harpist, please know that I really appreciated you that day.

The harpist wasn’t the only person who looked good that afternoon. In fact, everyone brought winning looks, as if they knew that the best way to honor me was to show up to this service looking fucking amazing. And everyone important was there.

Mabinty, in her favorite purple Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress, sat next to Donna and Gina, who were both wearing all black. Black sweaters, black pants, black boots. I guess they’re traditionalists when it comes to deathwear, but nontraditionalists when it comes to being former-model lesbian farmers. Next to my lezzie moms sat Roman and then Genevieve. Roman was wearing a look that I’d never seen him try to pull off before. His silhouette is typically tailored, body-conscious, and inspired by motorcycle clothes, but on that day on a farm in upstate New York, he found it appropriate to show up and give us all witchy layered Rick Owens vibes, with a new bleached dye job. It was overwhelmingly major. I’ll never forget how loved I felt when I saw him that day.

Genevieve wore her typical bandage dress situation (but in black) with some sort of bootish heels that only deserved a quick glance; a true examination of her shoes would have most likely upset me and spoiled the entire event, so I opted out. It was whatever. I was happy she was there.

Closing out the circle were my dad and Lizbeth, both of
whom were paying due tribute by arriving in the finest of forms. Okay, Lizbeth always looks “good,” or whatever, but I’d never seen the two of them look so healthy and vibrant. My dad wore a pair of black Simon Miller jeans that fit him impeccably; a crisp, white Tom Ford button-down; a very handsome, very black Givenchy sport coat; and suede Alexandre Plokhov boots. Chicness. Lizbeth wore an appropriate below-the-knee black Fendi dress and was giving us legs and arms for days, as usual. It almost brought a tear to my eye to see how complete they looked as a couple sitting there hand in hand. They were truly obsessed with each other and no matter how much I wanted her to be a stepmonster and how much I wanted to hate her, I would never hate Lizbeth and there was nothing I could do about it. When my dad told me in London that love takes time because people need time to figure out the type of love that they require from each other, I wanted to slap him. But it finally made sense to me on the day of the funeral. They deserved each other. Ew, anyway . . .

The last guest, and maybe the most important guest, was, of course, Robert. I don’t know if this is weird to say, but he looked so insanely Robert-ish that day that I would have fucked him right there in front of everybody if I could have. It would’ve been too much, though. Too much drama, too much skin, and my dad and Mabinty were there. So, no. But he was gorgeous and his welcome speech touched everyone’s souls. I could see it on their faces. Despite the fact that it was a funeral, everyone there knew that the deceased was in a better place. It was almost a celebration. A cathartic energy lofted through the open, beautiful space. I really couldn’t have asked for more.

“Hello, everyone, it’s really nice to see those of you whom I haven’t seen in a long, long time.”

I saw Mabinty shed a single tear when he looked at her and smiled.

“And to be honest, I’m happy that these are the circumstances that have brought us back together. Only Babe could have pulled something like this off.”

Having him up there made me so proud.

“So, Babe asked me to keep this short and sweet, and that’s what I’ll do. She wrote the words but wanted me to deliver the speech. Then we can all go relax and have a glass of wine and eat some organic greens grown right here on Gina and Donna’s farm. Per Babe’s request, obviously.”

Everyone laughed together. I may have even smiled. I was so happy. It was weird.

“So here goes: Dearly beloved, we gather here to say our good-byes to the world’s most terrifying, nauseating, tacky mess of a bitch, Babette Walker. May she stay dormant in Hades for ever and ever and ever and ever.”

With that, I couldn’t contain myself from running to him. I sprinted from my seat and threw my arms around Robert. Hearing him say those words was the final nail in Babette’s literal coffin and it felt like someone had just shot adrenaline through my heart. I was free, I was alive, I was a Babette-less Babe sprinting from my dark past and toward the man who represented my solid, beautiful future.

But wait, I think I might be getting a bit ahead of myself . . .

T
he weeks after I jumped off the barn roof were strange and confusing days for everyone. I have hazy memories of the night itself, like the moment when I struck Robert across the head with that two-by-four and the way the rain felt pouring down on me on that tin roof. I can still feel the coldness on my skin if I let myself go back to that place emotionally, which I try not to do, ever.

The first real memory I have is waking up in a stark and clinical room that I thought was either a mental ward, a hospital, or heaven. I was still kind of a complete fucking mess. The thing that was most shocking to me in that moment when I woke up in the white room was seeing Robert in a doctor costume standing above me.

“I’m sorry, but what the fuck is going on?” I tried to sit up, but the pain was agonizing.

“We’re at Saint Francis Hospital, near Poughkeepsie. You were in an accident,” Robert said.

“I know I’m in a fucking hospital, but I thought I killed you. I thought I killed me too. What’s going on?”

“You tried to do both of those things.”

“Wait. So we’re dead? Is this heaven? Tai Tai?” I called out for my dead grandmother.

“Babe, Babe. You’re fine. We’re both fine. You broke your wrist and we had to remove a couple ribs. But other than that—”

“I broke WHAT? You did WHAT?” I was stunned.

“You broke your
costae fluitantes,
aka your lowest ribs, in the fall, and after we discussed it, you said you’d rather have them removed. It was a simple procedure and you said you’ve always wanted fewer ribs. Do you not remember any of this?” He looked concerned; I probably looked ecstatic.

“No, I don’t remember, but I’m obsessed—my god, yes. I’ve wanted those ribs gone forever. I guess this whole Babette-scapade wasn’t all worthless. Every cloud . . .”

Robert just laughed at me, but in a cute way. He looked so proud of me, as if I’d just come home from the war or something actually scary. But you know what? I had just come home from war. War with myself, but still it was, like, a legit war.

“Also, why are you wearing scrubs? You’re not still Roberto, are you?” The thought rushed through my bones like cold water.

“No! I’m pretty sure he died when you hit me.”

“Oh, thank God.”

“I’ve been taking care of you here.”

“But why you? I don’t get it. Where’s my doctor?” Last time I checked Robert was a sports agent, so I was either high or I was high.

“I’m your doctor. I’m a sports doctor, Babe. You knew this.” I could see that he could see that I had no idea what he was talking about. “Or didn’t you?”

“Um . . .”

“Wowwwww. Really?” He smiled, shaking his head back and forth. He leaned in and kissed me on the forehead. “Nice to meet you. My name is Robert, I’m a doctor. Have been for the last seven years.”

Why did I think Robert was a sports agent this entire time?
What? But then again, why wouldn’t I have missed that? As soon as someone starts talking about sports, I immediately tune out.

“But wait, are you okay?” I asked him, grabbing his hand.

“I had a minor concussion. All the blood was coming from a small gash near my temple. Couple stitches, no biggie. You hit me hard as fuck, though. I’m actually impressed. Babette is a strong motherfu—”

“Let’s not talk about her,” I interrupted, cutting him off. It was too soon and I needed space from it all. “I’m sorry, Robert, I really am. I wasn’t myself that night.”

“I know, Babe, and we don’t have to talk about it. We don’t have to talk about it ever again if you’d like.”

“Well . . . I was thinking that in order to bury her, I might need to literally bury her.”

Robert shot me a confused glance, which quickly became a smirk, and that’s how the idea for Babette’s funeral was born.

A
fter the funeral, etc., Robert and I decided that we’d been through everything that a couple should ever have to go through in order to be together, so the only thing left to do was move into a small beach house together in Malibu—Malibu was his idea, not mine. I told him that living with that much sand in the air can dry your skin and your hair to the point of no return, but he wouldn’t back down. New Robert is all about telling Babe
what to do, and New Babe is all about letting Robert make decisions. It sucks, but my therapists tell me it’s good for me and for Robert. For us.

We are being soooo us. Waking up next to him each morning is all I’ve ever wanted, but I never knew how it would feel IRL. It feels so good. It feels too good to be true, actually, but I try not to let myself think that.

We adopted a pug with cancer and changed his name from Lucas to Lulu Guinness. I’m in the process of turning him gay by telling him he’s gay every morning. It’s not working, but it gives me a purpose.

Robert is working for the Lakers full-time as the team doctor.

We’re happy, we’re infatuated with each other more than ever, and we fuck every day. I’m happy to say that neither Babette nor Roberto has popped into our lives since that night in the barn, which makes me anxious to think about, but I carry a new hybrid of Xanax and molly with me at all times now, in case I need to extinguish the beast. Fingers crossed that she’s eternally deceased.

The funny thing is, after the hellish ride that this year has been, I never thought that I’d find this level of happiness. I’m almost too happy and it scares me. But like Jackson always said, the universe delivers.

Maybe I should write a book about all this bullshit. Eh, probably not.

I
couldn’t have made it through this insane period of my life without the continual love and support of the following psychos:

Dad, Lizbeth, Robert, Charlie Dean (sorry), Mabinty Jones, Donna Valeo & Gina, Genevieve Larson, Roman Di Fiore, Lara Schoenhals, Tanner Cohen, and David Oliver Cohen.

And the following psychos couldn’t have made it through their insane lives without my continual love and support:

Byrd Leavell (my super hot agent who is basically responsible for everything good that’s ever happened to me), Tricia Boczkowski (my brilliant editor), Elana Cohen, Alex Lewis, and the entire Gallery/Simon & Schuster Team.

Butch Schoenhals, Linda Schoenhals, Jake Schoenhals, Kurt Schoenhals, Sara Schoenhals, Jennie Hunnewell, Chandler Hunnewell, Marcia Cohen, Stewart Cohen, Cristiana Andrews Cohen, Penelope Ziggy Cohen, Hal Winter Cohen, Jessica Lindsey, Natalie Stevenson, Luce Amelia Stevenson-Cohen, Liz Newman, Frank Newman, Tristan Andrews, David Ludwig, Howie Sanders, Larry Salz, Jason Richman, Fred Tozcek, Chris
Abramson, Brian Agboh, Pellegrino, Wyatt Hough, Audrey Adams, Leonardo DiCaprio, William Reid, Ryan O’Connell, Green Juice, Jason Sellards, Chris Moukarbel, Toby Moukarbel-Sellards, Oliver Daly, Luke Gilford, Jenny Grier Craddock, Adam Schneider, Chloe Yellin, Elizabeth Banks, Max Handelman, The Leon Chopped Salad at La Scala, Olivia Wolfe, Stephanie Krasnoff, Tajli Siladi, Chris Macho, Fabrizio “Fat Jew” Goldstein, Christine Ronan, Amanda Bynes, Emma Roberts, Bill Bellingham, Francesca Eastwood, Skye Peters, Steve Jobs, Princesca, Gizmo, Babe, Catcher, Oscar, Moose, Big Pudy, Little Pudy, Milo, Pepper, Tiger, Socks, Pudy, Nancy, Neko, Toby, Sophie, Biscuit, Rockwell, Panda, Martha, Orangie, Emily, Red Sox, Little Kitty, Tabby, Butch Jr., Madison, Little Black Princess, Wolf Girl, Dirty Nose, Whiskers, Cleopatra, Sophie, Whitey, Lauren, Maxwell George, Maggi, and Samba.