Aunt Priscilla looks less stiff in her casket than she did in my childhood. I want to say that aloud, but knowing her Protestant relatives, they wouldn't appreciate the humor. Really though, the way they've laid her hands over her heart, the soft pink light seemingly radiating from heaven, the silicon injections to fill out her razor-edged cheek bones, she seems almost inviting. Like we're all going to having tea and a chat while she's asleep. It's everyone else who looks dead around here.
Maybe I missed the memo, but there's not an ankle or collarbone in sight in this sea of dreary blackness. I made it a point to be fashionable in black and dress more conservative than usual. I didn't realize the prohibition on skin. I guess I'll keep my jacket on, but if they think I'll pretend to shuffle in my seat like a timid girl and apologize for my "lack of insight", they can get bent. Though, there's probably a prohibition on that too.
My cousin, at least I think that's who she is, takes a seat next to me, hoping to catch my glance and get a word in. The service hasn't even started yet and finding multiple ways to ignore her would get too embarrassing even for me.
"Mai, it's been so long? How are you? How's Japan?" I heard you're a big shot…oh, what's it called…Duelist? The little card game thing they're always playing over there!"
The first few seconds she opened that taut mouth of hers, I regretted looking at her. By the last sentence, I'm mashing my lips together and grinning so hard the temples of my cheeks throb just to keep from giving her a piece of my mind and leaving several pieces of her on the floor.
"Duel Monsters, hun. Duel Monsters. And I'll assure you, it's not a 'little game'," considering Yugi, his friends, and myself have almost died on multiple occasions, "it's actually a very prestigious title to be a 'True Duelist'. In fact, I've made quite a bit of money," since I know that's where her snarky ass is heading in this conversation.
That shit-eating grin just hangs and fades in silence until she stutters, "Oh…that's, not what I meant, Mai. I'm sorry if I…you know what? Let's forget about that. You remember my name, right? Caitlyn," she extends a black-gloved hand to me, "I go by Kate now."
With a sigh, I accept the handshake and try to return the heart-felt smile she's giving me. I can't smile though. I can only avoid eye contact as I sink into my seat and feel small for a while. Before I can open my mouth to muster an apology, the Reverend stomps over to the podium, halting the somber organ into a powerful silence.
"My brothers and sisters," his voice echoes off the walls as he begins his supposedly enlightening and sobering sermon on the circle of life.
I'll be dead at the end of his speech if he keeps prattling on about our "Lord's Mercy", "Divine Will", and whatever religious phrases these people desperately cling to. Except no one hangs on the edge of his words. They stare blankly without any reassurance they are any more alive than the loved one they came here to mourn. Glancing back at the 200 people here, I only see freshly pressed black dresses with lace so straight that I could make the obvious joke, but I'll refrain. The men sit rigid in suits with collars that choke the color out of their faces. Every brow glistens with sweat against their flat skin, every set of eyes is set so far back in their sockets as if monsters live in their bodies and are peering out from dark, cold caves. Not a single tear wells in their eyes, but they all dab their cheeks with handkerchiefs in some sort of robotic unison. I feel an urge to weep not for my dead aunt, but for these lifeless saps.
Kate is the only one who resembles a human being, but even the way she methodically raises and lowers her handkerchief makes me doubt. Her eyes are wet though and her lips tremble with the nerve of someone who wants to wail but knows better. Her composure reminds me of all the times Aunt Priscilla scolded us for being alive. I never listened. In fact, I remember she demanded I stop seeing this one boy in high school, said he was "too wild". I unleashed my hair from the bun she always made me keep it in and flipped it freely as I freely flipped her off. Kate never had the guts to stand up to her mother. She broke her favorite doll when she was seven and sniveled about it until her mother came in to help. Aunt Priscilla flicked it in the trash, right in front of her, and declared, "You were much too old for such trivial things anyways." Kate didn't talk for a couple nights after that. And even now, Kate refuses to break down in front of her mother's corpse.
I'm a little grateful for this whole affair though. Free wine, free food, lodging in my aunt's swanky mansion for a few days. Aspen isn't far from here, too, and I can use the visa from this trip for some well-deserved R&R. Overall, not a bad exchange, even if I do have to put up with my weird relatives for a bit.
But something's still bugging me about why I came to this funeral in the first place. Yes, Aunt Priscilla practically raised me, but she also kicked me out on the street. I've never really cared about the old hag and, quite frankly, she barely cared about me. I don't remember any of my relative's names or how anyone here is related to me. None of them have ever attempted to call me or find out how I was so the feeling is probably mutual. Yet I still wanted to come here. There's this itch in my bones that I gotta scratch. I'm not sure if it has to do with the old lady. Maybe it's because she's my mother's sister. Not sure why that would matter after all these years, but there's some feeling for Priscilla when I think about it like that. She's like a mom that I barely had. Which reminds me…
"Kate, where's Uncle Flavius?"
She shutters as if I woke her up. "My father," she shakes her head, "he passed away a few years ago."
She turns back to the reverend who I hope is almost done and I go to thinking about Uncle Flavius. Technically, mostly his family is here. He was raised Protestant, but never seemed to take it as seriously as his wife did. In fact, he was always laughing and telling jokes. He usually chuckled at my youthful antics before my aunt shut him up with her killer glare. He still laughed about it with me afterwards though. Now, he was always talking about the Jesus stuff more than she did, but he had this idea of a personable God. He always said, "At the pearly gates, Jesus tells everyone a joke and if they can't laugh, they don't get in." He'd then remind his wife to laugh, "for her Salvation". I never knew if that was a joke too, but I thought it was funny anyways.
I always hoped all dads were like Uncle Flavius and that my own was an anomaly. I don't remember much about Dad except that he would never look at me. He never said a mean word because he never talked to me. He never hugged me. For all I know, he never bothered to hold me as a baby either. Mom never said why he was like that. She just kept promising that one day he would show me that he loved me. He died and never got the chance. Maybe he liked it better that way.
Finally, the Reverend dismisses us and everyone stands and marches out in their rows to the parking lot. Only a few whispers dare to compete with the shuffling of feet and chairs.
"Hey," Kate places a hand on my shoulder as we leave, "do you want a ride with my driver?"
"Yeah," I hesitate, but the idea sounds better the closer we get to her Lincoln Towncar. No extra taxi expenses.
My aunt's mansion is just as grand as I remember it: a massive stone fortress sitting upon acres of green. I almost hold breath as the iron gates creek open and the car descends down the stone pathway. On either side are gardens fit to be in Versailles with bright orange, blue, and purple flowers. Knowing my uncle, he probably begged my aunt to plant them and add some color to the otherwise dull colors on the estate. While breathtaking, the mansion itself is a dreary, gray, intimidating building. Judging by the stature of the two corner towers, I think my aunt wanted real sentry up there. My uncle probably talked her out of it.
Two men in tail-coat suits bow and open the front doors for us. Immediately, I'm awestruck by the golden chandelier adorning the high ceilings. I feel like I'm three feet tall in this place.
"Pretty swanky," I say under my breath.
Kate giggles, "I guess I'm just used to it."
"Did you redecorate? I feel like I don't recognize this place."
"Only the entrance hall. Once we get upstairs you'll feel right at home again."
Before I can reassure her this place never felt like home, everyone else begins to fill the hall. Suddenly, the whole place, and all the previously forlorn guests, come to life as waiters fly into the room with trays of shrimp cocktail, caviar, and smoked eggs. Everyone laughs and passes around glasses of red wine. You'd think we were here for a wedding reception the way everyone's eyes light up. Maybe everyone disliked my aunt as much as I did.
An orchestra rapidly sets up, not even waiting for one another to pull out their instruments before they begin to play. Their tune is quiet and solemn, but the violin has a hint of hope. I'm not sure if it's supposed to be uplifting or a silent celebration. The room gets louder and louder as the wine bottles empty. Soon, blushing faces are bumping into everyone, people are singing arm and arm. Deep conversations ensue, the kind that stumble out of your mouth but feel like the only important thing in the entire world, like you and that person have everything figured out and everyone else is lost. I stand in the middle of the chaos, wishing I was drunk enough to find all of this funny. Unfortunately for me, my alcohol tolerance has been strong for years and the only thing I feel at this point is tired. Kate, who's been dry all afternoon, shuffles the crowd off to bed at 8, smiling her aristocrat smile and she gently but surely nudges everyone to their respective sleeping places. By 9, she closes the last door and collapses in the hallway with a sigh.
"I wish it wasn't unfashionable to not serve wine at a party," she huffs.
"It could be worse," I shrug, "It could be fashionable to serve whiskey."
Her frustrated pout creeps into a smile, "You've always been the funny one."
I offer a hand and pull her up. She brushes off her dress with an astonished thank you, not expecting me to lift her so easily. What she doesn't think about it is that she weighs a 110 pounds soaking wet and I'm used to lugging around a 20-pound Duel Disk all day. You'd think with everything else coming out in a slimmer model, Rich Boy would've made a Duel Disk Slim by now.
Kate straightens herself out, her mouth parting as if she's been waiting to speak for a while. "I…found something while I was looking through my mother's belongings this week."
"Something?"
"Yes, something, I think you might want to see. Letters."
"Letters? From who?"
"From many people," she twists her hands together nervously. "I think it's just better if I show you."
She keeps twisting her hands as she walks up the many flights of stairs. I follow at first curious but then desperate to figure out what she's trying to show me. I've never seen Kate this distressed, she's usually so easy-going. Why so suddenly too? Had she been holding this in all-day?
"Kate," I try press her, but she either ignores me or mumbles, "We're almost there."
It's like something's possessed her. She's almost floating up the stairs. Our shadows crawl up the walls with us before disappearing into the darkness covers the depths of this place. I want to laugh, ask her if this is all some sort of joke but she keeps walking and shaking. She's exaggerating, I think to myself. It's not so bad. What can be in a letter that's so bad? Why would I care what my aunt wrote about me?
We pause in front of the attic door and, like all attic doors, it looks creepy as fuck and like it should never be opened. Usually, I wouldn't bother opening a door like this, but now I have to know. Kate pulls a gold, ancient-looking key out of her pocket. I brace myself, fully ready for some spirit to possess me or a ghost attack. It wouldn't be the first time I encountered some weird paranormal activity. I hoped I could avoid that creepy stuff on this trip.
Thankfully, all that hits me is a cloud of dust and a few cobwebs. Still creepy and still gross, but nothing life-threatening today. I bat a few spiders out of the way, hesitant to even touch the things. Kate walks through all the webs, pieces clinging to her hair like a make-shift Corpse Bride veil. I still don't understand what her deal is and what the drama is all about. She ignores the scraps of shattered furniture and the pile of half-busted baby dolls as we pass by, either because of her mood or because she's seen them so many times before. One of the baby dolls catches my eye and I catch its one existing dark blue eye, staring vacantly. Maybe when it was intact it was cute, but it's missing half its face and a leg now. Even when I look away, I feel that blue eye boring into my back.
Kate stops. I almost bump into her before I notice the mound of boxes, overflowing with paper and torn envelopes. Light filters through a single window, surrounding Kate's body like a dusty halo around her dark figure. Her head turns mechanically back at me, creaking at every point until it stops with an unnerving halt. Her usually bright eyes lack any light.
"This is it," she croaks flatly, grabbing a letter from the top of the pile, "Start with this one."
It's in a purple envelop that feels old underneath my fingertips. As I turn it in my hand, I admire a beautiful, confident signature on the back for a name I haven't thought of in a while.
My mother's.