Rev. 12/16/20
chapter 3: ink on her skin
It always rains in Warrenton.
And Riza wonders, once more, why she is there.
Why has she decided to visit the one place she vows to never return to?
Her childhood home sits isolated across a stretch of green grass. The next house is one mile down, and against the gloom of the sky, it makes the single story bungalow all the more eerie. And strangely inviting now that dribbles of rain assail her face, urging her to seek shelter inside.
Everything is exactly how she had left it.
Her mother's beloved porcelain vase is there still, perching atop a round glass stand. Though the white lilies that had been blooming have dried, the petals scattered around it like a halo of brown raffia. Dust is everywhere. On the doorknob, along the metal frames of the windows. It paints the white radiator cover black, and it coats the creaky wooden floor an odd greyish hue. The electricity has been turned off, but the ivory satin shrouds that veil the old furniture brighten a room, if a little.
The first room in a long stretch of hallway had been her parents'. It is muggy and stuffy inside, but the rose-patterned quilt her mother had sewn together beckons her in. Her mother had been gifted with her hands, crafting woven baskets and knitting blankets and making dresses. Riza wore many of her creations as a child, but she had also hated it, not knowing the time and care her mother had spared as she attempted to squirm out of it.
"Riza, stay still," her mother had said.
Tereza Hawkeye's long, blonde hair had fallen out of her bun, her cheeks pink and warm from chasing the little girl who nearly escaped into the backyard. As she wrapped the garment over her petite body, pinning a grinning Riza in place, she hummed the melody they'd both often heard on long car rides. Riza had followed along. Her lips had puckered, and her throat had worked to make the same sound. Then they'd broken into giggles when Riza stumbled upon a note.
What should have taken three minutes to complete had taken half an hour. But at the end of it, her mother had smiled, taking several steps back to admire her craft from afar. Then she'd pulled Riza towards her, combed her hair with gentle fingers, and booped the tip of her tiny nose. "Have fun with Olivier. Don't be late for dinner."
Nostalgia winds its way into her, pulling her into a wistful smile. But Riza doesn't realize her chest has constricted beneath it, and it makes her want to cry.
Her own bedroom is across the hall, and the sign she had left on the door is hanging still. "Elizabeth's Room." It'd been written in her sloppy cursive, fat letters connected together by a loopy thread, back when she'd been fascinated by the art. No one in school had written in cursive. Everyone's script had been cold and strict, like the typed letters on the computer, but Riza had admired ancient authors who had written their novels by longhand, like Jane Austen. There was something beautiful and personal about it.
In her room she finds her old typewriter, rusty and beyond repair, the keys like mangled wires. Writing longhand might be her preferred method, but Riza knew for a fact that she would never complete her novels that way. Her neighbor, an elderly woman who had taken a fondness to Riza, had given her it as a gift, telling her it was one way she could spend her long days waiting for her mother. Her father did not dote on her—far from it—and her whimsical mother was often sent away for work to earn extra income her father hadn't brought.
Thinking about it makes her breathing heavy. It slows her steps as she ambles into the hallway, slamming the door behind her with more strength than necessary. And Riza proceeds to stand with clenched fists in front of her father's office.
Inside is Hell. And Riza does not know what goes through her mind as she swings the door wide open and stomps into the abyss. The space is dark without a sliver of light. Her father had liked it this way. It helped him focus, he had said. And there was much work to be done.
Her eyes adjust to the darkness as she circles the room, silent and seeking. And then she sees it. The book—leather bound, the text open to a chapter on Prometheus, the titan who had gifted fire to men—lies atop his work desk. Obsession could hardly describe her father's bulging eyes and grinning face as he memorized each word. Riza herself had been forced to memorize them.
"Riza, who punished Prometheus when he stole fire?"
"…Zeus."
"Good. And what was his punishment?"
Riza had been quiet then, her mouth open but not speaking. She didn't remember at all, though her mind raced at that very moment, scrambling for the correct answer. She had to get it right. Or she would pay for it. It didn't help that the last thing she'd thought about was Mrs. Armstrong's tasty apple pie, which, even now in front of her demanding father, she had wanted more of.
When she couldn't think of the answer, her armpits and back began to perspire. A drop of sweat trickled down her temple and round her jaw. She's felt the soft hairs on her nape rise, telling her to get a move-on. Or she would pay for it.
And she still couldn't remember.
Her body started to shake out of fear, making her swallow a lump.
"Riza, what was his punishment?" her father had repeated.
And then she cried. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks at her failure to remember.
She was going to pay now.
His disappointment was palpable. It radiated off of him like a giant shockwave. Her father sighed. "You know how this goes. Show me your back."
Reluctantly, Riza had lifted the back of her shirt. Red welts covered the center, fresh from the previous week, and trails of scabs shot from her waist up like purple plumes of smoke. Her breath was becoming ragged. She'd heard herself huff and puff, chest rising and falling without her ability to school it calm.
And then it came.
In her father's hand was his leather belt. The first swing slashed onto her back like a swarm of bees. Then the bees felt as though they'd grown in size and stung her skin until she could feel nothing else. Her mother didn't know any of this. She wouldn't have approved of it. But young Riza hadn't known any better. And one warning word from her father had silenced her for years.
"The correct answer is an eagle ate the liver of the titan as he was chained to a rock," he had concluded then.
The memory stings the back of her skull, burning hot and then hotter. Her body is rigid, her feet planted in place. But her hands are already seeking retribution, lashing an angry swipe as they knock over the incriminating book down to the ground. Her nostrils flare then, like a predator after a chase, and Riza marches her way out of his office and out of the house.
Watching from afar, Riza feels the growing need to burn it all down. Perhaps if the house ceases to exist, then the upsetting recollection of her father and his book would also disappear. But she knows this part of her past will never leave her be.
Olivier and her parents had been in their home during one tearful sprint to their house. Riza's mother had passed away by then, so sick and frail at the end of her days. And it was the one time Riza did not obey her father and told. Riza had told the Armstrongs everything, wheedled by warm apple pies and the comfort of Mrs. Armstrong's soft hand. Olivier had been next to her the entire time, listening in horror, her blue eyes flickering with what seemed to be hatred for the punishing man.
Then the next day, Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong took her in, adopted her like one of their own. Winry was born several years later, unaware for a long time that Riza had been someone else's daughter many moons ago.
Without Olivier and her family, she wouldn't be where she is now. On her way to full recovery. Living without fear.
And that is why Riza will always be grateful for her.
Her phone vibrates against her leg as she makes her way to Pinako's home, and she takes it out of her pocket.
Olivier 11:31 AM: I'm 15 mins away. See u there.
Becca 9:15 AM: Riza how's Warrenton? Must be raining huh?
Becca 9:22 AM: Omg Mustang just dropped off a shitload of paperwork on my desk!1
Becca 10:11 AM: Rizaaa come baaack! I can't stand this
Becca 10:31 AM: I'MMA BE HERE UNTIL MIDNIGHT AT DIS RATE
Becca 10:31 AM: FML! /3
Becca 10:45 AM: How did u get thru a whole day with him? Teach meeee! Plz!
Olivier is waiting for her, and Becca has written her at least twenty messages.
And Riza couldn't help but smile.
Rockbell Residence, 12:38PM
Pinako is short in stature, an old woman who has lived the last seventy years of her life hobbling side to side to make up for the one bad leg, but she is one of the strongest people Riza has ever met.
Her cane sinks into the carpet as she makes her way out of the kitchen, a tray of tea in one hand.
"Pinako, let me help with that." Riza scurries and takes the tray from her hand, setting it on the table. And then she returns to the old woman's side and guides her way back to her chair. "You shouldn't be walking around so much after surgery."
"I'm fine, Riza. I was sick, but I'm not now. Besides, I've managed without anyone else here so far," Pinako reminds her, chastising but taking her helping hand.
"You really should lay off the smoking and whiskey though," Olivier says from across the dining table. Her back leans against the slats, watching Pinako struggle into her own seat.
"That won't make much of a difference," answers Pinako curtly.
Olivier shrugs. "It might. I know a few people who recovered from lung cancer. They stopped smoking, and I'm sure they stopped consuming alcohol, too."
But Pinako waves her off, her face in a scowl "Alright, alright, bossy lady. Let's just get down to business. You're here about Winry right?"
At this, Riza takes the old woman's hand and gives it an encouraging squeeze. "What happened to her?"
Pinako sighs. The wrinkled skin of her forehead creases further, and she shakes her head from side to side. "I don't know. Winry wouldn't tell me. But she's been through a lot while you two were gone." Then she turns to Olivier, and the deference she exhibits morphs into another scowl. "And you need to stop blaming her for her decision. She didn't stay to disobey you. She stayed because she wanted to keep up the garage."
Olivier, however, is unmoved by her reprimand. Her countenance remains cool and emotionless. "And Armstrong Automotive is no more, right? Without a college education, what does she think she's gonna do?"
In consideration, Pinako twines her fingers together, as though she is praying. Then she shakes her head yet again. "I don't know, Olivier. Before she went to see you, she's been at the hospital. She wouldn't say why she was there, and she still won't say it now whenever I call. She's acted... different ever since. And I can only watch and be concerned." And then she takes her Olivier's hand and then Riza's, and she grips them so tightly her brown knuckles turn white. "Now that she's with both of you, please take good care of her. That's what sisters are for."
Ocean View Cemetery, 3:15PM
Riza carries the lidded woven basket on one arm, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear as wind blows her way. She trails a few steps behind Olivier, but her sight is already beyond her sister, beyond the weaving pathway that slithers like a snake down the rolling hill.
Ocean View Cemetery stretches across a green belt of oak trees and overgrown shrubs. Headstones as early as the 1800's lie centerstage, the recent ones rimming the perimeter. Mr. and Mrs. Armstrong's final resting place is marked by a concrete headstone, cheap and dull among a sea of granites and marbles, doing neither of them justice. But it was the only one the sisters could afford when they passed, and they have decided to upkeep it, venerate the lives they had led, by visiting yearly and laying fresh flowers on their grave.
Olivier unfolds the picnic blanket she has tucked under her arm, spreading it on the damp ground beneath them. Smoothing one side of the edges, Riza lowers herself atop it and begins unraveling the sandwiches and fruit pies they'd baked.
"Mom always did prefer you. You two share the same name," muses Olivier, staring at the bold inscription of Elizabeth Armstrong, etched underneath her husband's. She bears no indignation in her voice, but her face is unsmiling, grim, befitting the place.
"That's because you're even more stubborn than I am," Riza laughs, handing her sister a BLT. "You never listened to her."
Olivier picks at the lettuce and tosses it aside before taking a big bite. Then she swallows and nudges Riza, who sits across her, with the bend of her knee. "How was the Hawkeye place?"
"Ugly and rundown. Exactly how I remember it. Dirty… remind me never to go back."
"I did warn you," Olivier says, taking another bite. "Nothing good will come out of visiting that place. Dad said the same thing back then, too."
"Right, and I want to thank you."
"For what?"
"For taking care of me. For always watching out for me ever since we were kids," replies Riza genuinely. "You have no idea how scared I was when you left for college. I was alone with him for an entire year. And then you came back that one summer, just in the nick of time, and well..."
"It was what anyone would do," Olivier remedies, showing no emotions, though Riza knows that day is still in the back of her mind.
And Riza also knows not anyone would do what the Armstrongs had done.
Wordless, she lets Olivier finish her food, all the while thinking about Winry. Her younger sister is never far from her mind. More so now that the two of them are here, at her parents' graveyard one thousand miles away, while she stays behind in Los Angeles.
"It's too bad Winry can't come," Riza murmurs.
And something stirs in Olivier's thoughtful eyes. "What do you think happened to her? She can't just be going in and out of a hospital for no reason. And I doubt it has anything to do with Pinako's health."
"I'm not sure what happened." Riza shakes her head. "But we should let her tell us in her own time."
"No, I don't think so. If she's going to live with us, she should be honest about her situation. And it's strange that she decided to stay back in LA while we're both here—"
"Well you haven't changed at all," a familiar voice interrupts.
Edward Elric stands in front of them, his braided ponytail slung over one shoulder. His parted bangs have grown long since the last time Riza saw him, but his trademark smirk is there, playful and confident, and his attire is still a plain black shirt that makes his golden hair stand out.
"Edward!" Riza exclaims, her smile widens at the surprise. "When did you arrive in town?"
And Olivier sneers, as is her usual greeting for the man who stands only at five-foot-five. "What are you doing here, pipsqueak?"
"I've grown since the last time you saw me! At least by three inches!" Edward retorts, an indignant hand on one hip.
Or Riza supposes he is now five-foot-eight?
"You're still shorter than me, which means you haven't changed at all." But Olivier smiles then, teasing him, her countenance a delightful wonder.
At her remarks, Edward huffs a mock-scoff. But when Riza calls for him to join, he nods and traces his steps around the blanket, placing a bouquet of carnations beneath the headstone before lowering himself beside her. "I got here a couple of days ago. How are you guys? Where's Winry?"
Loudly, Olivier chuckles, "Hah. Now I know why you're here."
His cheeks turn red, and he averts his eyes from the two sisters. "It's been a long time since I last saw you guys. That's why I asked…" He swallows loudly. "I'm in between jobs now. I would've stayed in Davis but I have nothing better to do so I'm here."
"Winry is in LA. She didn't want to come," Riza tells him, relieving him of his curiosity. She knows Edward would ask again, and Olivier would swoop in and pelt him with another joke.
The bridge of his nose scrunches up. "When did she move? Last time I talked to her she lived here. In Warrenton."
"Well, she's not here anymore." Olivier shrugs. "And how's Al?"
His face lights up. As Edward's younger brother, Alphonse is his pride and joy. There is nothing Edward wouldn't do. Alphonse only needs to lift a finger and Edward will attempt to grant his hopes and wishes. Though Al is kind and modest, and a demand usually means emergency.
"Al is great! He finished last quarter with flying colors. He's just at home packing his luggage. He's moving to LA."
Surprise colors Riza's face. "He is?"
"He wants to move closer to Mei. Plus, his transfer to UCLA has been approved." Edward snickers then, knowing something she doesn't. "And since I'm unemployed right now, I'll be coming to LA with him."