Page 6 of Concerted Chaos

“Can you? Because I can’t!” She starts sobbing. “Oh, Cassidy, when you didn’t answer your phone I was so afraid you were with him.”

“When, last night? I was.” Of course I’d be the one caring for him after the break up. Technically, it’s my job. My brother pays me as his assistant, though I don’t work regular hours or anything like that. I make sure Powell leads an easy life, and a nice chunk of money appears in my bank account every two weeks. It’s a fair exchange. But I’d have been the one he called no matter what, even if I wasn’t salaried. I’m more than his sister, I’m his best friend.

“It’s just ... Powell...” She cries even louder. She’s not usually like this, but she has been complaining about the start of menopause lately; maybe this over reaction is a side effect. Perhaps I should ask my stepdad to—gently—suggest that she schedule a consultation with her doctor.

“Mom, he’s with me right now,” I say, already heading out the door to the pool deck. Powell is going to hate me for passing this off, but I’ll let him deal with explaining why he and Zahna ended things. There are limits to what I’m willing to take care of for him. Once mom hears about the affair with the race car driver, she’ll understand.

“Of course he is, he will always be with you. Always. Don’t ever forget your brother. I just ... Hank is so devastated. We never thought we’d have to bury one of our children.”

I freeze mid-step. “Bury?”

“Well, not literally.” She chokes on the words.

This is such an overreaction. I know they want grandkids someday and Powell is their best shot, but there’s no need to be so dramatic. I’m about to tell her that when she continues.

“They haven’t ...I don’t know how many details you’ve been given, but there’s not going to be enough left to bury...” I can’t make out the rest of what she says through all the crying.

“What’s going on?” Powell peers over his sunglasses at me, probably wondering why I’m not bringing him a cocktail and am currently in violation of our no electronics rule.

“Mom’s hysterical. Something about burying you.”

He sighs. “It was a break-up, not a death sentence. Tell her there are other fish in the sea, other stars in the sky, as one door closes another one opens. Take your pick.”

I roll my eyes at his ridiculous platitudes. “Mom, Powell says there are other notes in the song.” I wink at him. That was a good one. He should have thought of it himself, given his musical inclinations. “It was a breakup, and not even a bad one. I didn’t even know you liked Zahna. You said she was shallow, remember?” I have to raise my voice to be heard over her wailing.

“Cassidy, I don’t know anything about a breakup. I’m talking about the helicopter crash.”

The what now? I’m pretty sure my heart stopped beating.

“Helicopter crash?” I repeat for Powell’s benefit and quickly switch to speaker phone.

“Sweetie, I thought that’s what we were talking about. It’s been all over the news. The police called us. Powell was doing location scouting outside of LA, and they crashed. The chopper exploded. I’m so sorry...” she breaks off into sobs again.

“Ginny!” Powell shouts. His eyes are huge and round and starting to shine with tears—we’ve both come to the same horrifying conclusion. His voice can’t penetrate her hearing, so he brings out the big guns. “Mom! MOM!”

Powell doesn’t normally call her “mom.” His preferred names for her are Ginny, or Gin, or, when annoyed, Hey-Lady-Stop-Embarrassing-Me. He was seventeen when our parents got married, far too old and too cool to need a maternal figure, though he requested an adult adoption later, to make our family official and complete. The rarity is what makes it the magic syllable, the one thing that can get through to her. She stops immediately.

“Mom, I’m alive. I wasn’t on that helicopter.”

“Powell? Powell!” Then she blows out our eardrums with a high pitched, “Hank! Powell’s alive! He’s on the phone right now!”

I toss him my phone so he can reassure his father, and sprint back into the house, grabbing the other three. My work cell is full of messages, condolences, requests for a statement, for an interview. Powell’s phones aren’t receiving calls; they’re going crazy with social media notifications. I open up a browser to check the news and the biggest headline reads Superstar Powell Corbitt, Three Others, Killed in Tragic Helicopter Explosion.

“I’ll call Miriam,” Powell is saying when I return. “She’ll fix this.” I love the level of confidence he has in his publicist, but this may require more than just her.

“No, I’ll call her,” Hank says. He used to manage Powell’s career and still knows all his people. “She thinks you’re dead. It’s probably best she doesn’t hear your voice from beyond the grave. I’ll get Jace’s publicist on the line, too. We’re leaving now, see you in five.” They should have thought to come over to comfort me earlier. We live in the same neighborhood; a quick drive or a short walk could have saved them a couple of hours of misery. Though I suppose they assumed I was in California.

When we hang up the phone, my brother and I stare at each other in wordless silence. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet. Can Jace really be dead? I just spoke with him a few hours ago. I... I asked him to get on that helicopter. Did I send my friend off to his death? This is so surreal.

Powell reaches out and pinches my forearm.

“Ow!” I jerk away.

“Sorry, I was just checking to see if this was a dream.”

“You’re supposed to pinch yourself!” I smack his arm and he winces.

“Ow! Okay, I guess it isn’t. Cass, this is . . . this is real.” Now instead of trying to hurt me, he hugs me instead. I can feel his shoulders shaking as he’s trying not to completely break down. If he’s going to emotionally crash, that means I can’t. He might be the older sibling, but I’ve always been the strong one. I’m going to need to handle this for both of us.

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