Page 13 of A Dead Girl's Guide to Living
My eyes followed the coffin down the aisle until it was out of sight. I sniffed, swallowing deeply as I turned my head back toward her beautiful portrait, desperate to burn her image into my memory and hold it there forever.
I vividly felt Ida’s hand on my back and I had a half second of comfort flood me and fill that gaping hole of loss that was gnawing at me, and had been since Margaret took her last breath.
I tried to ignore the fact that I would never see her in front of me again. That I would never sit across from her, hands clasped over a spread of tarot cards, never read the astrology section of the newspaper together in the breakfast nook of her apartment.
Hands touched my shoulders, accompanied by murmured condolences I barely registered. One by one, they moved on, drifting toward my mother, who handled them all like clients she needed to placate.
"You know, I hadn’t seen her in ten years, but when I saw the notice in the paper..."
"What’s happening with her shop?"
"She must be loaded after all those celebrity appearances, eh?"
I grimaced. But I could hear Margaret’s voice in my head, low and knowing, full of deep laughter and wisdom.
"Don’t listen to it, love. People only mourn you when it’s too late. Or when they want something."
She had said those words to me once, when I was crying over an old ex—someone who had tried coming back when they realized what they had lost.
“As the ceremony booklets indicated, you are most welcome to return for the wake…”
Uncle Bill’s stiff voice carried over my shoulder, and my teeth clenched.
“Let’s go,” Mom murmured behind me. “I don’t want to fight for parking.”
I blinked and glanced behind me, looking for Ida.
She had already left.
A gilded cagein the middle of a quiet, lifeless street. It was the same thought I had every time I saw Uncle Bill’s house. It sat in the kind of fancy neighborhood where every home looked the same, where trees were evenly spaced, and sidewalks were far too clean.
Neighborhoods like this always appeared in the opening shots of horror movies, revealing that the idyllic homes and smiling occupants concealed darker, more sinister lives beneath their polished exteriors.
I tightened my coat around me and sniffed again, the afternoon chill creeping into my bones as I followed my mother up the driveway. I watched her discreetly as she walked—the way she glided with purpose, sharp heels clicking against the pavement, hair barely moving. Her entire life was in order. Each purposeful stride commanded attention.
I had tried to be like her once.
It had been right after high school, during a meltdown when she had gotten into my head. I had dressed like her, talked like her, even interned for a summer at her office, until I left the laminator on and set the print room on fire.
I winced at the memory and shook my head.
No, I would never be a corporategirly.
My boots clicked a little louder on the pavement than the sharp point of my mother’s heels. I wasn’t used to spending this much time with her. The car ride over had been stiff and silent, the only occasional sound a grunt of annoyance from her whenever another driver pissed her off.
I let out a tired sigh and let my mind wander.
If I had to pull a card to represent today, what would it be?
It was my favorite pastime, a trick Margaret had taught me when she first introduced me to the cards. Learning their meanings. Finding the ones that fit.
Today… maybe The Tower. Chaos. Destruction. Everything crumbling into ruins. It certainly fit. Reversed or upright? I found myself musing, the sole of my boots scuffing along the floor when I didn’t lift my foot high enough.
Mom shot me a glare.
I chewed the inside of my cheek. Maybe The Fool? A new start. A fresh but uncertain path. Stepping forward with nothing but reckless optimism?
My spirits didn’t lift. I certainly didn’t feel any optimism.
