Page 5 of Play Nice

Tommy asked what I wanted to listen to on the ride up, but I could tell he was nervous, so I let him pick the music. It was a lot of nu metal, which I found kind of funny and kind of tragic.

Did u know Tommy listens to Slipknot? I texted Daphne.

Woof , she responded. Maybe he just wants you to think he’s cool.

I replied with a broken heart emoji.

The drive from Jersey to Connecticut was about two and a half hours.

Tommy insisted we leave early in case of traffic, which we didn’t encounter, probably because we left so early.

We arrived forty-five minutes before the start of the service, so we found a spot in town to get coffee and muffins.

Now we sit at a small corner table, eavesdropping on the locals and waiting for our too-hot coffee to cool enough that it won’t burn our tongues.

“How are you feeling?” he asks me as I decapitate my cinnamon muffin, streusel crumbling everywhere.

“I’m not going to cry, if that’s what you’re worried about,” I say.

“I’m not worried about that. It’s okay to show emotion,” he says. “To be sad.”

“I know. I don’t cry when I’m sad. I only cry when I want something.” I wink at him as I take a bite of my muffin. It’s a little stale.

“Leda doesn’t cry either,” he says, frowning.

“She did when we were kids, but only in private. She’s too proud.”

His frown deepens, the corners of his mouth practically dripping off his face. He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m glad we’re doing this. I wish Leda were here. And Daphne. I think it’s the right thing.”

“Thank you, Tommy. I appreciate you saying that. And for coming with me.” I wipe my muffin fingers on a napkin and raise my coffee cup to him. I take a cautious sip. “Ooh. Good coffee. Thank God.”

“Leda got me a Nespresso for my birthday,” he says, then proceeds to tell me all about it with such enthusiasm that I’m tempted to record him so I can watch this whenever I want to experience joy again.

After he finishes waxing poetic about the process of frothing milk, I excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

I stare at myself in the mirror, brush muffin crumbs off my prized thrifted black Prada minidress.

Of everything I packed, it seemed the most appropriate for the occasion, with a modest neckline and flared hem.

It wasn’t worth the fuss to badger Leda to ask Aunt Helen about the dress code for the funeral, or to reach out to Helen myself, and while I’m skeptical it’ll be a traditional black attire affair, I figured better safe than sorry.

Black Prada dress, black Prada loafers, sheer black stockings, my black cashmere cardigan with the mismatched gold buttons that I got at the Brooklyn Flea for ten bucks, sewed on myself.

Black velvet headband. Small, chunky gold hoops, my lucky dice studs, my white gold snake charm necklace that I’ve become inexplicably, incredibly attached to sometime in the last few days.

My reflection betrays what I’m feeling—nothing. No nerves, no sadness. Maybe that will change once we get there, to the place where the service is being held, or maybe it never will. Maybe there’s no right way to mourn someone who hasn’t been in my life for eighteen years.

Of my sisters, I look the most like her.

The olive complexion, big dark eyes. The same bone structure, the high cheekbones.

The thick arched brows. The long curly hair, inky black.

My nose and lips aren’t hers, but they come from her side.

That’s why she loved me most, I think. I bear no resemblance to Dad.

She could look at me and see none of him.

Not have to be reminded of the man who hurt her.

I turn away from the mirror, turn on the faucet, examine my hands as I lather and rinse them clean. I tear off a paper towel and use it to touch the knob, open the door.

When I return to the table, Tommy isn’t there. He’s by the door, waiting.

“Ready?” he asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

—

“Is this a funeral home or does someone live here?” I ask as we pull up to a stunning gray-and-white Victorian, the grandest on the street.

It looks like a giant dollhouse. The kind of house someone would assume is haunted.

Though, according to my mother, any house can be haunted, not just the old pretty ones.

A demon will move into a split-level on a cul-de-sac.

I mean, in this market, mortgage rates being what they are, I’m sure they take what they can get.

“Don’t park on the driveway, we’ll get boxed in,” I tell Tommy. “Park on the street.”

Thus begins the ordeal of finding a spot, of Tommy attempting to parallel park.

“How’d I do?” he asks, craning his neck.

“You’re good,” I say, even though he’s crooked. I unbuckle my seat belt. “Good enough, Tommy.”

“Let me straighten out,” he insists.

It’s another fifteen minutes before we’re finally out of the car and walking up the pathway toward the house. There’s a sign that hangs from the porch, and I expect it to say, “Insert Name Here Family Funeral Home,” or whatever, but it reads, Welcome Spirits .

My chest tightens, heart pounds, and I regret the coffee, the caffeine an enemy inside my body, inducing a jitteriness that I wish I could be rid of. I shake out my limbs, pull my hair to one side, and hold it up off my neck.

“Cashmere was the wrong call,” I say. “Why is it this hot in Connecticut?”

“It’s normal to be a little nervous, Clio,” Tommy says, offering a hand to help me up the front steps.

I wave him off. “I don’t get nervous.”

“I do,” he says. “Did I lock the car?”

The door opens before we can get to it. A woman wearing a long red satin dressing gown and a black mourning veil stretches out her arms to me, wailing.

“Darling,” she says, drawing me into her. I’m too shocked to resist. I allow her to hug me. She smells like vinegar. “Oh, you angel. She’s so happy you’re here.”

The woman steps back to look at me. I don’t recognize her, her features obscured by the veil. She has on costume jewelry, magnificently gaudy. Sheer black opera gloves. Her long white hair falls in glamorous waves. I admire the look she was going for. She’s just shy of pulling it off.

There are stains on her gown, all along the collar. She’s crying now, but she’s cried in this gown before. There’s clear evidence. Phantom slicks of saline and black mascara. So even with the veil, I can see her well enough. This woman isn’t sad about my mother. This woman is just sad.

“You look just like her, Clio,” she howls, clutching her chest.

I may not know who she is, but she knows who I am. I take a step back and introduce Tommy before she makes any awkward assumptions. “This is my brother-in-law, Leda’s husband, Tom.”

Tommy offers his hand. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

The woman ignores his hand and hugs him, too. He embraces the stranger with genuine empathy because that’s who he is. I doubt he notices the tear stains or her balsamic fragrance.

“Come in, come in,” the woman says, retreating into the house and beckoning us forward with a gloved hand.

We step into the foyer. The whole place reeks of incense, with subtle notes of vinegar.

It’s crowded with antiques, multiple grandfather clocks, dusty knickknacks like teacups and porcelain figurines.

Crowded with people. More people than I anticipated.

My eyes ping-pong around. There’s a lot to look at.

Framed Ouija boards hung on the walls, sepia-toned photos of cemeteries and séances.

“My grandmother was at the forefront of the spiritualist movement,” the woman says. “She knew the Fox sisters.”

She leans into me and whispers in my ear. “They were drunks.”

“No,” I say, pretending to be scandalized. I have no idea who the Fox sisters are. “This is your house?”

“Yes, of course,” she says. Her brow furrows. “I’m Mariella, darling.”

She expects me to know her, so I continue to play along. “The one and only. I love your jewelry. You’re so beautiful.”

I mean it. She is. I want to get champagne drunk with her and have her tell me all her wild bullshit stories and give me compliment after compliment and let me rummage through her closet.

I just know she must have the most incredible collection of silk scarves.

And a stash of good pills in a vintage hatbox.

“An angel, you are. Truly,” she says. “I suppose it’s been quite some time since you’ve seen my nephew. Roy is just devastated. He loved your mother very much. Roy? Roy!”

Mariella puts her hands on my shoulders and guides me into the parlor. I look behind me to make sure Tommy is following. He’s not, he’s distracted by the artwork in the foyer, studying it with his hands on his hips.

Mariella delivers me to Roy, who stands in the corner of the room holding a glass of red wine.

He’s handsome for someone who is so obviously a demonologist. His silver hair is tied back in a low ponytail.

He wears a billowy black blouse tucked into leather pants, a belt with a big buckle that has some kind of symbol on it.

The same symbol hangs from a chain around his neck.

His ears are pierced. I understand why my mother was attracted to him. He’s the polar opposite of my father.

I know I’ve met him before, when I was a kid, but that memory is hazy.

He came to the house at some point. A lot of paranormal experts came through Edgewood Drive; their faces blur together.

And my exposure to them was limited. Sometimes I was at dance class or doing homework or at Dad’s house or camping out on the deck in protest of having strangers in my room, sticking their heads in my closet to confirm that a monster lived there.

I don’t spend a whole lot of time pawing around my memory. A childhood like mine doesn’t exactly invite reminiscing. But sometimes it eats at me. Wondering what memories are beyond retrieval, are totally lost. Wondering what hides in the haze.

Roy takes one look at me and sets his wine down on the nearest coaster, which happens to be on top of a truly spectacular antique organ. He takes my hands in his and gazes deep into my eyes. His are disarmingly blue.

“Clio,” he says, his eye contact too intense.

“Roy,” I say, wanting to look away but refusing to yield.

“She was so proud of you. And of your sisters…” He has a very pretty speaking voice.

I bet he can sing. I bet he plays guitar.

I bet if he were more talented, he’d be doing that instead of chasing demons.

Demonologist is a strange fallback career, but I suppose it’d be an even stranger first choice.

And there are worse plan Bs. Charlie Manson was a failed musician, too.

Wow. He’s still talking. “She sacrificed so much for your happiness. For your safety.”

I don’t know what to say to that. To agree would be a betrayal of my sisters, of the truth.

“I’m glad she found you,” I say finally, diplomatically. Honestly. A good-looking freak she could cuddle up to at night, who would believe her, who she could talk demons with. I’m grateful she wasn’t alone.

“I have things for you,” he says. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

He releases my hands, holds up a finger, and then disappears through the doorway into the dining room, past clusters of people eating cold cuts and potato salad.

There are trays on the table, along with stacks of paper plates and plastic cutlery.

It’s not an impressive spread, and it bums me out a little.

“He’ll be back with a vial of holy water for you to wear around your neck. Regrettably, I don’t believe it’s in vogue.”

I turn around to a tall, statuesque woman with gray-streaked curly black hair, a cigarette tucked behind her ear, impeccably dressed in Eileen Fisher. Aunt Helen. She raises an eyebrow at me.

I crack a smile. “Anything is in if I say it’s in.”

It’s been so long since I’ve seen her. My high school graduation, maybe?

“Quick. Let’s steal away before someone tries to read your palm or tarot or aura.”

“I don’t mind a reading.”

“You say that now. One thing leads to another, they’re receiving a message for you from the dead. Your mother says she knew you’d come.”