Page 18 of Play Nice

Such a fool, I think. I stand against the wall and observe for a few minutes before getting bored. It’s not as fun to hear other people’s fortunes.

Aunt Helen went to the bathroom, and now with Tommy preoccupied, I’ve been left alone to navigate the funeral, or “remembrance celebration” as they’re calling it. Left alone with the knowledge that I am now—or soon to be, officially, legally—a homeowner. I’d be the envy of everyone under thirty-five if only the house didn’t come with such a reputation.

I put my head down and slink out of the parlor, find my way to the kitchen, where there’s a little bar area set up on the counter. Liters of store-brand soda and bottles of cheap liquor. I pour myself a whiskey and cola in a clear plastic cup. There’s no ice anywhere, so it’s warm, and flat, and pretty disgusting, yet somehow exactly what I need. I down it and pour myself another.

The kitchen is miraculously empty, so I linger while I drink, skimming the printed-out flyers on the fridge for paranormal conventions and psychic fairs. One of them is in Milwaukee, and it reminds me of my friend Sarah, who was on my dance team in high school. An angsty bulimic who wrote poetry and had a Maine coon the size of a German shepherd named Frankie.

Sarah and I fell out of touch after she moved to Chicago to go to Northwestern, but we follow each other on Instagram. She got married a few years back and moved to Milwaukee. She bought a fixer-upper there and renovated the whole thing herself, documented it on her page, got herself thirty-five thousand followers in the process. Not anywhere near as many as I have, but nothing to sneeze at.

“There you are.” It’s Roy. “We’re going to have the circle of remembrance now. Will you join us?”

“I didn’t come all the way here to miss the main event.”

He smiles at me, then holds out a small satin pouch. “You can open it later.”

I accept it, whatever it is. Slip it into my bag. “Thanks, Roy.”

“I’m here for you, Clio. You and your sisters. If you ever need anything. I hope we can all sit down someday.”

I kiss his cheek in lieu of a response. I doubt I’ll ever see or speak to this man again. In six months, he’ll move on with a psychic medium, probably one with a bad dye job and a name like Misty or Rainbow, and his beloved Alexandra, his partner of the last fifteen-plus years, will become an afterthought. Men are all the same, Mom once told us, but it’s the ones who try the hardest to convince you that they’re good that you really have to watch out for. My mother was wrong about a lot, but not this. How many times have I witnessed a man declare he was outraged over some indiscretion that he himself was later found guilty of? How many proud gentlemen revealed to be wolves?

I top up my drink, and then Roy leads me into another room where there’s a broad circle of chairs set up around a small end table with an urn on top. It’s a pretty urn, white marble with gray veins. I pretend it’s empty.

People filter in and take seats. Roy pulls out a chair for me. I save the one next to me for Tommy, who finds his way over a few minutes later.

“So, what’s your fate?” I whisper to him.

“I should be more open to the unexpected,” he whispers back. “I got a something-of-Cups, a Fool, and the Hanged Man, which didn’t look great, but they said it’s more about perspective.”

“Isn’t everything?”

Mariella sweeps into the room and starts lighting candles as she monologues about death. Maybe it’s the whiskey or the weird vinegar smell or how many people are here or how many of them are wearing hats or just general overstimulation. I can’t pay attention.

I think about Sarah and her massive cat and her before-and-after Reels. I think about the shaggy beige carpet at the house. The horrible linoleum in the kitchen. The sunken tub in the downstairs bathroom. My tiny bedroom with the window up high on the wall, my view of dead grass. Leda and Daphne in the big room upstairs, directly above mine. Sometimes I could hear them, up late, whispering secrets to each other. I would hold perfectly still, hold my breath as I listened, trying to make out what they were saying, if they were talking about me, but it’s like they were speaking another language, one I couldn’t translate, in voices not theirs. No one sounds like themselves through the floorboards.

I haven’t thought about their late-night gossip sessions in years.

I’m hot in my sweater again. I sit up and gather my hair, yearn for a butterfly clip.

A woman wearing a birdcage fascinator like a courthouse bride shares a memory of Mom bringing over lemon bars on a random Tuesday.

The mother I remember was a terrible baker. One year she botched Daphne’s out-of-a-box birthday cake so badly we ended up going to McDonald’s for apple pies and McFlurries instead. On the drive home, sugar high, I declared my love for McDonald’s in song and dance, kicking the back of the passenger seat. Leda complained. Daphne asked me to sit still, so I leaned over and licked her. She screamed. Mom slammed on the brakes after nearly running a red light.

“I shouldn’t have taken you there,” she said, pounding a fist on the steering wheel. “You’re going to be chubby. Do you know how hard it is to be a chubby girl in school? Do you want that for yourselves? To get bullied? You know what? Go ask your dad how he feels about chubby girls.”

The light turned green, but she didn’t go. She wasn’t paying attention; she was too busy yelling at us.

The driver in the car behind us laid on their horn, and so Mom hit the gas. The tires squealed.

Thinking back on it now, I suspect she was drunk.

Haven’t had a McFlurry since.

I become aware that the room is quiet and that there are eyes on me. I like to be looked at, but not like this. Like I’m Godzilla rising out of the sea.

It takes me a minute to realize that I just made it my turn to share a memory, that I just relayed the McDonald’s story aloud, and that it has not gone over particularly well.

The cup in my hand is empty, the whiskey gone, but I lift it anyway.