American Bruja: The Los Angeles Cauldron

Chapter 30. Betty Morton

Journal entry from Tuesday, August 9, 2011

6:00 a.m., Los Angeles

My eyes open to sunbeams streaming through the bedroom window. Gratitude fills my heart at the sound of Rob's deep breathing. I rise to my elbows and turn to stroke his cheek. For a moment, his skin is golden and youthful. My breath catches in my throat, and I wish for time to stand still so we can stay like this forever.

Then clouds pass over the sun and the illumination vanishes. Rob's skin is grey and taut over skeleton features. My heart sinks.

I throw off the covers, stand, and walk to the window. To the north loom the Twelve Apostles, silent sentinels that watch the endless cycle of life and death in Lake Manor. I'd expected them to crumble in protest when Mom, Dad, and Rhonda died. But they remain the same and look no different today than they did in 1968.

Thursday, August 15, 1968, 11:00 a.m. Los Angeles

White folding chairs encircle three open graves atop a grassy hill. The dirty slashes in Mount Sinai's manicured lawn house simple pine boxes. Murmuring reaches my ears as mourners walk from their cars. This morning's memorial service was a blur. A tearful Rabbi Schumer spoke of my parents as community legends, having owned the only Jewish deli in the Simi Hills. Mort's Deli, home away from home. Mom worked the door dressed in flowing silks with her blonde hair piled high atop her head. Her beautiful smile and warm presence made everyone feel welcome, like family.

My older sister Sharon bends to scoop a handful of dirt from the mound at the head of Rhonda's grave. She's a younger version of Mom, with long blonde hair falling in a curtain around her face. Perfect creamy white fingers curl around the dark earth. As she rises, she flings the dirt over Rhonda's casket.

I'm frozen and staring at Sharon's back as she moves from our little sister's grave to Mom's grave. The summer sun is blazing hot, but I'm shivering. I want my big sister to run back to me and wrap her arm around my shoulders. Tell me everything's going to be okay. But Sharon's avoided me all morning. She won't even look at me. I may as well be dead for all she cares.

Aunt Margaret puts her hand in the middle of my back and pushes me toward Rhonda's grave. I bend, grab a handful of earth, then reach over her coffin and open my hand. The dirt makes a soft plop as it drops. How many times did I tell Rhonda to buzz off, to stop tagging along when I went out with my friends? I should be a sobbing mess, but I'm numb inside.

When Aunt Margaret reaches to shove me to Mom's grave, I turn and swat her hand away. A sudden flood of grief washes over me. I fall to my knees and then drop to all fours.

The smell of damp wafts from the freshly dug grave. In my mind's eye, I see skin peeling and clothes forever welded to her body. Blinking hard, the horrible image disappears. I scoop another handful of dirt and toss it onto the pine box.

Aunt Margaret's disapproving clucks don't stop me from walking on my knees to Dad's grave. My dress is now filthy, and I don't care. Neither would Dad, always encouraging me to put down whatever book I'd be reading to go outside. He was so proud when I made the JV Cheer Squad. So proud he got Mom and Rhonda to ride along when he drove to meet my bus.

The truth I've been avoiding hits me in the chest and snatches the breath from my throat.

My fault. My fault. My fault. I squeeze my eyes shut and claw the dirt pile at Dad's grave. Tears seep from under my eyelids to run down my cheeks.

A soft voice speaks in my ear. "Betty, it's me."

Opening my eyes, I find my tearful best friend on her knees. Mary throws her arms around my neck and pulls me close. Choking back a sob, I bury my face in her shoulder. From behind us, I hear Sharon groan at the spectacle I'm making of myself.