Ophelia

Part 1, Chapter 1

 The water lapped over the wooden planks, rising and receding over and over. It was thick and murky, halfway between a sea and a sewer. Ophelia had been gone for eleven days. Juliet didn't miss her. She was too busy being angry. Through her window she watched the water, extending as far as she could see in all directions. In stories, water sparkled. It was something mystical and magical. Juliet didn't see magic, she saw power. Her door was locked and her room felt small. There were two beds. One she was sitting on, the pillow under her knees beneath the open window. The other was against the opposite wall, it's foot pointed to her own bed's head. The other bed was neat, no, perfect: blue comforter tucked into floral sheets tucked into a pristine white mattress. Even the pillow was perfectly fluffed, like no one had slept on it for years. It was next to the closet, built into the flaking white walls. Nothing was missing, they'd all checked. Repeatedly.

A wave came, rolling over the water and crashing into the wall below Juliet. A tiny bit of spray hit her face, poking out to look over. She closed the window and turned away, skiing so that her legs dangle off the side of her bed. Hers was neither neat nor perfect. She'd tried to make it, really, she had, but she sat on it enough for it to crinkle and pull. That's what happens when you actually use your bed. Juliet turned her head to the right. Posters decorate the wall around the door, commemorating bands and shows and movies that were never quite her taste. It wasn't Ophelia's fault that she cared so much more about everything than Juliet, but it felt like it. Juliet stared at the door. She could open it and walk out, just like that. She didn't, though. She didn't want to.

Downstairs, Violet cooked. They had food, at least. She wasn't worried about that. She looked out the window, where the water had risen just above where they used to walk. It hurt, a little, that they couldn't walk out anymore. There was nowhere to go, there hadn't been in a while. There was the hill, their hill, and then so much water. Water covering anywhere they'd walk to. But still, that extra inch, now high enough to touch the front door, was the most painful.

She felt for her daughters. Daughter. Violet had gotten to live her life. It was a meager share, a moderately successful academic career and a short marriage, but it was more than Juliet was going to get. It was more than Ophelia had already gotten. Violet turned her thoughts away from Ophelia. She should add more garlic. Everything could be improved with a dash of garlic. She broke off one more clove and crushed it with a knife, peeling off the layers of skin. She chopped it and scraped it into the sauce. She was making a lot, if she froze it, it could last them a few weeks, maybe. Hopefully they'd be gone by the time they ran out. Gone in the good way.

Violet hummed as she stirred the sauce. She glanced at the timer, the pasta was almost done. She pulled a strainer from below and two bowls from above. Footsteps, Juliet's? She turned. No, just her mother.

"Good morning, mom."

"Pasta for breakfast?" She chuckled, like it was a fun gimmick.

"It's noon and we're out of eggs."

Her mom smiled like she knew better. "Fair enough."

The timer beeped. Violet turned off the stove and strained the pasta.

Juliet balanced her forearms on her thighs as she leaned forward, staring at the door. Something was stopping her from leaving. Her resentment, maybe. No, that's stupid. She didn't resent her mom. She definitely didn't resent her grandma. Ophelia, sure, but Ophelia wasn't behind the door. Ophelia was fuck know's where, having abandoned her whole family for a better life. Juliet wasn't sad for her, because Ophelia didn't die. She abandoned them. Dead to me and dead meant different things.

Juliet stood. She was done feeling things about Ophelia. She was done crying in her room over nothing. She walked to the door, put her hand on the doorknob. But then she thought about what she'd find when she ventured back out, if she'd find her mom still crying and her Grandma still murmuring songs in delirium or if her Grandma would call her by the wrong name, by Ophelia's name, as she was known to do, even if they looked nothing alike, or if that would set her Mom off again, or if they'd all be back to crying an petting Juliet's hair, wishing it was Ophelia's.