Lonely Souls (2 page)

Looking around the room, I saw many familiar faces and several unfamiliar ones. Shockingly, none of my school friends could make it to the service. I didn’t blame them. It’s after graduation, and they had all moved on to their new college-bound lives; most weren’t even in the state any longer.

I scanned the room one last time hoping that my mom’s best friend made it in, but her flight was delayed, and it didn’t look like luck was on my side. Pushing my focus up front again, where the candles were flickering in every direction, I did my best to fight back the effects from the overwhelming fragrance of freesia. I’d been holding onto rose petals with my left hand, probably crushing them to nothingness, trying to keep myself together. My nails were digging into my palm as I promised myself that I was going to hold in the tears because I knew she wasn’t really gone. There was no way she could be gone.

The brilliant music began echoing off the walls as Mozart’s “The Countess’ Aria” began pumping into the room. My aunt immediately looked at me and bent over to my ear.

“Did you pick this song, sweetie?” my aunt asked, her voice low.

“No, it’s what my mom had listed in her preparations,” I whispered, not really sure what the big deal was. “Why?”

“We’ll discuss it later. It’s a peculiar choice is all.”

Doing my best to dismiss whatever my aunt had on her mind, I focused on the beauty of the opera that my mother must have wanted me to hear. I only wish it was in English, so I knew what the words were telling me.

As the music was quieted, the priestess began speaking words that seemed to matter to everyone in the room except me. They wouldn’t bring my mom back. I was staring at the photographs everyone had placed up front of my mom. She always surrounded herself with nature.

There were pictures of us together at the floral shop that my mom owned, and I grew up working in. She always had the best aprons on and everyone loved them. She was sporting some of her finest in these photos. She actually sewed them herself. She’d wear polka dots, stripes, and ruffles one day and switch to lace and paisley the next. She even started selling them through our shop. The burn of sadness in the pit of my stomach was attempting to escape, but I wouldn’t let it.

There was a picture of my mom and I on one of our hiking adventures to gather plants for the tinctures that she was always busy making for our pantry. That was a particularly fun day. Only I would know the background of this picture. My mom looked a little more frazzled than usual. I had to stifle my laugh, thinking back on it. I had been so proud of myself rounding up water hemlock, thinking it was Queen Anne’s lace before my mom had to stop me and quickly find a lake to dunk me in. We planned on making large batches of Queen Anne’s lace jelly with all of my handiwork. However, our plans came to an abrupt halt when my mom realized I’d been picking the wrong greens. Apparently, the plant I had found was toxic——deadly actually. Evidently, not only are the leaves, flowers, and seeds of water hemlock poisonous, but also the liquid inside was even worse. So as I squeezed and snapped stems off, I had it all over my skin. We decided it was best for me to do a little more studying before I started collecting herbs and flowers again. It took an entire year before I went out on my own.

Finally, my eyes fell on the picture of my mom near the ocean. It was her favorite place to be, which is why living in Seattle was so ideal. She loved the chill in the air that the sea provided. She loved taking me for walks on the rocky beaches up and down our coast, always stopping at our favorite little fish hut for fish and chips. The most disheartening thing that probably happened to my mom was finding out her daughter got seasick. She tried so many times, taking me on various size boats, to brush it off as something else only for me to come back as green as could be every time. We always managed a way to find humor in all of our misadventures. I was going to miss that.

My heart started filling up with a mixture of both grief and happiness reliving these memories. I was filled with the most conflicting of emotions, and I didn’t know what to do. There was nothing I could do.

In memory of my mom, I plastered a smile on my face but then my thoughts switched topics once more.

I started getting hot as I thought about this entire spectacle. That’s really what it felt like, a spectacle. There wasn’t any proof that my mom died. In my mind, she was still missing and what was the big hurry and push to have this memorial? Things didn’t seem right. Realizing I let myself go on another tangent trapped in my psyche, I looked back up at the priestess as she was asking for a moment of silence. The flames from the candles waved left to right from the breeze as the priestess moved into place. Nothing about this memorial service followed our tradition because nothing about it seemed plausible. For starters, there’s nobody to give back to the earth. How can we bury someone who might not even be dead? Why would we want to?

“Veronica was an inspiration to us all. She always found time to help someone in need and lend a helping hand. With the success of her business ventures, she constantly gave back to the community, wanting to make the world a better place, and I think she accomplished that on many levels. We should all strive to continue that tradition, and I know her daughter Triss will carry on that torch,” the priestess said.

Shoot!
The priestess mentioned my name. My head was throbbing as all these thoughts kept running around inside of me. I knew everyone was watching for my reaction, and I was trying my best not to give them one. Many of the coven members already disagreed with some of my selections of wreaths and herbs for this ceremony because I was still working on the assumption of hope. Hope that she was still out there just waiting to be found. They mistook my hope for denial. I used many of the same herbs and wildflowers that we normally used in our upcoming solstice celebrations where positivity, goodness, and joy were commended. A little pride stirred inside of me. I
was
like my mother.

Scanning the arrangements I had made, I saw the carefully chosen plants poking out here and there. The arrangements were wild and free, allowing me to stick all kinds of herbs and flowers that meant something to me. I had to get my control where I could. The garlic was peeking out with its beautifully narrow, deep green leaves that were shoved in between juniper cuttings from our own yard and lots of iris from our shop. The garlic was to provide courage and strength, and the juniper the protection that my mother needed. My mom had juniper planted on all four corners of our property for protection. I thought fondly back to when we started digging the holes to plant the juniper shrubs, and we realized that the holes needed to be much bigger than what we wanted to dig. We wore ourselves out before we even began, and somehow my mom had convinced the gardeners down the street to help us dig the holes, with only the promise of some herbal tea. At the time, it seemed odd, but in hindsight, I think my mom had quite the power over certain individuals.

I must have been staring at the arrangements in a daze because my aunt leaned over and whispered to me.

“Lovely choice on the iris, my dear. The hope is within us both.”

I looked away from the arrangements and saw my aunt’s eyes filled with the tears I had been doing such a good job of holding in. I nodded and turned back to the front of the room. I needed to hold onto the hope that I had inside of me. I couldn’t afford to let even a smidgen of it escape.

With Litha, our summer solstice celebration, fast approaching, I knew I had to work quickly to find the answers I was looking for. I needed my mother to be with me before I entered the Witch Avenue order, which occurred on the same day as the summer solstice.

Realizing I had dreamed away the entire memorial service as the priestess thanked everyone for attending, I looked around at the coven members wondering why they all seemed like strangers. These were people I had grown up around and come to love, and yet, I felt like none of them truly knew my mother or I, because if they did know us, we wouldn’t all be standing here discussing a woman who might not be dead.

Somehow I had been moved to the back of the room, accepting everyone’s condolences, but my emotions felt like there was a layer of cotton between them all. Everything was untouchable, hazy, and nowhere near my center of reality.

I found myself staring at the table full of candles when my aunt attempted to snap me out of my fog.

“Honey, I can’t believe she’s gone either.”

Coming to rather quickly off that statement, I looked back at my aunt. I was filled with sympathy for her, pity even. I grabbed her hand, and I looked deeply into her grief-stricken hazel eyes for I really wanted her to understand what I was about to say.

“The difference, Aunt Vieta, is that I
don’t
believe she’s gone. You
can’t
believe she’s gone. One view offers hope and the other offers finality.”

Releasing the last of the silky rose petals from my fingers onto the ground, I could hear the whispers bouncing off the walls of the room. The smell of freesia was almost gagging me as I attempted to catch my breath. I didn’t know why people thought that whispering would make it so they were unheard, because I could still hear all of their comments, every single one of them.

The Witch Avenue Coven, a place, a group, an idea that usually comforted me was doing nothing of the sort now, and I had to figure out why. A hand rested on my shoulder, and I spun around to see my aunt. She was one of the few who didn’t think I was completely crazy. Or at least if she did, she was more discreet about it.

Looking up into her eyes, I was reminded of my mother instantly, and the tears began rushing down my face. Maybe I didn’t believe she was alive either.

Chapter 3

“Thank you for dropping me off at our florist shop,” I told my aunt. “I think it’s the only place I’ll be able to get some peace.”

My aunt turned up the street, parking the car in front of the place my mom and I spent so many days together arranging flowers and planning events. The little red and white wooden
closed
sign made my grief begin all over again. The window displays were gorgeous, and I thought about my mom and I having so much fun putting those together.

“Triss, promise me that you won’t be long.” Aunt Vieta’s concern couldn’t be missed. “That you’ll walk right to your house after you’re done. There’ll be a lot of people waiting.”

This was like the memorial that would never end. I should be grateful that so much support existed, but it didn’t really seem like support and that’s the problem. To me, support would be continuing to spread out search groups in hopes that we could find my mom.

“I know, and that’s precisely why I’d like to stay here,” I told her. “But I’ll get there. I promise. I want to grab my mom’s planner and just experience a few moments alone, quietly.”

Shutting the car door, I walked to our floral shop hoping some answers would appear. I opened the front door and turned to wave at my aunt as she took off down the street. Quickly locking the door behind me, I stood in the store, breathing in as deep a breath as I could. All the freshness from the greenery and flowers came through me, centering me a bit, but not enough. I felt trapped in an endless haze.

I remembered back to the first time my mom took me out to introduce me to our world. The images of following her through the woods, as she picked juniper branches and berries, placing them in her basket as she rattled off all the uses and why they were so important, brought warmth to my soul.

My hand fell to the soaps that were on one of our displays. Bringing my fingers up to my face, I could smell the vanilla and rose that we had so purposefully mixed in our creation to bring about calmness to others. Little did I know when we made them that I would be the one craving such a state of mind. My hand graced another favorite that we had created, lemon verbena. My mom teased me about using that soap if I was planning on going out on a date. She always made me laugh.

Knowing there was a house full of people waiting for me created a sense of dread I couldn’t shake. I wandered back to my mom’s desk to grab her planner, so I could get on my way and just get everything over with. Her desk was just as she left it piled high with ribbons, papers, and dried flowers. Opening up the middle drawer, I found her planner immediately and grabbed it. Taking in everything around the back room one last time before I began my walk to my home, a very uncomfortable feeling started to come over me. Everything seemed stuffy, like I was overheating. My head was spinning, and I thought I might pass out. Dropping my mom’s planner in my purse, I dashed in to our flower cooler. I needed to get control of myself.

The crisp cold air hit me and immediately began cooling me down—nothing like a flower cooler to hide inside of.
Boy, I’m getting stranger by the minute.
Doing my best not to tip over any of the containers holding the roses, delphiniums, and baby’s breath, I found an empty container and flipped it over to sit on. The silence was a beautiful thing. There was only the slight hum from the cooler’s motor. This was exactly what I needed—silence and cold air to shock me back to my senses. The heat slowly began to trickle from my system. Feeling my forehead, the clamminess began to evaporate. With my eyes closed tightly, I let my mind wander to the possibility that my mom might have actually been taken from me. Maybe she wasn’t only missing; maybe she really did pass away.

Not sure how many minutes I had been in the cooler, I realized I’d better get on my way to the distressing function waiting for me. I just needed to get through this last affair, and then, maybe things would settle down. Grabbing my bag and slinging it over my shoulder, I let myself enjoy the last several seconds of quiet.

I pushed on the cooler door and it wouldn’t open. These doors didn’t lock, so I didn’t understand what was going on. Leaning on it with all of my weight, I shoved on the metal door, and it still wouldn’t budge. I could crawl through the front, but do I want to? Worrying that someone locked me in here and might still be out there created panic. I looked out the glass front of the cooler. I’d have to move the shelving or try to squeeze myself in between the wire grates where the flower arrangements rested, but I could do it. I couldn’t let myself go crazy. There had to be a logical explanation for getting locked in here. I just needed to focus on one step at a time. I had no reason to worry, no reason to panic, but I was.