Violets Are Blue

chapter 1: Violet

Chapter 1: Violet
It was a grey day. The clouds were dark, filled with water ready to pour down at any given moment. I saw lightning on the way to the funeral home, but it was quiet  nonetheless. It was a perfect day for mourning.
I sat in a black lexus, while Abigail drove me. Something I always hated. Abigail was my father’s second wife, someone I would call a mistress, but I know it wasn’t true.
She was a white woman, with golden blonde hair -in a neat bun, held together by a black bow-, and blue eyes that matched the sky. She was wearing a black dress, with a matching blazer. She wore red lipstick to finish it off. The perfect look for a widow. She was pretty.
I myself, a black teenager, was wearing a black long sleeved -more conservative I might add- dress , over a white button up shirt, keeping the collar closed with a little purple bow. My hair was curled and shiny from the hair spray.
Throughout the whole ride I kept looking at myself in the visor. My eyes were a dark brown and unlike the sky they were clear. I haven’t yet shed a tear over my father’s death. He raised me to be strong, strong when he and my mother divorced, but I never imagined I would be this strong. His death hurt me, don’t get me wrong. The vast emptiness in my stomach was there constantly, reminding me of his passing. How else would you react if you woke up one day for someone to tell you your father never came
home last night.
I wondered if Abigail felt the same way. Her eyes were red but not full of tears.
Bitch. I never liked her, and I assumed she never loved my father. She married my father when I was about seven or eight, a year after the divorce of my parents. I wouldn’t call it a divorce, more of a kicking out my mother. Now my mother , Rose, is
homeless; broke; an addict.
I pushed those thoughts behind me. Today wasn’t the day for all of this. It was about saying goodbye to my father.
Once at the funeral home, Abigail and I opened up the dark brown doors that led us to the room my father would be in. I walked in first, not allowing myself to be seen near Abigail. As soon as I put my first foot in the room all eyes turned toward me. My steps felt heavy from the weight of their stares.
I walked straight, one foot in front of the other; keeping my back straight and myhead held high. Proud like my father made me to be. I sat down in the front row and abigail followed, sitting next to me. I didn’t want her to but the last thing this wake needed is a scene. Let alone to make my father twist and turn like he always did, when his second wife and I argued.

I looked at the cream colored casket, with golden trims. It held the husk my father's soul no longer lived in. The pastor, a black, balding old man, was standing next to the casket. He nodded his head to me, signalling me the beginning of the wake.
“Marcus Lamar Jefferson lived a fulfilling life.” The pastor said on the way to the podium in the left- top corner of the room. “He has had the pleasure of finding love,” He
winked at Abigail, “and being an accomplished lawyer and father. He is no longer with us, leaving to the kingdom of god one week ago. For those who feel sorrow over his
death, remember Thessalonians 4:17 ‘After that we are still alive and are left will be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the lord in the air. And so we will be with the lord forever.’ Will Violet Jefferson please come to the podium to give her eulogy?”
I stood up, remembering the memorized speech as I walked. I stood on the podium, and got a full view of the room. The carpet was a dark grey, with, fading, egg white walls. The chairs were a very dark brown, filled by people dressed in dark clothing. The room was depressing to me. It symbolized the physical feeling of losing a loved one rather than passing on into eternal peace, where I assume my father currently is, watching down on me.
The people were all enigmatic to me. I know none of them. They were
co-workers of my father, and people he won cases for. He liked to keep his work life and home life apart. His family was not here. He was an orphan as a child. My mother’s family disowned their daughter, for marrying my father. I have never been sure why.
I began my eulogy.
“My father, Marcus Lamar Jefferson, was a loving husband and father. My father was hard working man when he was younger. He worked odd jobs, trying to push himself through law school. He met my mother Rose Jefferson between his jobs, due to certain events, she will not be here.” I heard the quiet murmurs in the crowd. The legal battle a few years ago wasn’t exactly private within my father’s firm.
My mother and my father fought for me. My father won, obviously. This caused my mother to become depressed and eventually she found solace in drugs. Powerful and life destroying drugs. Abigail was to blame of course, she was the one who appeared between the two during their shaky relationship, and -dare I say- manipulated my father.
I continued my eulogy. “He arose to great heights, having a child, in the process.
He was such a loving father and husband to me and my mother. He was,” I cleared my throat. The lump in it was becoming bigger and bigger, “a great man. He always made sure I had everything I needed, made sure I was never hungry. I never argued or hated him. He will be missed. By everyone.”
There was one thing that I somewhat hated my father over. Abigail. I looked to her. Tears were finally falling from eyes. I wasn’t sure if she was more hurt by the fact that her husband is gone, or the fact that I didn’t include her in the eulogy.
“Please send out your prayers to his family, they will surely need it.” the pastor said.
I sat back down next to Abigail. She refused to look at me. I just ignored her. The rest of the wake went by fast, passing the time with church songs. In the end we all rose from our seats to pay our final respects. I was the first to go. I walked up to him.
His body was a dark brown, but currently a paler version. He wore a black business suit, with a red tie, and red loafers to match. He was wearing his wedding band from his second marriage. It was engraved with Abigail’s name on it. Abigail must have kept the wedding ring. I wondered what happened to the ring from his first marriage.
He looked lively. I thanked the beautician for doing a good job. I touched his hand to see if he was truly gone. No pulse, and no warmth became of him. It was like touching a cold piece of old leather. He was too stiff for me to actually hold his hand.
Abigail went after me. She kissed his forehead, said silent words, and followed me back to the seats.
After the wake Abigail and I drove behind the funeral car that was carrying my father. We were the first in a long line of cars heading to the Heaven’s Angels Cemetery, not far from the funeral home.
Abigail pulled in. The cemetery was rather large. It took up acres upon acres as far as the eye could see. Despite its large area it was well kept. There was never a dying leaf or long blade of grass in sight. It looked lively, despite it being a place for only
the dead.
Everyone went to his grave, that was positioned under an oak tree. Despite all of the other depressing graves, the view from his grave is quite beautiful. There were pink weigela bushes in the horizon, and a beautiful garden filled with lilies, violets, and maybe a few roses.
I stood with the crowd of people watching as the pallbearers carried my father. It consisted of five co-workers, with the sixth being Abigail. She was doing an OK job, nearly losing her footing in her heels, but completed her task nonetheless. Another man took her place to lower the casket in the shallow grave. Abigail stood behind me while we watched. She placed her hand on my shoulder, my guess was to comfort me. I instinctively pushed it away. She went on as if it never happened. I’m sure no one saw it.
Once he was safely lowered, Abigail and I went to his grave and both filled our hands with dirt to pour on his casket. After the funeral, people left, giving their condolences along the way. Abigail and I were the last to go to watch men fill the rest of the grave. The tombstone is to be added later. I looked at the clouds again. They
were unchanged, still grey, still quiet.
Abigail and I finally left the cemetery, we had an appointment with my father’s testator, Frank. I looked back as we drove off, like I was never going to see his grave again. We drove to a law firm near downtown. It was not my father’s place of work, merely a secondary, lower, building. Once inside we were met by him and he led us to his office. I noticed him as one of the faces in the crowd from the wake, he must have not stayed for the lowering of the casket.
His office looked like it belonged in a library. The wall behind the desk were filled with an assortment of books. He sat down behind his dark mahogany desk, while Abigail and I sat in red velvet chairs in front of him. There was a third chair next to mine.
I know it was for my mother. She’ll be here after the will is read.
He rummaged through files under his desk. He pulled out a yellow envelope. I was unsure what was going to be said, all I know is that Abigail will never have custody of me. He opened the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper and he began to read loudly.
“In case I die before my time. I leave my home to my loving wife, Rose-,” Frank stopped reading and looked at it again, “Abigail Jefferson, nee Barton.”
What!? I thought. That house was for my mother. She should rightfully own that house. It is the least my father could do for her. I couldn’t believe he took her out of the will. Sure she may have done some bad but she was still the mother of his child.
Frank continued, “I leave my possessions, legal documents, and personal writing to both Abigail and Violet Jefferson who will have equal and unrestricted access to them at all times. I wish for my fortune to be split fifty-fifty between my wife and daughter, only after ten percent is given to charity. “
He was such a generous man. Well, generous enough I suppose.
“My final wish is that my daughter, Violet Jefferson, with no other family, be placed under the guardianship of Abigail Jefferson.”
I rose from my seat. “Is that it?” I said. Frank nodded. “Are you telling me that I’m to be placed under her care? Of this woman!” I yelled.
“Violet please, calm down.” Abigail said.
“No! You know damn well I don’t like you, as well as living under the same roof as you.”
“Violet,” Frank said, “that is no way to talk to your step-mother.”
“That woman isn’t my mother-anything. She’s just some woman my father married.”
Abigail nodded to frank signalling it was all OK.
“A case worker will be here to confirm you as Violet’s guardian.” Frank said to Abigail.
He stood up to let a caseworker in. She was of latin american heritage wearing a nice blue suit, with her hair in a ponytail. She was followed by a woman. My mother. She was wearing a red spaghetti strap shirt with stains on it, with black jeans, and red heels. Her hair was colored a, now fading, red. Her face looked dirty, with sunken eyes. She sat in the third chair next to me. She reeked of musk and the outside, as if she hasn’t had a decent shower in days. I know she stayed in a shelter the ghetto. It wasn’t really a shelter. It was a house. I just felt more comfortable calling it a shelter.
I stood up and hugged her when she sat down, and held her hand as I went back to my seat. The caseworker sat in in Frank’s chair. She pulled out a stack of papers, no doubt all the files of my mother and father. She pulled one piece from the stack and read. Before she started I gripped my mother’s hand tightly, knowing the outcome. I didn’t feel her hand tighten. I hoped she would at least try to fight for me, showing that she still cares. She is my mother after all.
She finally spoke, “With Rose Jefferson unfit to raise Violet, she is to be placed within the care of Abigail Jefferson, nee Barton, until her eighteenth birthday, or any
further notice.”
“What!” My mother yelled, shocked but not surprised by the outcome, “Why can’t I have my baby girl?”
“Rose, not only have you yet to put proof that you have a stable income, you have an extensive criminal background, that I shall not say in front of your daughter. You haven’t even put down a definite address as well.”
“So you gon’ let that white bitch, who stole my man, steal my daughter too?” My mother said. Abigail remained quiet. Choosing to stay out of it.
“No, she is replacing you as a fit guardian.” I couldn’t take anymore. I wasn’t going to let Abigail have me.
“What if I was placed in foster care?”
The caseworker shook her head, “Even so you won’t be allowed to see your mother, and due to Abigail legally marrying your father, she is your family.”
“What if I emancipate myself?” I said, in one last act of desperation.
“The only way for a fifteen year old to be emancipated is if Abigail proves to be unfit herself, which has not been proven. I’m sorry Violet. She is fit to raise you.”
The caseworker left, and I said goodbye to my mother, telling her I’ll see her later on.
I was angry. I was stuck with Abigail. My mother is fit to raise me, because she knows me. I know my mother has a drug problem, but I’m willing to help her. I’m willing
to prove to people that she is not the person everyone thinks she is. Abigail doesn’t deserve me, nor does she understands me. My mother does.
“This is bullshit,” I said in the car. We were heading home. “You know damn well
I don’t want to live with you.”