Stained Glass Souls (Wattys 2014, Collector's Dream Award Winner)

Ariel: I Dreamed of Dead Men

“Nothing makes time pass or shortens the way like a thought that absorbs in itself all the faculties of the one who is thinking. External existence is then like a sleep of which this thought is the dream. Under its influence, time has no more measure, space has no more distance.”  ~Alexandre Dumas

***

(Ariel: unedited)

Chicago meant hibiscus. Lots and lots of orange hibiscuses, set upon crystal plates and white tablecloths. The dessert table could be hung with turquoise ribbon, gifts would be monetary donations only, and Anya was appalled.

“Can you imagine? Hibiscus, at a winter wedding? Hibiscus!” She flung her blonde, ropey braid over one shoulder, her free hand bracing the veins along her temples. “Why am I a part of planning this, if my name is going to go up in support of turquoise and orange?”

Ariel slid her hand into the jar of almonds, trying to refrain from unleashing a sigh as she rolled five almonds through her fingers and into her palm. “Tragic.”

“Lose the tone, darling.” Anya paused her rant long enough to flicker her daughter an icy gaze. “It sounds so cheap on you.”

“You’re the mother of the groom. How much say did you think you would have?”

“Enough to veto the turquoise! Anything orange, so long as the turquoise goes. Did I show you the cards?” She flipped open her wedding planner, yanking out a small string of neon blue-green. “The bridesmaids, the dessert table, strung along the pews.”

“Tragic.” Ariel repeated. There really wasn’t anything else to say; this same, long repeat of tired sentences had wound themselves around the cottage ever morning since her parents had returned from Chicago. While her mother waste time idling around, complaining and chugging vanilla bean espresso, her father had disappeared again.

“Is the city calling?” Ariel had asked him, waiting by the wooden door for him to duck out of her life permanently. She couldn’t wait until that moment – the severing, when her mother realized she was truly alone, and when she could claim that she was truly free.

Jude slipped his loafers on, focused upon straightening the skewed wingtips. “It’s the holidays, Ariel. This is a busy time of year.”

“All those amiable secretaries, wandering the snowy streets.” Ariel waited until he looked up. “I’m sure you’ll find a way to keep yourself busy.”

“I just got back from Chicago, a trip that I took specifically to appease your mother. That’s not a fair accusation.”

Ariel opened the door. “Well, darling daddy, life isn’t always fair, is it?”

He picked up his briefcase. “I’m the darling daddy now?”

“Only for as long as it takes you to drive away.” She gave him a tight smile. “Have a nice flight.”

“You sound like your mother.” He kissed her forehead, the nervous flickering of a moth’s wings upon her skin. “Take care of her. This wedding has her bent out of shape.”

“Nothing bends Anya out of shape. Except, maybe, turquoise ribbons.”

His goodbye was lost upon the click of the doorknob. She turned the lock; thrice, out of habit. It wasn’t until she heard tires squealing down the ragged road that she relaxed against the door. Her legs collapsed, the familiar dance of spots beginning behind her eyelids as she closed her eyes.

It had been Katrina’s words coming out of her mouth. Everything she said felt like borrowed time. A borrowed life, sitting in the back of her throat like poison. Darling daddy had described that bourbon collection, the one that was probably accumulating now that Katrina was safely ensconced in the hospital.