Thirteen
At the corner table of the speakeasy-style cocktail bar Angel chose, my brother takes a long look at Esther from across the table, slowly swirling the Manhattan in his hand. “It’s such a pleasure to meet you, Miss Voigt.”
Seeing Angel in the flesh is like seeing a ghost, except I’m the silent specter.
I haven’t seen my brother in fourteen years.
It’s shocking how much he resembles Dad, the same lanky frame and sharp cheekbones.
Even the way he sits, slouched back casually in his chair, the lowball glass in his hand and a slight tilt of his head, reminds me of how Dad used to sit on the porch swing with his brandy after work.
“Gotta say,” Angel says, smiling almost lazily as he finally meets Esther’s eyes. He must practice that smarmy flirtation in the mirror. “…you look much younger than I expected. It’s refreshing to meet a female who looks nicer in person than in her pics.”
My jaw clenches. Angel is barking up the wrong tree.
Esther is obviously gay. But if his online persona is anything like his true personality, a little inconvenience like homosexuality would not stop him from trying to win over a new fangirl to stroke his ego.
So here he sits in a dimly lit bar, all crooked smiles and smoldering gazes, directed at my Tie.
I cross my legs in the empty chair next to Esther. All those hours and hours of practicing how to cross my legs properly when I “sat,” was time well spent. The gesture perfectly expresses my silent displeasure.
“Sorry, it’s Dr. Voigt,” Esther corrects him, awkwardly fiddling with the tab of her seltzer. The waiter of this bougie basement bar gave her a sneer when she ordered something canned, instead of their overpriced cocktails. “But you could call me Esther.”
“Oh, a doctor? Impressive. You must have taken a lot of anatomy classes.” Angel winks.
Esther cringes, failing to mask her distaste with a tight smile.
Perhaps to people who don’t know her as well as I do, she might have succeeded; Angel doesn’t seem to have noticed.
From his perspective, why would anyone cringe at something he said?
“Sorry, I’m not a medical doctor. I have a Ph.D.
in Philosophy. Queer and feminist theory, specifically. ”
“Ah.” Angel’s flirtatious smirk tightens into a sneer.
The fuckboy mask drops to reveal the sour expression I remember from my delightful brother.
“I should have expected no less from Lucifer’s friend.
” Esther’s polite smile twists into a confused frown at my hilarious nickname.
“I was shocked when I had to look up her number a few years ago, only to discover she had a career writing about Satanism. Then again, that’s on brand for Lucifer. ”
I roll my eyes. God, he still talks just like Mom.
Dramatic and preachy. Normally, I’d cuss him out for using the moniker that Mom blessed me with, which he parroted even after I told him how much it hurt my feelings.
But doing that now would require talking, and if the faint, wispy white outline muttering to herself behind Angel’s right shoulder is any indication, Mom is here.
I never knew what happened to Mom. From what Angel posted, it seems she died just like I did: vanished mysteriously, with no body found.
While I wish I could say I didn’t care at all, that I never worried about her, that I didn’t mind if she had fucked off and died, I did grieve her.
Albeit, in the complicated, confusing way that anyone grieves their estranged parent.
That is to say I suppressed my tears, until I could drown them with wine.
Then I drank enough to forget my moment of weakness, the lapse of compassion for someone who never showed me any.
But lo and behold, here she is, haunting the only person she cared about more than herself—Angel.
I shake my head, completely unsurprised. Not sure what else I should have expected.
Luckily she’s very faint, just a whisper of an outline and a hazy voice from my nightmares muttering to herself; she probably can’t see me.
She doesn’t seem to have noticed me yet, at least. Thankfully.
Harriet said the last sense ghosts lose before they move on is hearing.
So I’m staying quiet, rather than risk getting yelled at.
“Wait, is Lucy short for Lucifer?” Esther asks incredulously.
“Not legally,” Angel chuckles, shooting her a crooked smile. “Spiritually, let’s just say the shoe fits. She was the root of all evil that troubled my mother, even after Lucy abandoned us.”
Eyebrows raising, I barely muffle a scoff that threatens to escape. Really? Really? Is that how you see it, Angel? The way I remember it, Mom kicked me out as soon as she legally could.
Oh, I wish I was brave enough to say that out loud. Not that it would do any good to say it; the only one who might hear me is Mom. I hate having a filter again. How did I stay so quiet before?
But being stuck here, watching Angel hit on Esther with Mom berating me, would be literal Hell.
Besides, Angel isn’t exactly wrong. Mom may have kicked me out the day I turned eighteen, but I would have left in a couple of months anyway, once I started college. Maybe even earlier than that. Honestly, sleeping in my car until the dorms opened felt safer than staying at home.
I never bothered to reach out to Angel once I left. From his perspective, maybe I did abandon them, in a way. The one time he did reach out to me, I hung up on him.
“Lucy’s academic focus was more on cultural constructions of life, death, and existentialism, not necessarily Satanism.
Though she did reference a lot of cults in her work,” Esther says tactfully.
“Granted, we weren’t close, but she always seemed kind and polite, so I have trouble seeing her as evil.
Her mentor had the funniest stories to tell about her from when she was his student.
He held her in very high regard—professionally and as a close friend. ”
I smile at my East fondly. That was much more tactful than telling him to fuck right off, the way I would have.
Probably just as ineffective, but it’s nice she tried.
I had no idea Cash talked about me to anyone, beyond his recommendation to Gilda.
Makes me wonder what stories he had; I was even more of a disaster back then.
“Yeah, well, I’m surprised Lucy let anyone close to her,” Angel mutters. “To be honest, I never expected her to have any friends, let alone someone who cared about her enough to reach out to me to talk about her.”
“You sound just like her when you talk, you know,” Esther says. “I can tell you’re siblings.”
“Excuse me?!”
For a second, I think I said it, and I tense, praying Mom didn’t hear me. But no, Angel has his hand pressed to his chest, same as I do. The offended sneer on his face matches mine.
“Oh, no, that was a compliment!” Esther sputters, rushing to explain. “You both have the same cadence? That’s all I meant. You both have a really interesting way of talking, it’s very um…theatrical!”
I have never been more offended in my life. Are my lectures as overwrought, dramatic, and preachy as Mom’s? I should hope not!
“Theatrical,” Angel deadpans, but he rolls his eyes and changes the subject.
“I told that officer he shouldn’t bother trying to find her—Lucifer always cared about herself first. She was just like Dad that way.
” I cringe, because now that Esther has pointed it out, I do talk like that.
Have I become my mother? Angel tsks, with a shake of his head.
“Dad up and left us, too. Abandoned Mom with two young kids on her own.”
That isn’t what happened! Mom kicked him out! My jaw drops open to argue, but I snap it shut as Mom’s ghost brightens, cooing praise around him.
God, I wish I was brave enough to say something, even if he can’t hear me.
But he’s not wrong either. Maybe it’s a good thing I’m forced to listen to his perspective.
Because, yes, Mom kicked him out. But Dad eventually stopped trying to see us, stopped sending child support, stopped reaching out.
I sit back in my chair, that familiar, defensive anger leaching from me.
Mom told us he must have finally drank himself to death after we hadn’t heard from him in a year.
But we never went to his funeral, so I never wanted to believe her.
Then again, isn’t that what I did? Except his poison of choice—his go-to coping mechanism for living with Mom—was probably brandy, not boxed wine.
I always thought the bottles were so…regal.
The gold and red label on the flared bottle.
I know now he drank it because it was cheap.
But as a child, it looked so classy, the way he’d pour the golden brown liquor into his lowball glass as he lounged on the porch swing.
I used to sit with him after he got home from work and watch how the sunlight played through the facets of the crystal.
Not that pretty bottles and a nice glass makes it any better than boxed wine and a mason jar. There’s no classy way to drink yourself to death.
“Sounds like you all had a hard life,” Esther offers gently.