Day 1 - 2261 Words (1)
She's offended by the sun. She's offended by how it stands proudly in the sky, its rays bathing the neighborhood in sunlight. She's also offended by the blue, blue sky, how no cloud can be seen from one horizon to the other. Birds cry, just like normal. The wind gently rustles the leaves of the trees around their house. Everything is normal. Beautiful even.
But not really. Nothing is normal. Nothing is beautiful. Her mother is dead, and yet the world throws its beauty in her face.
Sophie Longwell watches as the last funeral goer trudges to his car. An expensive, black Armani suit hangs from his bony, broad shoulders; she could smell the wealth on him when he had grimly shaken her hand only a couple hours before. He stops at his ebony Mercedes and then turns to stare back at her.
Sophie doesn't know who he is. When he introduced himself, his name was unfamiliar and she's certain her mother never mentioned him. Then again, her mother hadn't even mentioned she was sick...
She startles out of her thoughts when his door snaps closed. Looking out toward the street she can still see his sharp cheekbones and small, careful grey eyes, and a shiver races down her spine. Once his car disappears around the corner of the block, Sophie's eyes drop back to the vibrant grass at her feet. She wiggles her toes into the blades, letting each one poke and slide against her skin, ignoring the patchy red rash that erupts along her feet, the one she always gets when she plays in the grass. She isn't really surprised when a droplet of water lands on her knee before sliding down her calf. She watches in fascination as another patters onto the back of her hand where it rests wedged between her thighs. The tears aren't new. In all honesty, Sophie wonders how her body could possibly produce so many of them without wringing out every drop of water in her body.
She sits outside until the sun finally sinks to rest in the cradle of the mountains on the horizon. She swipes at her cheeks, rubbing the salt away, before heading inside the house she had, until recently, shared with her mother. Soft, golden sunset light spills through the windows, laving the wood floors and contemporary furniture with warmth. Sophie stands in the doorway to the living room for a long time, her mind almost blank, the gears in her head whirring slowly, languidly, like they are coated with muck. Was their house always this quiet? She had never noticed until now, when her mother's soft voice no longer floats through the halls, songs of ancient battles and poor soldiers and doomed love falling from her lips. With a final look at the room, Sophie turns and goes upstairs to her room.
* * *
The next few weeks pass without much event. A man, a lawyer of some kind with a bad toupee and wise but tired eyes, comes to the house to tell her that her mother has a savings account with enough money in it to keep Sophie happy and taken care of for the rest of her life.
"But...where did she get this money from? She was just an editor for the local paper..."
The man, Mr. Jordan, shakes his head as he says, "She never spoke to you about this?" He is hesitant, afraid of dragging out unpleasant memories. Sophie can tell it's hardly out of concern for her emotions, and more because he is impatient to leave, to go home to his family.
"No, she didn't."
"I'm sorry." And sincerity laces his voice.
Sophie shakes her head, realizing with sudden clarity that she didn't know her mother at all. She used to think they were best friends, that they told each other everything, but after the past month, after all that has happened, she can see now how wrong she was.
Mr. Jordan adjusts his toupee, then scratches his nose. Sophie sighs and looks pointedly at the manila folder in his hands, ready to shoo him out the door so that she can figure things out. He smiles shakily, but hands it to her, saying, "This contains all of the bank account info you'll need to access the money. In addition to all of that, your house is completely paid for, so you don't have to worry about mortgage payments, just utilities."
When the man leaves, Sophie returns to the couch, plopping down and snuggling into the cushions. Her mind reels with this new information, and now that she knows that her mother was involved with so much more than she let on, Sophie itches to uncover more of the truth. Was the money obtained illegally? Could her mother have been a gangster? A swindler? A mob boss? Maybe she sold drugs. Maybe she did something amazing for a rich man once, saved his only child and heir from certain death or something else most heroic in nature, and the Rich Man left half of his life's fortune to her in his will.
That night, Sophie finds herself standing in front of her mother's bedroom door, right hand lightly touching the knob, but hesitating to turn it, left hand nervously running along the curved edge of the necklace she's worn every day since before she can remember. She's avoided this moment, has slipped past this room every day for three weeks, feeling its pull, its siren call, but she's been to apprehensive to go in. Now, though... Now that the can of worms of her mother's secrets has opened, there's no turning back. She must go in.
And so she does.
The scent of her mother's perfume wafts through the air. For the first time in roughly a week, Sophie feels tears prickle the backs of her eyelids and it takes an ironclad hold on her emotions to refuse those tears their escape. Looking around the room, Sophie quietly admits to herself that she probably should have prepared herself a bit more for this moment.
She's usually the kind of person who analyzes everything before making a decision or making a move; every action is deliberate and controlled. Every word, every gesture, thought out and planned so as to have the desired effect. She feels as though she has been on autopilot ever since her mother's death.
Looking around, nothing is out of place. Why should it be? Why did she expect it to be? Her mother's bed is still unmade from the morning that she died. Clothes continue to spill from the hamper in the corner, some having migrated into piles on the carpeted floor. The lights are off, but with the help of the setting sun, Sophie can see each trinket sitting on top of the white wooden vanity next to the master bathroom door. She finds herself sitting in the chair set before the mirror, eyes softly tracing the photos taped to the glass along the perimeter, ready to be illuminated by the Hollywood dressing room bulb lights that form the border of the reflective glass.
Front and center, taped to the top edge, is a photo of the two women when Sophie was 9 and won the local science fair. Not many kids entered the contest, as their town had few people, and she had only entered after continued harassment and encouragement by her mother. The woman in question stands with arms wrapped around Sophie's shoulders; their identical silver blonde curls tangle together, flowing around their faces and down to twine with Sophie's disc shaped necklace. Little Sophie clutches the first place trophy in her hands, grinning widely around the top pillar, empty spaces where teeth have yet to grow in alternating with pearly grown up teeth.
Present, grown up Sophie's gaze shifts away, to the photo next to it, a photo she hadn't at the time known was being taken. She had constructed a fort in the study out of sheets and pillows, pulling a pile of her favorite novels into the fortress to read all day while the rain howled outside. She had stolen a bag of pretzels and stashed them in her pockets. Her mother had apparently found her fast asleep some time in the evening, book laying open and face down on Sophie's chest, pretzel crumbs stuck stubbornly to her lips and in her hair, and had taken a photo. Sophie remembers, almost vividly, how her mother's quiet giggling had startled her awake, how her apparent look of panic combined with her state of crumb-y-ness had sent the older woman into a fit of laughter so impassioned that Sophie had joined in, too. She thinks she was maybe 12 at the time.
Now, 22 and grown up, Sophie looks at herself in the mirror. She lets hard eyes study her face, so much like her mother's: pointed chin, heart shaped cheeks and forehead, strong but small nose, wide and intense green eyes. Even their hair had been practically identical, though Sophie's time in her garden had streaked her white blonde with shimmering and pleasant golden highlights. She roughly pushes self-cut side swept bangs aside and out of her eyes, tugs her fingers through arm pit length loose curls. Her thumb finds the silver pendant dangling from a black leather cord necklace, sliding haltingly over its round, ring shape, then against the 3 small blue gems set at the west, east, and south points. The north gem perches in the center of the ring, held in place by thick silver threads. Each half cardinal point is marked by a small diamond, and between each of those, a black dash. The colors of this pendant compliment her light olive skin tone, the honey colored freckles splashed across her chest and nose. It hangs between average sized breasts that are part of a tall, athletic frame, a natural runner's body.
Her mother was beautiful, but Sophie sees no beauty in the person looking back at her. When had she lost her self esteem? It should be startling, but the numbness brought on by her mother's death has washed away the surprise she should be feeling.
She turns away, a little annoyed. She'll have to analyze this unhealthy behavior later. She wants answers, doesn't she? Isn't that why she came in here, torturing herself with her mother's memory? She should waste no more time. So she marches determinedly to the closet and flings open the doors, intent on getting those answers.
Just as her room was a partial disaster, so is her closet. Boxes tower and stack on the top shelf, none labelled, all different colors and sizes. Clothes hang from hangers, looking as though they might have once been organized by color, but no longer. Shoes pile on top of one another haphazardly, nearly hidden by loose leaf papers of an unknown origin. Sophie smiles a little. Her mother's organization had never been her strong suit, nor had following through to the end of a project. How many times had Sophie woken up in the morning to find her mother cleaning the kitchen in a frenzy, only to find her again at night, newly found bowls filled to the brim with cake batter? One time, Lena had taken down all of the books in the study to organize them alphabetically. A few hours into the project, however, and she had rediscovered an old favorite, nestling herself into the arm chair in the corner and reading until early morning. She had left the study that way, half the books organized and the other half stacked in towers throughout the room. Sophie had ended up organizing the rest, happy to learn what they owned and what she could look forward to reading.
The young woman starts with the shoes, slowly pulling them out from underneath the papers, trying them on if she likes them, then placing them, pair by pair, on the floor beside the bed. Next she gathers all of those documents, finding the accordion folder they fell out of and sliding them back in, before filing the folder in one of the vanity drawers. The clothes she leaves, as she's not sure her barely stable emotions can handle the more intense smell of her mother nor the memories sure to come with each outfit seen, so she begins standing on tip toe to look through the dusky, dusty boxes on that top shelf.
The first box is a shoe box full of pictures of the two of them, and that tenuous grasp on control snaps, sending Sophie into a ball on her mother's bed, tears flowing and sobs echoing. It takes a good hour before she has gathered herself, and she immediately shoves all of the picture toting boxes under the bed.
While on her toes, pressed against the side of the closet, she notices a bright red, wooden jewelry box tucked into a hidden, square shaped alcove behind her mother's clothing. Ever curious, she abandons her task of reaching for a stubborn box at the back of the top shelf and instead takes the red box to the bed, setting it gently down and sitting in front of it. The wood is beautifully carved, ridges and dips flowing smoothly with the grain of the wood. It almost feels like...magic. And because of that, Sophie hesitates. Her imagination pokes through her sadness induced haze, filling her with a need to continue, but also a thrilling fear. Whatever this box contains, Sophie knows it will change her life.
But not really. Nothing is normal. Nothing is beautiful. Her mother is dead, and yet the world throws its beauty in her face.
Sophie Longwell watches as the last funeral goer trudges to his car. An expensive, black Armani suit hangs from his bony, broad shoulders; she could smell the wealth on him when he had grimly shaken her hand only a couple hours before. He stops at his ebony Mercedes and then turns to stare back at her.
Sophie doesn't know who he is. When he introduced himself, his name was unfamiliar and she's certain her mother never mentioned him. Then again, her mother hadn't even mentioned she was sick...
She startles out of her thoughts when his door snaps closed. Looking out toward the street she can still see his sharp cheekbones and small, careful grey eyes, and a shiver races down her spine. Once his car disappears around the corner of the block, Sophie's eyes drop back to the vibrant grass at her feet. She wiggles her toes into the blades, letting each one poke and slide against her skin, ignoring the patchy red rash that erupts along her feet, the one she always gets when she plays in the grass. She isn't really surprised when a droplet of water lands on her knee before sliding down her calf. She watches in fascination as another patters onto the back of her hand where it rests wedged between her thighs. The tears aren't new. In all honesty, Sophie wonders how her body could possibly produce so many of them without wringing out every drop of water in her body.
She sits outside until the sun finally sinks to rest in the cradle of the mountains on the horizon. She swipes at her cheeks, rubbing the salt away, before heading inside the house she had, until recently, shared with her mother. Soft, golden sunset light spills through the windows, laving the wood floors and contemporary furniture with warmth. Sophie stands in the doorway to the living room for a long time, her mind almost blank, the gears in her head whirring slowly, languidly, like they are coated with muck. Was their house always this quiet? She had never noticed until now, when her mother's soft voice no longer floats through the halls, songs of ancient battles and poor soldiers and doomed love falling from her lips. With a final look at the room, Sophie turns and goes upstairs to her room.
* * *
The next few weeks pass without much event. A man, a lawyer of some kind with a bad toupee and wise but tired eyes, comes to the house to tell her that her mother has a savings account with enough money in it to keep Sophie happy and taken care of for the rest of her life.
"But...where did she get this money from? She was just an editor for the local paper..."
The man, Mr. Jordan, shakes his head as he says, "She never spoke to you about this?" He is hesitant, afraid of dragging out unpleasant memories. Sophie can tell it's hardly out of concern for her emotions, and more because he is impatient to leave, to go home to his family.
"No, she didn't."
"I'm sorry." And sincerity laces his voice.
Sophie shakes her head, realizing with sudden clarity that she didn't know her mother at all. She used to think they were best friends, that they told each other everything, but after the past month, after all that has happened, she can see now how wrong she was.
Mr. Jordan adjusts his toupee, then scratches his nose. Sophie sighs and looks pointedly at the manila folder in his hands, ready to shoo him out the door so that she can figure things out. He smiles shakily, but hands it to her, saying, "This contains all of the bank account info you'll need to access the money. In addition to all of that, your house is completely paid for, so you don't have to worry about mortgage payments, just utilities."
When the man leaves, Sophie returns to the couch, plopping down and snuggling into the cushions. Her mind reels with this new information, and now that she knows that her mother was involved with so much more than she let on, Sophie itches to uncover more of the truth. Was the money obtained illegally? Could her mother have been a gangster? A swindler? A mob boss? Maybe she sold drugs. Maybe she did something amazing for a rich man once, saved his only child and heir from certain death or something else most heroic in nature, and the Rich Man left half of his life's fortune to her in his will.
That night, Sophie finds herself standing in front of her mother's bedroom door, right hand lightly touching the knob, but hesitating to turn it, left hand nervously running along the curved edge of the necklace she's worn every day since before she can remember. She's avoided this moment, has slipped past this room every day for three weeks, feeling its pull, its siren call, but she's been to apprehensive to go in. Now, though... Now that the can of worms of her mother's secrets has opened, there's no turning back. She must go in.
And so she does.
The scent of her mother's perfume wafts through the air. For the first time in roughly a week, Sophie feels tears prickle the backs of her eyelids and it takes an ironclad hold on her emotions to refuse those tears their escape. Looking around the room, Sophie quietly admits to herself that she probably should have prepared herself a bit more for this moment.
She's usually the kind of person who analyzes everything before making a decision or making a move; every action is deliberate and controlled. Every word, every gesture, thought out and planned so as to have the desired effect. She feels as though she has been on autopilot ever since her mother's death.
Looking around, nothing is out of place. Why should it be? Why did she expect it to be? Her mother's bed is still unmade from the morning that she died. Clothes continue to spill from the hamper in the corner, some having migrated into piles on the carpeted floor. The lights are off, but with the help of the setting sun, Sophie can see each trinket sitting on top of the white wooden vanity next to the master bathroom door. She finds herself sitting in the chair set before the mirror, eyes softly tracing the photos taped to the glass along the perimeter, ready to be illuminated by the Hollywood dressing room bulb lights that form the border of the reflective glass.
Front and center, taped to the top edge, is a photo of the two women when Sophie was 9 and won the local science fair. Not many kids entered the contest, as their town had few people, and she had only entered after continued harassment and encouragement by her mother. The woman in question stands with arms wrapped around Sophie's shoulders; their identical silver blonde curls tangle together, flowing around their faces and down to twine with Sophie's disc shaped necklace. Little Sophie clutches the first place trophy in her hands, grinning widely around the top pillar, empty spaces where teeth have yet to grow in alternating with pearly grown up teeth.
Present, grown up Sophie's gaze shifts away, to the photo next to it, a photo she hadn't at the time known was being taken. She had constructed a fort in the study out of sheets and pillows, pulling a pile of her favorite novels into the fortress to read all day while the rain howled outside. She had stolen a bag of pretzels and stashed them in her pockets. Her mother had apparently found her fast asleep some time in the evening, book laying open and face down on Sophie's chest, pretzel crumbs stuck stubbornly to her lips and in her hair, and had taken a photo. Sophie remembers, almost vividly, how her mother's quiet giggling had startled her awake, how her apparent look of panic combined with her state of crumb-y-ness had sent the older woman into a fit of laughter so impassioned that Sophie had joined in, too. She thinks she was maybe 12 at the time.
Now, 22 and grown up, Sophie looks at herself in the mirror. She lets hard eyes study her face, so much like her mother's: pointed chin, heart shaped cheeks and forehead, strong but small nose, wide and intense green eyes. Even their hair had been practically identical, though Sophie's time in her garden had streaked her white blonde with shimmering and pleasant golden highlights. She roughly pushes self-cut side swept bangs aside and out of her eyes, tugs her fingers through arm pit length loose curls. Her thumb finds the silver pendant dangling from a black leather cord necklace, sliding haltingly over its round, ring shape, then against the 3 small blue gems set at the west, east, and south points. The north gem perches in the center of the ring, held in place by thick silver threads. Each half cardinal point is marked by a small diamond, and between each of those, a black dash. The colors of this pendant compliment her light olive skin tone, the honey colored freckles splashed across her chest and nose. It hangs between average sized breasts that are part of a tall, athletic frame, a natural runner's body.
Her mother was beautiful, but Sophie sees no beauty in the person looking back at her. When had she lost her self esteem? It should be startling, but the numbness brought on by her mother's death has washed away the surprise she should be feeling.
She turns away, a little annoyed. She'll have to analyze this unhealthy behavior later. She wants answers, doesn't she? Isn't that why she came in here, torturing herself with her mother's memory? She should waste no more time. So she marches determinedly to the closet and flings open the doors, intent on getting those answers.
Just as her room was a partial disaster, so is her closet. Boxes tower and stack on the top shelf, none labelled, all different colors and sizes. Clothes hang from hangers, looking as though they might have once been organized by color, but no longer. Shoes pile on top of one another haphazardly, nearly hidden by loose leaf papers of an unknown origin. Sophie smiles a little. Her mother's organization had never been her strong suit, nor had following through to the end of a project. How many times had Sophie woken up in the morning to find her mother cleaning the kitchen in a frenzy, only to find her again at night, newly found bowls filled to the brim with cake batter? One time, Lena had taken down all of the books in the study to organize them alphabetically. A few hours into the project, however, and she had rediscovered an old favorite, nestling herself into the arm chair in the corner and reading until early morning. She had left the study that way, half the books organized and the other half stacked in towers throughout the room. Sophie had ended up organizing the rest, happy to learn what they owned and what she could look forward to reading.
The young woman starts with the shoes, slowly pulling them out from underneath the papers, trying them on if she likes them, then placing them, pair by pair, on the floor beside the bed. Next she gathers all of those documents, finding the accordion folder they fell out of and sliding them back in, before filing the folder in one of the vanity drawers. The clothes she leaves, as she's not sure her barely stable emotions can handle the more intense smell of her mother nor the memories sure to come with each outfit seen, so she begins standing on tip toe to look through the dusky, dusty boxes on that top shelf.
The first box is a shoe box full of pictures of the two of them, and that tenuous grasp on control snaps, sending Sophie into a ball on her mother's bed, tears flowing and sobs echoing. It takes a good hour before she has gathered herself, and she immediately shoves all of the picture toting boxes under the bed.
While on her toes, pressed against the side of the closet, she notices a bright red, wooden jewelry box tucked into a hidden, square shaped alcove behind her mother's clothing. Ever curious, she abandons her task of reaching for a stubborn box at the back of the top shelf and instead takes the red box to the bed, setting it gently down and sitting in front of it. The wood is beautifully carved, ridges and dips flowing smoothly with the grain of the wood. It almost feels like...magic. And because of that, Sophie hesitates. Her imagination pokes through her sadness induced haze, filling her with a need to continue, but also a thrilling fear. Whatever this box contains, Sophie knows it will change her life.