Page 7 of Bound By Fury

And that’s as bananas as Gigi’s denial that he’s gone and never coming back.

Neither ever acknowledged the note he left.

I’m sorry. But this is the only way to save her.

I can picture the blue ink, smudged as the side of his left hand ran across the freshly scribbled words. I used to sneak into my mom’s room while she worked nights. I’d push the bench at the end of her bed against the opening of the closet and pull down the old Adidas box filled with pictures of our family before, with a black velvet case holding the engagement ring she never got to pair with a wedding band, and the note, alongside a bronze compass with a faded engraving, the letters blurring in the distance of my memory.

Despite the mounting evidence, neither wanted to accept the truth.

Because the truth is, he just didn’t love us enough to stay. It’s not unique, or special, it’s not magic or mental illness or anything that could explain away the pain. It’s just a man sucking ass. A tale as old as time.

I stop at my mother’s side, resting my hand against her elbow so as not to startle her. She’s speaking to a tall, robust woman with a shock of sky-high hair the color of storm clouds and a long cerulean caftan that floats to the ground. She smells of incense and faintly of earth. When she wraps her arms around my mother, her eyes finally meet mine, and a bright-red smile spreads across her face.

“Darling!” she says, reaching out and pulling me into the hug with them. “You look beautiful. Just like her, I swear.”

Maureen Vale was my grandmother’s best friend. They were closer than sisters and sweeter than friends, though it never really occurred to me to ask about the exact nature of their relationship. Maureen is the owner-operator of Gemstone Pick ’N’ Mix. She claims the right crystal can cure even the worse ailment or find your true love, but everyone says she’s just like that because acid turned her brain sour in the sixties. That never mattered though; whoever my grandmother loved, I loved, too.

“Hi, Maureen,” I say into her rock-hard, Aqua Netted hair.

“Oh, honey,” she murmurs, pulling away from us and adjusting the gaudy purple necklace at her throat. “I’m not gonna get all sad because that isn’t what she would want.” She sniffs, her eyes betraying her. Her voice drips in honeyed layers, her vowels long and drawn out. “But I’d like to thank y’all for allowing me to lead this ceremony today. We’re not here to cry, we’re here to celebrate her life and usher her to the other side.”

My mother stiffens beside me.

“We can’t thank you enough, Maureen, truly,” I say, interrupting the discomforting silence.

Maureen’s eyes linger on my face a bit too long, and I shift under her gaze.

“You know, your grandmother always told me that you were going to be something special, and I never doubted her. You are absolutely glowing, despite it all. You have a very powerful essence about you.”

She looks at me like she can see straight to my soul. Like she knows I’m hiding something. And the hairs on the back of my neck begin to lift.

“Say, if you’re gonna be sticking around town a while, you should come by and see me sometime. There are some things we should probably talk about.”

I’m lost in the intensity of her gaze, my heart slamming against my ribs as my mother’s hand wraps too tightly around my bicep.

“Okay,” my mother says, and I try to shrug out of her grip, but she doesn’t let go. “We’ll see you out there, Maureen. Thank you again for doing this.”

She steers us toward the card tables situated at the back of the room, mumbling under her breath as we go, “This town is full of crazy people, I swear.”

When I glance over my shoulder, I find Maureen still watching us as we retreat, and a chill rolls down my spine.

FOUR

CATERERS MILL ABOUT WITH GLEAMING silver trays of sparkling champagne, deviled eggs dusted with bright red seasonings, golden, crispy corn fritters, and fried green tomatoes. On the buffet table tiny chicken salad sandwiches sit piled atop bronze serving tiers alongside pickled sprouts and some kind of pomegranate pastry.

My grandmother planned everything in advance. Her cremation and the arrangements to be turned into a tree and planted on the estate. The caterers and hors d’oeuvres. The dress code (semiformal) and color palette (jewel tones). She never shied away from talk about death, specifically her own, but sometimes it doesn’t matter how much something gets planned or prepared for, it hurts just the same.

I take my small cream-colored plate with lilac etching into the kitchen before making my way to the courtyard behind the house.

It’s easy to get lost among the towering stalks of snow-white bugbane and violet lobelia grown nearly to hip height. Clumps of powder-blue asters brush against the pinks of blazing stars and butterfly weed.

Gigi had an eclectic approach to gardening, and now, even in her absence, the heart of the estate is late-summer lush, fat bumblebees lazing from pistil to pistil, drunk on nectar and dusty with yellow pollen.

My feet sink into the wet earth as my legs move without my consent. The sun is relentless in the wake of the earlier storm, and the hair at the nape of my neck dampens, the curled edges around my forehead lifting and frizzing against the melted gel.

Mourners stand, faces shielded by wide-brimmed hats and cupped hands, sniffles and light murmurs slowly halting as I weave my way through. At the head of the gathering, Maureen’s chin dips in solemn acknowledgement when she spots me in the crowd, handkerchief blotting her eyes as she clears her throat.

“Harper Margaret Willow was a mother, a grandmother, a daughter, a friend, a mentor,” Maureen says, her voice low and wavering. “And I have been blessed enough to call her my best companion for nearly thirty-five years.”