In My Sister's Shadow (2 page)

That was the odd thing about heartache; it was unrelenting once it initially struck. It always made its recipient believe, regardless of rationalization, that it would never leave once it had occupied space inside one’s soul. It always arrived with a pounding fist, knocking one down to their knees and cutting off their belief in hope. It had a cruel way of stealing peace right up from under one’s nose. Mark had seen this too many times to count. Grief always wore the same clothes, the same mask and had the same stranglehold on its victims. It never dressed up for someone new or said a simple hello; to someone it had dealt with time and time again. Each new case was treated just as carelessly as the last, and it worked all day, every day, forcing people to curse their creators, family and friends if grief ever decided to be accompanied by its best friend – guilt.

Guilt was sneakier in nature, but always visible. It enjoyed exposing itself to others, but not always to the person who was racked with it. Sometimes those boisterous, torturous outbursts were nothing but guilt singing a lullaby, mistaken for grief, when nothing could be further from the truth. They both toyed with human nature, making puppets out of whoever they knocked out cold. It was a cruel, necessary part of the process of existing and it gave no apologies, warnings, hellos or salutations. This is what it was, and this is what you got. End of story.

Mark sighed heavily as he watched the woman being escorted out, her voice still clearly heard from the vestibule. He waited for Bijou to stand up with her cousins and speak, but instead, she remained seated, now gripping her mother’s trembling hand.

Soon, service was over and an announcement about the dinner and fellowship afterward was detailed. The room became quiet, minus an ear-piercing cry from a ten-week old baby who was removed and soothed by her choked-up young mother.

Mark watched as everyone came and hugged and kissed Bijou and the rest of her family, then filed out of the parlor, flooding onto the street behind the hearse to their lengthy line of parked cars that spanned in the parking lot, around the building and down the street. Bijou took her ailing mother’s arm and helped escort her out of the funeral home, and a small crowd gathered around her with each sure-footed step she took. The room seemed to be getting darker, yet the sun was still blaring and blazing high in the early afternoon sky. Mark looked up at the light fixtures; sure he’d notice a blown bulb but nothing out of the ordinary caught his eye. He was snatched out of his thoughts as Bijou  touched his hand and nodded, her smile pleasant, yet deceptive.

In her eyes was a tortured soul that was hurting so much, there were no words in English or French to truly express it…

* * *

Three nights later…

Mark shuffled down the dim hallway that led to his master bedroom. The deep-rooted, massive and well-decorated home was situated on a plot of hilled land covered in magnolia trees and the domain of a single owl that made it his business to perch outside of the large bay master bedroom on occasion, his profile quite visible from the sheer curtained window facing the vast backyard. The house, though extravagant and majestic, was a true fixer-upper, one he took much pride in and for which he put his handyman skills to great use. When he first arrived from Miami, he took notice of the boarded up property, with several of its windows and concrete front steps cracked beyond repair, the chipped lead-based paint in several high-ceilinged rooms, and the entire perimeter overgrown with wild, unsavory plant life that threatened to choke the russet roses trying helplessly to simply exist. He jumped right in, seeing the beauty beneath the unkempt exterior.

Hiring a few men to assist him, the paint brushes, drills and hammers began to move to and fro until the home elicited envy from neighbors. What was once a hideous monstrosity, covered in vines, weeds and contempt from the upper middle class neighbors, was now the envy of the community. He was meticulous in the paint work and carpentry, trying desperately to ensure that the original luster of the house was maintained. Integrity and respect for antiques was ingrained in him from his auctioneer mother and the rich culture of Louisiana, especially after hurricane Katrina which caused him and others to covet their historical belongings – at least those that had survived the natural nightmare.

He opened his bedroom window, encouraging fresh breeze to circulate for a few minutes before closing it back and locking it securely. Overnight, open windows were an invitation for a host of unwanted insects to creep and crawl their way inside, leaving red splotches and bites about the skin as their overnight feasting calling card. Dressed in a pair of thin sky blue boxer shorts and a white tank top, he sighed and sluggishly made his way over to his high-post bed, anticipating laying his head down on his two fluffy feather-down King-sized pillows.

Several peacefully quiet hours passed. Then Mark began to toss and turn, his long legs sprawling outside the cool sheets. The wind caused the trees outside to sway, their branches touching and bumping, scrapping violently against their dark bark and anything within reach. Cherry blossom leaves kept falling and rustling over the dank, mossy ground.

Mark stirred, roused from his slumber. He rubbed his face, his eyes still pressed firmly shut as a trail of sweat crept down his temple, cheekbone, then ran diagonally across his face. It puddled into the dimple above his upper lip before falling past his strong jawline and chin onto his pillow. It joined the many others as the room continued to go from a burning inferno of Louisiana summer heat into the coolness of a severe Northern winter evening. The extremes caused his body to twist and contort, while strange, neurotic dreams of headless, transparent entities and loud agonizing screams tormented his subconscious. His eyelids moved, twitched, and his mouth slightly opened as he tried in vain to escape the traumatizing images. His bedroom became pitch black as his bedroom curtains swayed. He was acutely aware of all this, despite not being fully awake. For a while, he teetered somewhere between consciousness and sleep.

But the room’s temperature dropped further, waking him. Opening his eyes, he sat up and rubbed his bare arms first and then, his eyes. He watched the cool breath escape his mouth on the seventy-six-degree evening. His gaze drifted to his bedroom window, and he realized it was frosted over.

“Jesus Christ, what the hell?”

He cursed and clumsily got to his feet. The coolness seeped through his feet with each step as he made his way down the creaking steps, to his thermostat. Feeling around in the darkness, his long fingers glided over the hard dome protecting the gauge. He flicked the light to the side of it; one eye blinked as he tried to adjust to the sudden brightness from the overhead chandelier.

Forty-three degrees! How the hell did this happen? I didn’t turn the air conditioner up high.

He immediately pushed the air conditioner dial and realized it was set at seventy-five degrees. He looked around his house in confusion. The long hallway he stood in rasped as he adjusted his weight.

It’s not cold right here. The windows aren’t frosted. It feels fine down here…

He turned the light off and made his way back up the steps into the master suite. He immediately looked at the large bedroom window across from his bed; it was wide open. The curtains swayed frantically, like large bird wings, blanketing the window, and then revealing it suddenly, as if playing peek-a-boo. Mark ran his fingers through his hair as his eyebrows knitted and bewilderment flooded him. He marched over to the window and reclosed it, locking it firmly and checking it. The curtains immediately fell, swaying slightly at they rested in position.

I know I closed that…Oh, hell, I’m exhausted. Maybe I didn’t…

He climbed back into the bed, pulling the sheets securely over himself. About twenty minutes later, Mark’s eyes flew open. His eyes zoomed from side to side as his lips slowly parted. He felt his heart accelerating as another burst of cool air wafted across his body. His teeth clenched as he shot up and looked around the room in confusion. He had felt something like the touch of a finger delicately and distinctly tracing the outline of his face. He quickly reached for his nightstand lamp light. Looking around in all directions, he flung the sheets off his body. His chest heaved back and forth. The room remained cold, but the temperature appeared to be warming. He closed his eyes and shook his head.

I’m losing my mind. Too many hours, worked entirely too long. I need a vacation.

He turned the light back off, bundled up under the sheets and fell back to sleep. As he drifted into a new dream, he saw red fabric and black veils swaying under the moonlight. The sound of soft weeping played like music in the background. He tossed and turned for the remainder of the night and when he finally awoke, he felt more tired than he had in weeks…

* * *

Two weeks later…

Mark looked up at the dark sky while his friends continued to tell raunchy, albeit entertaining stories and lifted their cold beer bottles in the air for the eighth toast of the evening. He leaned over the winding back patio, and watched a couple kissing each other sloppily under the backyard white gazebo, aglow with violet and indigo dragonfly shaped lights. He rubbed his nose and squinted, unable to take his eyes off of the long, wavy blonde-haired woman and her dashing, clean-shaven boyfriend.

“Hey, Mark!” his friend Dustin called out. “You want another drink? Another stiff one?” The other four men burst out laughing. Mark rolled his light eyes and took another swig of his beer.

“The mortician and funeral jokes never get old to ya, do they Dustin?” he smirked and shook his head as he turned back towards the erotic couple, now into the active throes of public displays of borderline soft-core porn.

“OK.” Dustin’s dark brown eyebrows ruffled as he pointed at Mark, his 6’2” muscular body clinging to the pale yellow, button-down Polo shirt. “I have no idea how you can stand it, man. I know it’s your thing, and Taylor tells me you do really good work…but shit man, that’s just creepy.”

Mark shrugged and continued to exert his voyeuristic curiosities. “Everyone has to die. It doesn’t bother me. My job is to make sure things run smoothly. Sometimes I do have to get my hands dirty. I just try to make sure things go right for the families. It’s an art form, actually.”

“Yeah, like taxidermy,” Marcel, another mutual friend, joked, causing others to snicker along with him.

“At least I have a job, mooching Marcel.” Ohhhs and ahhhs began with a bit of cackling and ribbing one another. “All you can do is sit around talking about who isn’t cool, while you live off of women and beg all of us for your rent money once the last day of each month arrives. I may have to walk around in a suit, occasionally paint the faces of the dead and prepare them for their final hour, but I like it. It helps people, you know, helping people? Something you never do.”

“Oh, get off your high horse!” Marcel shot back, waving his bottle in the air while he smirked. “You act as if you are a fireman or something. The shit is disturbing and weird!”

“Not as disturbing as a thirty-two year old man listening to Justin Bieber.”

Everyone except Marcel burst out laughing.

 “I don’t have to depend on other people to take care of me,” Mark continued, “And you call yourself a man.”

Mark felt the alcohol kicking in. He had a deep dislike for Marcel, borderline hatred. Marcel’s face twisted in anger and he stood there, with his disheveled blonde hair, perfectly trimmed mustache and white button-down shirt, slouchy jeans and a diamond earring shining in his left ear. His green eyes narrowed as he licked his bottom lip. Everyone knew of their inexplicable disdain for one another, but it always ended the same way, with a friendly loose handshake at the end of the night.

“You’re not better than me, Mark.” Marcel stepped closer to him, his chest jetted out from his 5’9”, stocky frame.

“Man, you are pathetic!” Mark grunted and placed his beer bottle down on the ledge of the porch. “Dead presidents…that is what this is about. I don’t see you snubbing those, though. If you made your own way then…”

Marcel stuck his finger in Mark’s face. “I lost my job, man! Hey, since you’re better than me, why don’t you explain to everyone why you came here from Miami, huh?” His intoxication caused his words to slur.

“Enough man,” Kyle spoke up, a tall, rail-thin dark redhead with porcelain skin. His eyes, bright blue and not a freckle on his face, made him almost appear to be made of wax. “We already know Mark was having some family problems. Don’t get mad at him because he called you out, Marcel. Jesus…just take it like a man.”

“You stay out of this, carrot top!”

The two men began to argue, causing a stir until three women stepped outside onto the porch, joining them and immediately clearing the air with their presence. The five men stopped arguing and looked at the three feminine angels that seemed to drop right out of Heaven. One stood in front. Her short, black pixie-cut hair drew attention to her large, slanted dark brown eyes. When she smiled, her white teeth seemed to glow against her dark mahogany skin. A white T-shirt clung to her B-cup breasts and taut stomach which pooled into a set of long, tight jean covered legs and red, sparkling stilettos.