7. Ophelia
OPHELIA
I catch the subway to Soho, hot, humid air greeting me the second I step out onto the street.
Glancing at the time on my watch, I pace down the street, conscious of the time.
Mr. Moretti values punctuality. The look he flashes people when they turn up late for his meeting is frightening.
New recruits adapt to his extremely high standards very quickly, not wanting to face the consequences of turning up a minute late to his meeting.
Will an exception be made for me, seeing as though he now wants to bang?
I suppose I’ll find out soon enough when I step into his office late, running over my lunch break. Aunt Viv likes to speak for the nation when we catch up, the concept of time, sometimes even social awareness, lost on her.
She spends six days a week floating through her own world, selling luxury paintings to clients. Abstract art should not be sold for more than two figures, but hell, what do I know? I’m an investment billionaire's assistant, not a creative hippie who syncs her cycle to the moon.
“Phee,” she says, rushing to grab the door for me. “Oh, do come in. I have the air on, blowing nice and cold in here.” She shuts the door behind me, the street traffic fading away.
My nostrils fill with the smells of acrylic paint and her perfume.
She’s worn the same brand of perfume for two years.
The scent used to be my mother’s favorite, and now I’m experiencing nostalgia as she brings me into a hug, kissing me on each cheek.
I understand the sentiment, but smelling like my mother tricks my brain into thinking she is still here.
“You said you wanted to speak to me, sweetie.”
“Yes,” I say, wandering around the gallery as she flips the front door sign over, closing the place up.
I look at the paintings framed to the walls, some big, others small, the cheapest on sale for five hundred dollars.
Angling my head to the side, I try to understand why someone would buy a canvas with one single blue streak of paint across it for this price.
Mr. Moretti could do better than this, and that guy is even less artistic than me.
“Who exactly paints these?” I ask, still focused on the single blue streak.
“You mean, who is the artist?”
“Yeah?”
“This particular artist is from Peru,” says Aunt Viv, handing me an expensive bit of card. “Here, you can read about their mission.”
“Maybe later.” I force a smile, slotting the card into my purse.
“Art is what helped me grieve your mother,” says Aunt Viv, placing a hand on shoulder.
“Does the perfume not bother you?”
“What do you mean, dear?”
“Mom used to wear this fragrance all the time.”
The smile disappears, something more serious landing on Aunt Viv’s face. “It keeps your mother’s memory alive, the scent encouraging me to look back on our memories fondly.”
I nod, partly understanding. Everyone deals with death differently, I guess.
Aunt Viv has always been an interesting character.
The colorful feather earrings, along with the drapey skirts and crystal necklaces, make her look like a living painting, like someone splashed a bunch of random colors onto her and she went with it.
Aunt Viv is good at going with the flow, moving through life at her own pace.
Where my mother was more practical, working as an ER nurse with Sapphire, Aunt Viv has always been more creative. My mother would tell us about horrendous cases at work. Aunt Viv's response would be: “The universe will hold them close, preparing their spirit for their next journey.”
My mother and I would flash each other a look. There’s no life after death, no second journey, no reincarnation.
My mother’s death caused Viv’s bubble to burst as she waited for ‘signs’ from the universe that would prove my mother was still living on the earth. Two years later, we’re still waiting for those signs.
But we do have evidence, something that may connect to her death.
Holding eye contact with Viv, I take the crow drawing from my pocket, showing her it.
Her green eyes flare wide, letting me know she recognizes this sketch.
“You remember drawing this,” I state, staring at her wide-eyed, needing an explanation. “What the hell is this?”
“Where did you get this?” says Aunt Viv.
“My mother’s blue dress. You know, the one with the pocket—”
“Made in Tuscany, yes, I remember,” she says, finishing the sentence. She takes the sketch, ghosting her green manicured nail over each wing, her face turning vacant, like she’s disappearing into a memory.
“Aunt Viv?”
“Your mother drew this, dear.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“What does this symbol mean?” I pester, catching her eye. “You look like you recognize it.”
“The symbol means nothing, really.”
I frown, taking the drawing as she hands me it back. “But you looked shocked.”
“Yes, merging the past with the present can sometimes feel shocking if you’re not prepared.”
“Prepared,” I repeat, searching her face. “Why would you need to be prepared?”
“Why are you asking me this, dear?” asks Aunt Viv, her eyes drooping with sympathy. “Your mother used to keep lots of different items in her house, grocery lists, journal entries; why’s a crow drawing so special?”
“Maybe you can tell me. What happened in the past?”
“Nothing worth mentioning.”
“Mom warned me about the crows on her deathbed,” I say. “I assumed she was having a hallucination from the medication, but after seeing this and… something else, I now realize she was actually warning me, telling me to stay away from the crows.”
Aunt Viv frowns, stumped on something. “What else did you see, sweetie?” She brings me away from the window, into the far corner of the gallery. “You can tell me.”
“My… boss. He has a tattoo of this exact same crow.”
“And where was this tattoo?”
“Um,” I stutter, the mere mention of Mr. Moretti sending me up in flames. “His chest.”
A smile flickers across Aunt Viv’s face. “His chest?” she glances at me pointedly. “Is my niece having a little office romance?”
“No!” I say. “Nothing like that, ew, gross…” I shake off the thought before my cheeks show that I’m lying.
“I walked in on him while he was dressing—we share an office. After seeing the drawing and the tattoo on his chest, I thought it was a little weird. The drawing is the exact same, hence my visit here today.”
“And here’s me thinking you wanted to spend some quality time with your kooky aunt,” she teases, slapping me jokingly on the shoulder. “That being said, if you ever want help syncing your cycle up to the phases of the moon, give me a shout.”
“I’m good,” I say, circling back around to the main point of this conversation. “What does this drawing mean?”
“Like I said, dear, this symbol was around long before you were born, nothing major. This small, very harmless group was created a long time ago, back when your mother and I were young. Teenage boys didn’t have video games to keep themselves occupied back then, so they formed a delinquent group in the city, messing around, spraying graffiti, stealing bleach from the grocery store; I’m sure you can paint the picture. ”
“Maybe you can.”
“Oh, dear, I haven’t picked up a paintbrush since I was around your age. Running a gallery is busy.”
So busy that she has time to sit in crystal circles every night, chanting at the moon. Her apartment in the Village is full of dreamcatchers and random earrings. Aunt Viv is one of the most interesting people I have ever met, excluding Salvatore Moretti, and yet I feel like I hardly know her.
I suppose our different outlooks on life has something to do with that.
Her and my mother grew up in New Jersey to working class parents.
I never knew my grandparents, but they were very ordinary, according to my mother, earning just enough money to get by.
Aunt Viv, three years older than my mother, spent hours in her room panting, and my mother went to college studying medicine, making more of an income at the hospital than Viv.
That was until her gallery took off.
“You think my boss was involved in the Crows?”
“If he has a tattoo on his chest, yes,” says Aunt Viv, taking a seat behind her desk, shuffling paperwork around.
“Those young boys had a lot of steam to let off. Giving each other tattoos was how they entertained themselves… that was when they weren’t busy daring each other to steal cleaning products from the store. ”
“Why bleach?”
Aunt Viv shrugs. “Not sure. I heard on the grapevine they were playing around with bleach.” The wooden chair creaks as she sits back into it. “The cops eventually heard about the group and broke them up,” she says, trailing her finger over the wooden desk, deep in thought.
“What about their parents?”
Aunt Viv shrugs, looking at me with a defeated look. “Who knows. Some families don’t know how to look after their children.” Lines appear between her pencil brows as she watches me. “If I’m right in saying, Salvatore Moretti is one of the city’s biggest billionaires."
Ah, so Aunt Viv does actually switch on the news from time to time.
“Yeah,” I answer, seeing where she’s going with this.
“Him being part of the Crows when he was younger won’t be a good look for him if people find out.”
“The Crows,” I repeat. “This is what the group was called?”
“Yes,” says Aunt Viv. “And for your sake, I would keep this sketch to yourself. Store it someplace safe in your apartment, yeah?”
“But the Crows are in the past?”
“Yes,” says Viv. “But if your boss caught you looking at his chest and later finds this sketch, you could lose your job. And I know how much you value your career. Be careful, yeah?” says Aunt Viv, staring at me with the intensity of someone who’s warning me to be careful for several reasons.
“Don’t ask your boss any questions about the Crows and keep your distance. ”
“If this was in the past, why would my mother warn me about the Crows two years ago before her death?”