My eyes blink rapidly through the tears, the dreamy state. I’m here, but not here. I’m in a place of in-betweens, that realm between this world and the next, the one place I can never explain or understand. Here—but there. There but here. I’m above everyone, looking down hovering in a state of madness. No. I will not look. I will not look. I will remember him as he was. They finally close the casket and the smudge is gone. I am frozen on the bench, still sitting, unable to move, my eyes dry like glass marbles, barely able to blink. My family walks away, giving me odd looks, expecting me to follow them. They clutch arms and link hands, grabbing tissues on their way out. Goodbye. The end. Straight up! Straight up!
I wait. I sit. I deny. I will not say goodbye. I will not say goodbye. I am completely mad. All that’s missing is Maw Sue’s bedroom, a ticking clock, ‘ole George and three lines, twelve words. I wonder if this is how Maw Sue lost it. Letting God have all the things she loved, treasured, giving, giving, and giving. Didn’t God have enough? I wonder how in the world she ever got out of bed, to begin with. Where is my wondering tree? I want to climb, to sit and wonder till the moon gives its glow. Sit and wonder what a tree feels like when it knows it’s been picked to snuggle a man’s body under the dirt, in the darkness of the underworld for the rest of its life. Does it resist? Does it refuse? Can it refuse? Does it say, “No God. Please not me, choose that one, but not me.” Or will it choose termites instead? To be eaten up, rotten and decayed. Does it get a choice…does it refuse to say goodbye?
One of the black suits walks to the far side of the room and pushes a button on the wall. He stares at me as if he doesn’t know what to do with me. Was that the panic button? The paddy wagon button? The come get her button? He glances to the guy in the hallway and then back at me. The floor that holds up Papa Hart’s casket begins to rotate and spin in a circle until the casket disappears and a flat wall takes its place. It was like watching a horrible, awful Magic show. But isn’t that what death is? Just when you think you get it right, you disappear? Poof. Gone.
I feel slimy and then I realize my nose is running and I’m all snotty. I must look a mess. A crazy mess. I grab the box of Kleenex on the end of pew and stand up. I feel targeted. My breath goes heavy and my adrenalin surges. It’s the same uncomfortable feeling of being studied, hunted, observed and it reminds me of the enemy, the awful Shadows that have haunted me since birth, only stronger, multiplied. My skin tingles and chills. The hair on my arms stand straight up. I turn around slow and steady and quite honestly expect to see the shadow Amodgian for what he is—and for what he has come for. Me. To take me away for good. And at this point, I would let him. Instead, she is standing there. Her. Me. Us. Oh—Lord, this is confusing. Whoever I am or she is—is standing beside the round wreath of flowers lined up by the wall. She has one red rose in her hand and it’s dripping blood on her bare feet. Each drop rattles me undone as if it is squeezed from my own heart.
“Willodean.” I hear a voice. Someone touched me on the shoulder from another direction. I nearly jumped out of my high heels and swung around almost knocking Lena off her feet.
“What the dickens is wrong with you?” She had the same look on her face as the day I climbed the tree and she found out, afraid I was going to jump. I glanced at the wreath and back at Lena.
“Did you see her?”
“Who?” Lena said flustered. “Come on. Everyone is waiting.” She pulled at my hand but I fought against it. “Everyone is waiting Willodean.”
“Okay…but I…” I looked around, feeling odd, feeling strange. I walked a few steps then stopped. I saw her. I know it was her. The image or the vision was different than all the times before. Or was it?
“Willodean!!!” Lena screamed from the open pavilion outside. Her voice echoed and bounced off cars.
“Okay, okay. I’m coming.” I frantically walked towards the exit. I felt a barrage of eye cuts from every vehicle in line as if grief had an expiration date, a time limit and mine was way overdue, extended beyond, expired. I open the back door of Annie to get to the front door. My door dance didn’t entertain, it only caused more gawks. They are unaware of my vehicular dysfunction. They think I’m just lollygagging around for the hell of it. And at this point I don’t care. I want to scream, fire off a shotgun salute like Annie does, “This is me. This is my quirky car. Deal with it people!” The sudden urge to flip everyone off and call them cracker jackasses hits me so hard I can barely contain it. It takes everything I have not to act out. The Willodean child wants to throw a stem winding tantrum but the Adult is constraining me. The black suit who is guiding traffic is watching me hard. His eyes give me the one over glaze. I have a feeling I’m going to lose it and cause a scene that will have my unborn children’s—children talking for generations. Annie decides to act up. Three door dances later, I’m finally in the driver seat. Before I look up I can smell his overcompensating cologne. He towers over Annie’s roof and bends down.
“Maam, can I help you with something?” Black suit traffic man says. “Is there a problem?”
“No…no, not a problem. I’m fine.” My voice went melodramatic. “I’m just poor.”
Black suit traffic man smiles and says, “Aren’t we all.” He gives me a wink that says he’s interested. I almost ask him to get in and we’ll skip this charade and grab a motel room for the hell of it, but that’s old Willodean, over-reactor Willodean, broken knob Willodean. Traffic man motions his hands to the other black suit at the front of the line. Cars roll out one by one, following the hearse. I cranked Annie and scolded her for acting up at such a bad time but then I said, “Did you see him? Cute, huh?”
The funeral procession is like a dream state. It’s so quiet in the cab I will literally go crazy before we get to the cemetery, so I scan the roadway for potholes and drive Annie right into them, so that the jarring will turn the radio on. I weave from one lane to another hitting a few holes here and there, but no radio. Finally, I just clip the curb with a loud thud. Lena’s eyes happen to glance back at the same time. The radio blares from the speakers and Lena’s eye are expanding like plates. Two birds—one tire. I simply pretend I’m on a Sunday drive, instead of following a hearse. I sing along with the radio trying not to feel the emotions rippling out of me. But as soon as we turn into the cemetery, I feel a wave of cold sweat and my stomach butterflies. All I hear doors slamming, one after another and a mass crowd of people encroach around the tent and the coffin. I can barely sit still while the preacher does his thing. Yada—yada, blessings, heaven, spirits, amen. All that. When it’s over, I feel closed in so I sprint to the outside of the tent. I stand there for what seems like forever, or until my heels are sunk into the dirt like two pegs, stiff and holding me up like some doll on a shelf. The bugle plays taps and I’m lost in an elegy of sorrows. The musical notes grow strong hands and clutch each person by the throat until they choke and break down. The last note held on, held on, held on—until I thought I would never breathe again, and not hear it echo. It did not want to say goodbye. The sounds bounced off headstones, pewter vases and angelic statues with chubby faces. It split rocks, cracked the earth and shook the heavens. I stare into the vast portal of scattered souls laid to rest in different times, decades apart. My vision blurs and goes foggy as if I’m breathing on a thin layer of glass. I feel removed from everyone around me. I’m held inside a thin strip of space where two worlds intersect, each yearning for the other. The in-betweens. The Imperium realm. I hear Maw Sue’s voice so close. So real. “It’s not your season Willodean.” She says. The words sink in and stir up a plethora of childhood memories.
“I’m sorry” I want to scream. “I didn’t know…Please forgive me?” I am shacked and chained to the memories that have bound me. And then a veil is lifted. My gift is accelerated. Over the top. Never before had I crossed this line of enchanted dazzling interpretation. I see things. I hear things. Across the cemetery there is a sea of people, a faint glow of souls dimly lit at each tomb, each face a story, each hold
ing joy and sorrow, each walking their own well-worn road. Their lips are moving while words pour out like sweet thickened sap and straight to my gifted ears. Their faces are unlike anything earthly I have ever seen, a candle glow, lit from another world, an eternal flame, consuming them, keeping them, as they wait expectantly for others to follow. I can see both worlds, the one that is real in front of me, family and friends shuffling about, talking, hugging, crying and then the otherworldly view that only my gift can see. My Cupitor gift. I wish others could see this. Of course, they can’t. My internal devil dialogue starts in. They don’t have the gift. They don’t know about the shadows or the house inside you. You are a Seeker. You are a Cupitor. They are sleepers unable to see the curse, or the gifts. They cannot look beyond what they see. But you…Willodean. You are a Seeker. You have eyes to see—ears to hear.
That’s odd. I smell biscuits. Mouthwatering, tongue salivating, biscuits. It can only mean one thing. Dell. It’s my fondest memory of her. In the kitchen, whacking the spoon against the old wooden bowl.
“Now do this, and then press.” She’d say kneading the dough with her hands and pounding them just so. I feel her hand on my shoulder. Euphoria shoots through me and I spin around to hug her.
“Whoa Willodean.” Dad said grabbing me. “You okay?” I’m confused and spew out vowels, lippy and incoherent jabber. I can’t tell him that I smell biscuits. I can’t tell him I’m losing my mind. I can’t tell him I linger inside the Dumas of Umbra, my little house of shadows, inside the rooms, inside me. I can’t tell him I saw a childhood version of myself at the funeral home holding a dripping rose like some freak show. I can’t tell him I have the gift and it’s real, not just a story. I can’t tell him I stole the necklace from Maw Sue and made her die. I can’t tell him that in order to pay for my sins, it’s most likely I will go crazy and die just like her. I can’t tell him I’ve suffered in silence for years with secrets unbearable. I can’t tell him I’m a Cupitor, a seeker and it’s expected of me. I can’t tell him I was chosen. I can’t…or can I?
“No, no, no, the curse doesn’t exist. Not my daughter, not my sister, not Willodean.”
I remember the doctors, the medicines, the treatments. I remember Maw Sue, those terrible days, shock treatments, a sharp blade, mirror bins, blood and mason jars, president’s screaming, me screaming…No. No. I can’t say a word.
Car doors close and engines crank. Everything is loud, raw and crisp. I see it. I feel it. I hear it. Shimmers glow in the sky like daylight fireflies. A calloused hand touches mine and brings me back to the cemetery.
“Everyone is going to Papa Hart’s house to eat a late lunch and visit for a while.” I hear his words and my lips mash together. I wanted to throw a tantrum right then and there.
“He is not at his house. He is not there. Straight up! Straight up!” I wanted to scream, stomp the ground and point to the sky.
Instead, I say, “Okay dad. I’m going to hang out here awhile. I need a little time by myself.”
“Oh…I get it.” He said with a smirk. “Leave me to deal with the relatives alone, huh?”
“You can handle it dad.” I said barely laughing.
“Alright hon. If you say so.” He kissed me on the forehead and walked away. As they drove off I could see Lena’s stare from the passenger seat. It was less than desirable. It infuriated me that people talk as if Papa Hart is back at his house and they are going to have lunch with him. I know they don’t mean too, but I’m sensitive to these things. My stomach coils up like a rusty spring. I am alone. Just me, the cemetery and Papa Hart’s casket. It is eerily quiet and I smell breakfast in the breeze. My heels have sank into the earth again, rooting me immoveable. I stare into the overly priced tree which hugs Papa Hart’s corpse. I uproot myself from the earth’s grip and draw ominously close to it, not by choice but by ritual. Something in me needs to be close.
I will not say goodbye. I will not say goodbye. I feel dizzy and out of sorts again. Loss of place, loss of mind. I reach out and place my hand on the slick polished wood. I want the porch. I ache for the porch. Our time. Our place. My heart swells bigger than my chest can contain it. I linger over memories, fading in and out while hot tears spill out from my eyes.
“Well, Papa Hart, this is it.” After the words leave my mouth, my lips press down to keep me from wailing, a surge of emotions boiling underneath and below. I will not say goodbye. “You’re with Dell now.” I whimper and sigh loudly, then half smile. “And you know how I know that? Because I can smell her biscuits. I miss the taste of them. So you tell her to quit toying with me and how about letting me find the recipe. About now, you’ll find out that she did give it to someone after all. Me. But I have to find it first. You tell her, when I do, I will learn to make them.” I laugh out loud. “Oh, by the way. Have you seen your coffin? Pretty snazzy tree, huh?
"I. Had. Nothing. To. Do. With. It.” My tone was accusatory, point blank and directed straight to the family tree where his two heathen sons sprout from the branches.
“I will miss you so much. I will miss everything. Our talks, our time.” My voice turns to a faint whisper. I want to go, run away. I want to stay, open the casket, and get inside. I close my eyes to remember. I close my eyes to forget. I look at love underneath my eye lids. Love looks. I keep all the memories tucked inside my heart. I pray a solitary prayer while my hand glides across the shiny and slick casket. I slip my fingers into the well cut grooves of wood and carved etchings. Pain jolts me undone. I open my eye and jerk my hand back. Blood trickles down my finger in three streams and spills into my palm. It is slow and thick. It unleashes a terrible, awful emergence inside the house, inside me, and its coming from an unidentified room. A room I KNEW was there all along but avoided, denied, refused entry or exit.
Denial. Avoid. Pink Elephants. I panic. I can’t move. I can’t run. I can’t do anything but see it for what it is—or what it isn’t. A thousand screaming sirens are going off inside the walls, stirring up insidious commotions, a topsy-turvy, chaotic, spinning orbit of existence that makes me uncomfortable. Lights flick on and off, doors slam and shut violently, windows pop open and close, glass breaks, boards splinter, roses and flower petals explode like confetti, Peppermints bombs drop and splatter candy like paint, blood pools up from the floor joists, light beams turn into swords battling dark shadows. Hands prick, prod and reach and grab. When the light flickers inside the house, I catch a glimpse of her in the shadows. She is there. She is an accumulation of every little girl I’ve seen since I first started to remember things from my childhood and now she is all of them, combined. Her pale face motionless, wounded, frightened.
Her face. My face. Our face.
She walks to the door and rattles the knob but it won’t open. She goes to the window and tries to open it, but it remains closed, and each time she looks back at me as if I had something to do with it. Do I? Yes. I do. Something in me, cannot let her be. She walks closer to me, her blues expanding in my vision, and I see my reflection in them. I blink and the world stopped spinning. I was standing in front of the casket where I was before the commotion inside me, erupted. But as I look to the side of me, a dark shadow emerges shrouding my view. At first glance, my lungs burst with air and I let out a blood curdling scream. I lost my balance, fell backwards and landed on one of the aluminum chairs in the front row underneath the awning. For a second, just a split second, I imagine none of this is real, just grief, fueled into a topsy-turvy mind dispensary. And then I see the blood on my hand and remember touching something…a flower, a thorn? It can’t be... I glance up and sure enough, SHE is perched on top of my grandfather’s casket like the DQ of the Dairy Queen. Immediately she has control of me, her eyes grabbing mine and making me feel sweet suckles of memories and bitter sap.
“It’s just you and me.” She says laughing. She points to herself, then me. “You—me—us. Yeah, I know. It’s kind of hard to understand and put into words since we are the same, huh?” She knows what I’m thinking.
“Oh, I always know what you’re thinking.” She said. My eyes went wild realizing she heard my thoughts. She was hearing me now.
“Yeah, I can. I can do all that. I’m you, remember. I’m all of you. I can answer your thoughts, your questions, all of it. I’m a bigger part of you than you want to admit. Since you’ve denied me half the time.” Her voice turned bitter. “But we’ll deal with that in a minute. First…” Who does she think she is? How can she control me? What is happening? Oh God. I must be lapsing into that place of no return. I’m going back to the house. The Shadows must have control, want me, no, no….I can’t. No. I can’t go there again. If I go there I might never make it out again. This cemetery is making me nuts. Papa Hart’s death has made me have a breakdown. I have to get it together or I’ll end up with my parents again. NO! Seven Willodean Seven. I felt something inside me uncurl and stretch its claws.
“I can still read your thoughts. Make me seven—make me seven.” She says in a mocking childish tone. She is holding a creepy, dried pink rose that looks more like a mangled Barbie doll. Her wicked eyes stayed glued to me as if she was simply reading a book on my life, page by page, detailing every sin, every secret transgression, ever single thought and deed. She is the exact replica of my dreams, and nightmares, still dressed in hideous patchwork shorts and an orange t-shirt, freckled face and a cascade of limp, dishwater hair. She is barefoot and her toes are spotted with peeling red nail polish. I look as I always did. I mean, she looks like she always did, I mean, me, I look like I always did—this is madness. Could this be another vision? Am I in the house, stuck inside the room? Am I just imagining? Remembering? Is there more?
WILLODEAN (THE CUPITOR CHRONICLES Book 1) Page 48