The Missing Mother

December 28, 2005
by Vikki Johns

In Genoa City, mates are shuffled like cards at a Black Jack table, the town is immune from any dangerous forms of fatal sexuality transmitted diseases, proof of which is offered by the relatively healthy orgy-loving folk, and marriage licenses contain spots for those little 'punch' machines ... hit your quota of six (arguments, infidelities, burnt dinners, bad haircuts, etc,) and you are automatically eligible for a new mate.

That's one thing. And quite frankly, lots of families today are rife with Aunt Mary being married to Uncle John's cousin Carol. It's the '00s, after all. But boy one thing that you would THINK would remain sacred is death. But, oh, no, not here, not in Genoa City.

Lauren Fenmore, a vibrant, beautiful young professional woman in the prime of her life gets literally blown to Kingdom come while on her honeymoon yacht. Think of it! This is not one of those 'things' that happen - like swallowing a chicken bone or sliding into a telephone pole or getting a bad dose of botox. This is a horrific, front page, stop the presses murder.

Yes, MURDER - and of an extremely important person - two days after her nuptials attended by ALL the town's elite!

How's the funeral handled? Here's how. With all of the dignity of a monkey scratching his ass. Brad Carlton right in front of Lauren's empty casket, tells Sharon Newman he's in love with her and they better do it right now. Why? Because the fish food formerly known as Lauren Fenmore lived in her to the fullest, so they better do everything and anything they want in this life, including violate laws taken in the eyes of God and regardless of the pain it brings a helpless little boy. Hey, Ronald Reagan lives life to the fullest. How many of us went out and committed adultery when he died?

Then you got the child-deserting, drug-dealing mom of the Year, Yolanda Hamilton, slumming for jobs at a funeral. Sharon, being the picture of etiquette and decorum, goes right in for the bait. There they are, standing in front of a $30,000 casket with nothing in it, and Yolanda is pimping for a job that pays $6.35 an hour. Now that's respect for the dead.

But you got to hand it to these guys - at least they mention Lauren. Vikki, Nikki, Phyllis and Nick are throttle-up on their little spa idea. Hey, who cares about Lauren Fenmore when we can charge $140 a pop for a Brazilian pubic hair job?

Yet, the person who really, totally, unequivocally takes the cake is Joanna Manning. Breezes into town for Lauren's wedding. Hadn't seen her since Lauren was out of training bras. Scotty Grainger? Didn't recognize his name let alone the face of her only grandchild. But there she was, dabbing away the pre-requisite tears as Lauren said her la-dee-das.

So one might think, where in the hell is this woman now? She was obviously in town for the wedding, how far away could she be now? Does she even know about the death? Should she, as closest living blood relative, have even one thing to say about the investigation, funeral arrangements, Lauren's estate and belongings? Anything?

Incredulous that none of the town folk had contacted Ms. Manning, the GCN staff did.

"Mrs. Manning, we have terrible news to report. It appears your daughter, Lauren Fenmore, was the victim of an explosion on her honeymoon yacht. It does not look as if she survived."

"What? Oh, that. Yes, I heard. Terrible news, really bad."

"Well, Mrs. Manning, all of us at GCN extend our condolences."

"Wait, wait ... Oh, sorry about that, Emmanuel is down here giving me the most fabulous foot massage and pedicure. Ah! To die for! Listen, can you tell me if you know when the Will is going to be read?"

"We have no word on that, Mrs. Manning."

"Damn."

"In case you didn't know, Mrs. Manning, there is a service planned for tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow! Well, on Thursdays I have my Tai Chai class. I certainly can't forfeit the relaxation that gives me. Will there be any cake and coffee afterwards? I could make that, I think."

"We're not sure, Mrs. Manning. But tell us, do you have any intentions on taking over the care of Scotty Grainger?"

"Scotty…? Oh, yes, my grandchild. Oh, heavens, gracious, no. He's a big boy, you know, raised in all of those expensive boarding schools. If he didn't need his mom, he surely doesn't need me. Well, too-da-loo, Emmanuel is moving up to my calves now…"

Incredulous, I hung up the phone. The only real question in this reporter's mind is what basis there was for incredulity in the first place.

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