𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐄

𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄, 𝐈𝐈

9. | AS THE GHOSTS COME RUSHING IN, II

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SOUTHFIELD, MICHIGAN.

Diana didn't remember her walk to the garden. Much of the past two days had been that way—periods of lucidity intermingled with lapses in memory. She could be anywhere, doing anything, and the world around her would go dark. Within the blink of an eye, she would see her mother's chest rising and falling until a low, nearly indistinct rattle passed through her chapped lips. She would see the nurse stepping in, placing two fingers on her mother's wrist, slipping the stethoscope into her gown as she listened to the depth of her breathing. She would hear the footsteps approaching, relatives gathering at the door as the nurse lifted her head to grant them a remorseful whisper. And just like that, the lapses would end, pushing her back to cold reality.

It was Wednesday, October 10th, 1984, and her mother was dead.

Death had the look of sleep. With a single exhale, her mother's eyelids ceased to flutter; her dreams drifted to a deeper place, unrestricted by the boundaries of life and time. Only her mother's spirit and whatever awaited her in the beyond would know of those dreams now.

There would be no more laughing at the dinner table, no more trading stories over tea. No more coming home to old-timey music and her daughters sashaying in circles as her mother whooped and cheered them on. Left in their place would be a blank, unfilled space.

Diana's duties kept her afloat. She had been tasked to register her mother's death, to obtain the death certificate, to set the wheels in motion to put a notice of her passing in the paper. The city of Detroit wouldn't know the truth until after the burial.

When the mortician completed Ernestine's body, she was the one to lead the charge. She entered the room first, standing vigil over her mother's rigid form. Her eyes scanned every strand of hair, every limb, any fleck of mascara, blush, and article of clothing. She pointed out the choice of lipstick, requesting something subtler. A pinker shade of taupe over the red chosen by the funeral parlor.

The only thing that remained untouched after her analysis was Ernestine's dress. She had given them options. Purest white, calming cream, or softest lavender. After her mother's body was taken from the house, Diana, Rita, and Barbara chose the lavender lace dress, complete with sheer, frilled sleeves and faint white polka dots. Against the white casket and the gray brick and oak floor of the church, her mother had looked just steps from the divine.

Her divinity remained as she was interred in the mausoleum. As the undertakers surrounded her tomb with extravagant flowers, Diana took stock of her memories, and not for the last time.

She did so now as she sat in the garden, caressing the petals of a hydrangea. She could hear her mother's laugh, could see that jestful, persnickety lift of her lip and nose. Something reminiscent of a smile flicked across Diana's face. Who would care for the flowers now that she was gone?

The house glowed behind her, moving in somber arrested motion. It was filled with her mother's favorite people, music, and food.

Somewhere between the tearful entry of one of her mother's oldest friends and her Uncle Gus' reminiscing, Diana had drifted away in search of a distraction—it was more like the distraction found her. The flowers whispered and she followed their command, floating to the round, blue Cadiz table just inches from the garden. Each glass tile of the mosaic tabletop ignited as light sliced the air behind her.

"Folks are asking about you."

Fred Jr. came into view. Fireflies buzzed, zipping around him. He descended the steps, absent of the suit jacket he had worn for the funeral. He was their father's namesake, but the only thing spitting about him was his mannerisms. Other than that, he had taken on their mother's look. Diana didn't know if it had always been that way or if death was simply playing tricks on her.