Interloper, p.7
Interloper, page 7
With a sugar coma in full gear, Charlie said goodnight and got up to put the kibosh on the closing credits, pushing the eject button on the VCR. Dale simultaneously clicked the remote to give the television its rest for the night.
Before heading up, Charlie grabbed the envelopes she would take to the Fotomat in the morning. As she did, she made an unwritten plan to go back to the location on Monroe where she saw her mom’s doppelganger. Once upstairs, she entered her bedroom, scrunching her toes in the plush shag rug then placed the envelopes on top of her dresser. She then meandered into her bathroom and filled the tub for a hot bath, adding a few drops of lilac oil and Mr. Bubbles for relaxation.
She stripped down and threw her clothes through the bathroom door into a pile. Looping her arm out of the bathroom door, she snatched her Walkman from the top of her dresser, knocking the papers on the floor and scattering the photos. “Shit,” she exclaimed with an exasperated motion. “I’ll get it later.” Placing the headphones over her ears, she slid into the tub of bubbles. Once submerged, she clicked open the Walkman to see which cassette she would have the pleasure of listening to. The marker informed her it would be an episode of Kasey Kasem’s Top 40 her mom had recorded for her when Charlie was a young child. She set the Walkman on a small table next to the tub and closed her eyes. As Kasey introduced Olivia Newton John’s “Physical”, holding onto its number fifteen spot, she slid deeper into the bubbles.
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Laying in her motel room, Astrid’s projected consciousness watched the daughter, and she felt a pang of melancholia. She remembered missing her mother upon her death, as well. Only a few choice memories survived the centuries, and that was one of them. So far, being human was not at all what she had imagined it would be. Bored, she knew that until she was at strength again, she was confined to those four walls, and that meant passing the time the only way she knew how. Leaving Charlie to her bath, Astrid decided she would head out to nourish the body with food, something she was not used to having to do, then rest. Then, she could contemplate heading back out to the home to gather the rest of her belongings.
-CHAPTER NINE-
DISCOVERIES
As side one of the cassette came to an end, the sudden click of the play button startled Charlie awake. She sat up, confused as to where she was for a moment. As she did, a chill ran over her. It could have been due to the temperature difference between the air and the water, but the chill went deeper and seemed more ominous. Deciding to stay in a bit longer to warm up, Charlie released the drain plug with her toe and then, with her feet, twisted the faucet to the on position and maneuvered the black triangle to the red dot that indicated hot.
After a third of the water emptied, she closed the drain with a push of her heel. She reveled in the super-hot water which enveloped her yet again. After flipping the tape, she set both the Walkman and headphones back on the table. She completely lowered herself into the tub, the woosh of the water from the faucet and the swirl of her hair as it flowed weightlessly around her head bringing her immediate comfort. Catapulting herself back up above the waterline, she turned off the faucet and placed the headphones back on her head, making sure to complete a head tilt to either side, ensuring no water was lingering in her ears. She tapped and hummed along to Huey Lewis and The News, then finally decided it was time to exit when she noticed how pruned her fingers were getting. Releasing the drain, she stood up and wrapped her hair in a twist with a towel, dried off with a second one, and puttered to her room.
Opening her top drawer, she grabbed her purple undies and tossed them on the bed. She then moved to the drawer below it, which housed her cozy sweats and shirts. Digging around, she furtively looked for her favorite sleep shirt. Curious, she thought, it’s not here. She knew she hadn’t worn it since returning home. Choosing her Cornell shirt instead and a pair of pajama shorts she had fashioned from an old pair of sweats, she plopped on her bed to get dressed.
Releasing her hair from the twisted towel, she gave it a quick tousle and re-wrapped it into a tall pile on her head, tucking the end in for security. Not feeling very adult at the moment, she tossed the second towel so it landed next to her previously discarded pile of clothes. She then gave a quick scan of her room. Her backpack, which housed a few reading assignments she knew she had to complete soon, sat on her desk chair. Papers and photos were scattered from when she grabbed her Walkman. She sighed and looked over to the window seat.
Light from a full moon seeped in from below the window valence. She followed its beam down to the seat itself. To carry on the theme of no adulting that night, she decided to play hooky from her reading assignments. Instead, she stood and sauntered over to the window seat.
Sliding her boombox and collection of stuffed animals and pillows over, she reached for the L-shaped latch, which served as a lock for the hinged top. She lifted the top up and slid a book into the corner to keep it propped open. Peering down into the large well of storage space, she found several of her favorite board games: Clue, Battleship, Operation, and Life. Next to those were five stacks of Teen Beat, Bop and 16 magazines, most of which were no longer fully intact due to the large collages she used to make with the faces of Simon Lebon, Corey Haim, Rob Lowe, and Madonna. A few other miscellaneous items, including Mr. Honey Bunny and her baby blanket, which was more of a ribbon by then, snuggled up to the magazines.
What she was after lay in front of her: Decorative boxes stacked in sets of four which housed what she knew to be the years and years of journaling her mom had done. She slid her bean bag from the corner, sat, and lifted each box out of its holding place, stacking them to each side of her, keeping room in front of her for workspace. Some of the boxes had little slips of paper taped to them with date ranges, others did not. She organized them as best she could, deciding to start with the unlabeled boxes which she assumed to be from her mom’s childhood. Opening the first box, she found journals of various sizes and colors stacked neatly on top of each other, secured with a ribbon.
She pulled the end of the ribbon to release the bow, plucked a journal off the top, and opened the leather cover to expose her mother’s handwriting. Mom had the most unique and, for lack of a better term, historically dainty style of writing. Even in her childhood pen, this was true. Charlie flipped through the pages, revealing hundreds of entries varying in length. They all started with a day, date, and year.
As she skimmed the contents of the box, she deduced it was from Birdie’s high school years. Wanting to go in chronological order, she started a pile to her right and continued to do the same for the other undated boxes, organizing from Birdie’s childhood to the more recent.
Needing some auditory distraction to keep her heart from beating in her ears, Charlie pushed the tiny power button on her boombox and the red indicator light glowed, letting her know it had power. She rolled the tuner until it stopped on 88.5 WRUR, Rochester’s local college station. The eerie voice of Suzie from Suzie and the Banshees sauntered through the speakers.
Charlie leaned back in her beanbag with the first journal in the lifelong series. The handwriting was that of a child and told a tale of innocence. Birdie described her friend Astrid, who would stop by to talk to her or play games of hide and seek and hopscotch. From the writings, Astrid was just as mischievous as Birdie, if not more at times. Birdie described her in a variety of ways, sometimes as a small girl her own age, with dark, curly hair and blue eyes. Sometimes she described an older child with red hair and green eyes. One particular story in that journal stood out to Charlie.
Astrid just left. She made Mother mad at me. She looked so pretty. Her dress was frilly and white like the one I wore to church today. The one that is ruined. I tried to tell Mother that it wasn’t my fault. That my friend Astrid and I were playing with my dollies in the churchyard when Tommy Spangle started to tease me, calling me a retard for talking to myself. I told Tommy that I wasn’t talking to myself, that my friend Astrid was right there! Tommy called me a “liar, liar, pants on fire,” and before I could say anything back, Astrid shoved him into a puddle, splashing mud all over my dress. I don’t like that Mother doesn’t believe me. I hate being punished.
As Charlie read, she could sense the frustration in this child version of her mom. Evidently, Grandma did not approve. There were dozens of instances where Astrid would do things, and Birdie would incur the brunt of the blame. Documented also were instances of corporal punishment, used to deter those outbursts of “heathen” behavior. Even though an obviously young child, Birdie had a way of conveying the little world she lived in. Charlie sensed the confusion her mom was experiencing by the blatant anger she had towards her friend. Then, some days, it would just say, “Astrid didn’t visit today. I’m sad.”
Charlie dropped the last journal to the floor and let out a roar of a yawn. Her dad’s grandfather clock, in his office, chimed four times. “Shit, fuck, damn! It can’t be four am,” she exclaimed. She looked over at the fuzzy digital clock on her nightstand and, sure enough, four had snuck up on her. Leaving the journals as they lay, she climbed into bed and switched off the lamp on the nightstand. She laid her head on her pillow, and before she knew it, she was asleep.
Charlie woke to her dad knocking on her door. “Hey sleepy head. You sleeping the day away?”
Charlie sat up and looked over at her clock. To her dismay and surprise, she saw it was ten thirty. “Uh, no,” she replied, then threw back the covers, slid out of bed, and shuffled groggily to the door. She gave the knob a swift turn and tug. Her dad stood in the hall with a cup of tea in one hand and her Oscar The Grouch mug full of coffee in the other.
He made his way past Charlie and took a seat at her desk after offering up her beverage. Giving a quick thank you, Charlie climbed back onto her bed, twisted her legs over each other, and pulled her fuzzy blanket up around her shoulders. She took a long sip of the coffee, letting the warmth and delectable flavor sit in her mouth for a second or two. Swallowing, she choked off a hitch in her throat as she thought about her mom.
Her dad must have noticed the tears welling up in her eyes. “Penny for your thoughts, kiddo.”
She sighed and stared down at the coffee in her hands. “Dad, it’s all sinking in. We’ve been so busy, I haven’t really let any of it sink in, but just now, here, drinking coffee, I could feel her. I miss her so much, Dad.” With that admission, it was like the flood of emotions she had been holding back burst through a levy, and Charlie wept.
Dad stood up, set his tea on the desk, and walked over to join her. He sat on the bed next to her and enveloped her with his arms. She buried her face into the small of his shoulder. “Let it out,” he said.
After several minutes, Charlie sat up and used her blanket as a makeshift tissue and wiped her face and eyes. Then, with one final inhale and release, she said, “Thank you, Dad. That really helped”.
He smiled at her, a glisten in his eyes betraying that he was fighting back tears, although he’d never admit it. Instead, he patted her hand and said, “Let’s get today in motion.”
She nodded, and they reviewed the plan of action. Charlie would pick out Mom’s outfit and drop it off at Lilac Memorial Gardens, then go to the Fotomat and get them working on the slideshow. Dad would call in the flower order and finalize everything with the obituary, then work on the house and guest room for his parents and get the incoming family members situated. The few traveling in would be arriving at hotels throughout the day, with his parents coming to the house around dinnertime.
With their marching orders finalized, Dale gathered the two mugs and made his way downstairs. Charlie sat a moment longer, slapped her knees, and said, “Let’s do this.” She got up and threw on jeans and a sweater, then ran her fingers through her hair, deciding to keep it free from the confinements of a hat or ponytail. She slipped on her Keds, dabbed some Bonne Bell strawberry on her lips, and slung her backpack over her shoulder.
She headed down the hall to her mom’s closet. Dropping the backpack outside the closet door, Charlie entered the small space that held her mother’s wardrobe. Her mom’s personality presented itself in the contents. Each piece was unique, eclectic, and colorful. Just like Mom is, Charlie thought, then caught herself. Was.
She exhaled and started on the left, working her way around to the right. As she slid each hanger to expose the next article of clothing, she smiled at the memories some of the garments held. Piece after piece, she pulled out the viable options and placed them on a stool at the back of the closet. Noting she was halfway through the first wall, she slid a dress over and noticed something odd. Taped to the wall, midway up, was an envelope.
Being careful not to take the paint with the tape, Charlie separated the envelope from the wall. Curious, she thought. She slid it in her pocket and continued down the line of clothing, determined to complete the task at hand.
Once she had what she considered to be a good selection picked out, she took a moment and laid the items systematically on her parents’ bed. Standing back to eye her choices, she snickered, imagining that she must look like Sloane and Ferris Bueller in the gallery scene, hands on their chins in deep philosophical thought, attempting to figure out what the artist meant by his inclusion of some vague brushstroke. With one final circle and a “Tada”,” she decided on a floor-length skirt with a bright floral pattern of purples, blues, and accents of orange. The top she chose to accompany it was a shade of robin’s egg blue that would complement her mom’s complexion. As that thought ran through her mind, the fact that her mom’s natural complexion was lost to a deathly pallor which would be replaced by thick cake makeup applied by the mortuary cosmetologist struck her.
Shaking her head, she returned to her task and picked up the silver and bronze skirts, returning them to their place in the closet. She then scanned the floor for a pair of matching slip-on shoes. She wasn’t sure they would be needed, but better to be prepared. Adding those to the bed, she then walked over to her mom’s vanity table. Taking a seat on the matching, tufted bench, she opened the lid to her mom’s mahogany jewelry box.
Although not a huge or habitual jewelry person, Mom held onto a few family pieces handed down to her from her mother: A pearl necklace, a few rings, a broach, and a pair of screw-back earrings that had totally befuddled Charlie when she was younger. She remembered how her mom attempted to explain the reasoning behind screw backs and why they were a thing versus the more modern pierced post style. Religion was such an odd control factor in so many people’s lives.
After laying her choices next to the outfit she had picked, Charlie made her way down to her mom’s studio and gathered two sheets of tissue paper and a bag to transport the items to the funeral home. She went to the makeshift desk to jot a note to remind them to return the jewelry after the service. Charlie tore the sheet from the pad and carried the tissue paper, bag, and note to the master bedroom. Folding the paper, she carefully wrapped the jewelry, then placed it along with the clothing and shoes, laying the note on top. After giving the room a cursory look, she gathered the bag and her backpack and made her way to the garage.
She opened the garage bay door and slid into Juicy’s driver’s seat, then placed her foot on the clutch and turned the key. After releasing the brake, she placed the vehicle into reverse. She pressed down on the gas pedal, but released the clutch too soon, and Juicy gave a hop and shudder before going dead. Charlie palmed her forehead in frustration. She forgot how finicky the clutch and gears could be, as she had dozens of memories of her mom shifting and grinding her way from second to third.
She pushed in the clutch again, making sure the gearshift was wiggling free in neutral, and gave the key a turn. She slid the shifter back into reverse and was mindful to balance the release of the clutch with a gradual application of the gas pedal. As the car rolled down the driveway, she patted the steering wheel and said, “Good girl.” Once at the bottom of the driveway, she made the same mindful maneuvers to put the car into first gear. Now she was cooking with gas. Flicking the radio on, she made her way down her street singing the oh so appropriate lyrics of DJ Jazzy Jeff and Fresh Prince.
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Dale finished up the phone call securing the flowers and proceeded to the kitchen. As he wiped the surfaces and scrubbed the few dishes he and Charlie managed to dirty up, he had a fleeting, happy thought about them having a home-cooked meal for a change. His mom had referred to a few of her infamous casseroles. Giving the counters a final wipe down, he made his way up to the second floor. After retrieving the vacuum out of the hall closet, he steered it towards the guest bedroom. He unwound the thick, gray cord from its tightly wound state and plugged it in, then switched the vacuum on with the foot pedal. He maneuvered the Kirby Classic, more lovingly known in the Bauman household as The Beast, in neat rows across the carpet. Birdie used to complain about The Beast constantly. Dale had promised her a lighter Hoover, and cringed at the thought that he could never keep that promise.
After steering The Beast to the corner, he tapped the pedal to stop the whir of the motor. Walking to the bed, he removed the decorative comforter from it, exposing its bare mattress. Removing a set of sheets from the armoire, he began to make the bed. Finishing up with a karate chop to each of the pillows, he laid the comforter back into place, gave a quick look around the room, and packed up The Beast.
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Charlie made her turn onto Elm, then an immediate left through the entrance gates into Lilac Memorial Gardens’ parking lot. She grabbed her delivery from the seat beside her and headed toward the building’s entrance. As she approached, a man clad in blue-gray coveralls stopped raking the flower bed long enough to open and hold the door for her. Their eyes met, and she thanked him.
