Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
Unfinished Business
My fingertips fumble through my purse, searching desperately for the ridges of the nickel-plated surface. This miniature black bag that was designed for someone several years younger than me and half my size.
There’s my phone. My breath mints. My lip gloss…
“Where is the damn key?”
All I want to do is head inside where I can hibernate for two weeks.
Forget the outside world exists, order lots and lots of takeout and just wallow at the fact I am single, jobless and completely lacking any personal life.
Once my little “blackout” goes public, the damage will be irreversible and I will be labeled as the jealous girlfriend.
“Charlotte?”
Her distinctive voice sounds raspy and warm. Pivoting on my feet, I am more aware than ever before that I am standing in a puke-stained dress, radiating a smell of fermented fruit.
“Mrs. Silva!” I call, forcing my voice to stay steady, stopping myself from hugging her.
Up close, the grays mixed in her short black hair are more prominent. Her skin looks like it hasn’t seen sunlight in weeks. With how small she was to begin with, her bones are so frail I can see her collarbone protruding.
“Honey, you can stop calling me that. Call me Beth.”
“Okay, Beth, how are you holding up?”
Nothing prepares me for how weird it is to interact with her for the first time since the fire. Calling her “Beth” feels unnatural slipping off my tongue. The matching freckles and bone structure between Skye and her are eerily identical.
“Sweetheart.” She pauses before reaching over to my hand. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
Beth is keen on using any term of endearment in any conversation we have. I could never have a conversation with her without some variation of honey, sweetheart, or love. All she needs is a cane and to smell like sugar cookies to reinforce the sweet old lady stereotype.
“What do you mean?” I question. Did she see the interview already? Was I already going viral?
“Your dress, darling.”
I take another glance at it and flash a nervous grin. Other than the dripping oatmeal on the fabric, the stench has not dissipated.
“I’m fine,” I say. I repeat the word until she stops staring at me.
“Well, fine. Fine. I wanted to stop by to thank you for the cookies you made me, sweetie. I know it was a while ago, but life has been…” She pauses, trying to find the words.
So, I finish for her. “Life,” I add.
“Exactly. Well, my whole family has been in town. Ben is about to leave in two days.”
“Ben?” I repeat back.
I haven’t heard her speak of this “Ben” in the three years I’ve lived at this complex. I repeat his name in my head a few times, hoping it will dawn on me.
“My brother. Skye’s dad.”
“Oh. Has he not been back since she died?”
“No, I think it took him a while to realize it was real. They saw each other a week before it happened. I had to beg him almost two months later to do this vigil.”
“Did you have a service?”
“We did, but now that he is finally in town, we are going to have a little memorial in her honor.”
“That’s nice.” I fumble back into my purse, hoping I’ll find the key on this attempt.
“Would you come? It’s tomorrow. I know you didn’t know her, but it would be nice to see more friendly faces.”
I return my gaze back to her as my answer is forcing its way to the surface.
“Of course. I’ll bring some baked goods.” I give a faint smile before Beth turns away. No matter how sad her eyes are, she never loses the warmth in her voice.
I lift my “Eww, people” doormat, seeing I did remember to leave a spare underneath it.
“Aha!” I mumble to myself with my house key now in hand.
“It’s at one o’clock at Bethel Life Church!” Beth yells as I am turning the key in the lock, opening the door to my apartment with dead plants and laundry everywhere. The state of my place being completely neglected.
This is enough to motivate me to panic-clean, scrubbing every glass panel of my fridge. Dusting the ceiling fan. Throwing all the laundry stuck on the floor into my washer.
When everything is done, I force my thoughts away from earlier today.
From now on, if I’m going to continue this freelance stuff, I am only gonna accept actresses. Except Sloane Swanson. She will be on my shit list forever.
I flop myself on the bed, stripped to my oversized shirt, imagining how a funeral for the girl haunting me will go. A museum to catalog Skye’s brief time on Earth.
What will everyone say?
What music will they play?
Will they pick up on her energy in the room?
I hold on to the pendant around my neck tighter, yelling, “A luz sabe” three times…
But nothing. My room is perfectly consistent at seventy-three degrees Fahrenheit. My pendant hasn’t glowed since the premiere.
I have so much to say. It feels inconvenient how she shows up whenever she feels like it. The only thing I can turn to is my couch.
My day is spent with entirely too much time glued to my TV. Burning through episodes of Sex and the City before my eyes eventually give out.
When I wake up the next morning, I am completely oblivious for about thirty seconds.
Every bit of yesterday resurfaces with one click of an app when I unlocked my phone. I’ve successfully crossed over to meme territory. My rage is well documented, publicly, for all to see.
“Weren’t you the girl that stepped on my dress?”
“Yes, Sloane. That was me.”
A continuous loop repeats over and over again with a remixed version of the sound bite playing endlessly on my phone as I read through the comments.
Wow, she is so brave.
I could never destroy my career for a guy.
Someone’s jealous.
Sloane’s prettier
She wishes she was as talented as Sloane.
God, Sloane can’t do an interview without rehearsing her lines.
Mr. Save-a-Ho—Graham Walker
Psycho girlfriend
I like her, she’s got spice.
Every jab I read hits me like a bullet train trying to run me over. At the speed of light, the opinions flood in—good, bad, neutral. All weighing in on who I am.
Like every train wreck, I can’t stop looking. It is almost eleven in the morning when I finally manage to get myself together in a modest black dress for the day. I pull myself away from the phone and leave every notification on Do Not Disturb, desperately needing to tame my frizzy waves.
Switching to my music app, I scroll my playlist as I try to find the best song to get ready to.
“What would your theme song be, Skye? Maybe I can play DJ tonight?” I ask her, hoping she will hear. The thought of Skye spontaneously playing music on her own vigil brings a smile to my face.
Reaching for my curling wand, I plug it into the outlet as the first song starts to play. The first couple of seconds of “Miss You to Death” by Holly Humberstone start to play, a song that gets me to sway my body as I separate each section of my hair.
The pendant’s familiar chant plays over the music.
“Skye?” I say eagerly.
“Nice moves.”
Her face appears in the reflection of my mirror. My pendant is glowing for the first time in twenty-four hours.
“I would probably play ‘It’s My Life by Bon Jovi.”
The jump scare causes me to burn my left arm.
“Ffttt! Goddamn it!”
I set the curling iron back onto the counter, unplugging it from the socket. First my hand, now my arm.
The universe is dead set on branding me.
“You should really stop using the lord’s name in vain. He has explicitly told me you are one curse word away from turning into a ghost yourself.”
“No, he did not,” I say, crossing my arms.
“You’re right, he didn’t. But you’ve really got to stop cutting and burning yourself.”
“Funny! Like I am doing it on purpose.”
Picking up my wide-tooth comb, I part my hair down the middle, perfecting the waves cascading down my back.
“What are you getting ready for?” she asks.
“You don’t know?”
Skye shakes her head, no longer reflecting back in my mirror. My head whips back and forth to either side of me as I try to spot her.
Lying on the reading nook, she is in full physical form with her feet propped up on the bench.
“Your vigil.”
I walk over to meet her, watching her closely, asking softly, “Come with me.”
She doesn’t respond.
Doesn’t meet my eyes.
Doesn’t even make a snide comment.
“Just promise me you will wear black,” I insist.
Her laugh bursts out as if it was hidden behind her dull eyes.
“As a matter of fact, I am going in a pink crop. Maybe I’ll even perform a public roast to everyone that shows up…”
“Your dad will be there,” I say deliberately.
Her nostrils flare as she lets out a deep breath, returning her gaze back to my pendant and no longer laughing.