Page 2 of Pieces of Ash

Invitations were revoked. Bookings dried up. Contracts were not renewed. And the world that had once welcomed her as the next “it” girl looked away, or worse, gawked, watching her spiral into a depression that she treated withmorealcohol,moredrugs,moredestructive choices.

Leading to the most destructive choice of all…

Her husband.

My stepfather.

Mosier squeezes my shoulder almost painfully, his face thickset and blank beside mine. There are no tears in his eyes. No quivering of his lips. His wife is dead, her frail body in thecoffin before us, but he is placid, almost bored. He married an out-of-control, washed-up, once-beautiful supermodel and brought her to heel. The last time I saw her, she was a shell of her former self: obedient, timid, and withdrawn.

The question circling my mind pauses at the forefront, still demanding an answer.

Bywhomwas my mother beloved?

Maybe by Gus, whom she was forbidden to see after her marriage, owing to the fact that he was, according to Mosier, “a negro faggot” and a “bad fucking influence.”

I vomit into my mouth, quickly swallowing back the bile.

Maybe,I think, as more tears well up in my eyes.Maybe Gus loved her.

I remember the many nights he brought her safely home to our Hollywood bungalow. She’d be stoned and screaming, her makeup smeared from weeping as she broke glasses and vases and shouted terrible things at Gus and me. When her tantrums finally subsided and she was limp from exhaustion, he would carry her upstairs and bathe her naked body with gentleness and respect while I held a saucepan between her mouth and the bathwater so she could puke.I remember him tucking her into bed, humming some old-timey lullaby as he ran his dark fingers through her light hair, and she cried herself to sleep.

“Gus-Gus is here, lil’ Tig…”

As the memories fill my head with a mixture of profound sadness and even more profound gratitude, I know for certain.Yes.Gus-Gus loved her.

As for me? Ashley Carys Ellis? Her “little sister?” Her secret child?

DidIlove her?

I don’t know.

I only know she is gone.

“To you, O Lord, we commend the soul of Teagan Catrin-Mairwen, your wayward servant. In the sight of this world, she is now dead, but in your kingdom, may she find the grace the eluded her in life. Forgive the many sins she committed through human weakness, and in your goodness, grant her everlasting peace.In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti.Amen.”

She is gone, whispers my heart, which weeps the tears my eyes cannot.

“Amen.”

“I’m sosorry for your loss, Ashley.”

“Your sister was so beautiful! So full of life!”

“Poor Tigín. What a shame.”

“You look so much like her! Have you thought about modeling?”

I move through the thick crowd of people at my mother’s wake.

For the occasion, my stepfather has rented out a ritzy country club in Rye, New York, close to the cemetery, and the room is full of noxious white flowers and poster-sized pictures of my mother displayed around the room on shiny gold easels. I stop in front of one and stare. The photo predates her supermodel days, and it’s always been one of my favorites.

She is eighteen, and I am two. We are sitting side by side on a bench in front of my grandparents’ stone church, wearing our Sunday best on Easter morning. Both blonde, with natural waves that frame our faces, our identical bright blue eyes are vulnerable and guarded.

I step closer, my gaze shifting solely to her, and it’s no wonder she was discovered the same year this photo was taken,no wonder she became one of the most recognizable women in the world.

She is tall and willowy, her limbs long and tan against the cream sheath sundress she is wearing. Even with a quick glance, you can tell her body is naturally model-thin.

But it was her face that so captivated the public.