“Or that good, depending on how you look at it.” Sacha blows loose strands away from her face and rakes her hands through her hair as she straightens and rolls her shoulders.
“The woman is as clean as a whistle,” Fel says with a sigh. “I’m upset because she lived her life so righteously. How jacked up is that?’ She wrinkles her nose and scowls. “It feels awful.”
“As far as anyone knows, Imelda was a model citizen. The forty-five-year-old Filipino woman taught fourth grade at Cypress middle school, attended church regularly, volunteered, and had the nerve to be healthy, too.” Sacha grimaces.
“She seems to be exactly who she appears on paper,” Fel adds.
“The only odd thing is the way she died,” Sacha says.
“How’s that?” I pour myself a cup of Rose Hip tea, add three sugar cubes, and move my cup and saucer to the side to make room for the manilla f
ile Sacha slides over toward me.
“An aneurysm.”
“Uncommon, but not unheard of,” I mumble. I scan the obituary, coroner’s notes, and important files. It’s amazing how we all leave paper trails that draw a picture of who we are and how we live our lives. “There’s got to be shady behavior. At the least a neighbor she’s feuding with, a sibling she didn’t get along with, or a rival teacher. No one’s life is perfect.”
“Well, she’s an only child, so you can rule that one out right off the bat,” Sach replies.
I roll my eyes. “You’re a real helper.”
“We’d have to talk to people to get the inside scoop, but with people posting, ‘She’d give you the shirt off her back, and never had an unkind word to speak about anyone,’ I doubt you’re going to find the kind of dirt you’re looking for,” Fel says.
“Then why the hell would anyone take her body?” I ask out loud.
“Welcome to our nightmare,” Sach sings, emulating Ozzie Osbourne. I admire her cheerfulness. I get the feeling we’re going to need it.
***
I pull up behind Fel’s car in Mémé’s driveway. Soon this place will be flooded with family. A few months ago, this would’ve been impossible. Death has brought us all together. It’s sad that it takes the end of life to wake everyone up to the fact that our days are numbered, and we never know when we’ll meet our end.
Putting the car into park, I grab my bag off the passenger seat and slip out. The air is full of potential. Untapped magic taints the air, lending a spicy sweet scent. Breathing in through my mouth, I can almost taste the flavor combination.
Tonight, for the first time in ages, we’ll dine and perform magic as a family. Not for a tradition, but to restore balance, and realign our magical cores. We share a special bond. Like any link, abuse or misuse can dampen its potency. Gone ignored, it can begin to decay and rot. Our family numbers are dwindling, along with many of the older families. Fresh blood and close ties are essential for survival. We have to pierce the festering wound that’s become a rift between us all and rebuild. It’s been a painstakingly slow process.
I brace myself for the opposition as I climb the stairs leading to the porch. The front door opens before I can knock and Fel grins.
“Show off,” I say.
“I happened to be walking by the front door and heard you pull in. No magic involved.” She gives me a cheeky grin.
“Ugh. I just hope no one ends up dead when it’s all said and done.”
She laughs. “Since looks can’t kill, I think we’ll be all right.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s going to get easier eventually, right?”
Fel pats my arm. “If anyone can reunite us, it’d be you. Look at us all gathering for fellowship, and magical practices. We haven’t done this since we were kids. Family dinners were strained at best, and magic was done on a necessary basis. We lost a part of ourselves when that rift occurred that turned us into a shell of a family. You’re trying to mend what’s been broken for years. It’ll take time. Honestly, I think you’re doing a smashing job of bringing us back to the start.”
“Thanks, cuz. I needed that vote of confidence.” The smell of sage greets me as I move into the house. There’s a tentative calm settled over the atmosphere. The kind just before a storm breaks out where the pressure can build or dissipate. My goal is to navigate us to the next step without detonating a bomb.
“You two stop moving those jawbones, and get in here and help us,” Mom yells.
I laugh. “Yes, ma’am.”
The cool air brushes over my skin and I thank God for air conditioning to combat muggy, Louisiana days. My blue ombre T-shirt sticks to my flesh and the khaki shorts that hit mid-thigh feel too long. I close the door behind me and trail my baby cousin into the kitchen. It’s been a month of Sundays since I saw the Esçhete women gathered in the kitchen like this. Wearing aprons with silver diadems that represent the elements nestled into their hair Mémé, Mom, and Aunt Heloise are a contradiction of coziness and power. The vine and leaf, moon and stars, and wavelike patterns represent their element to call.
“Today we’re cooking not just to nourish our bodies, but our very souls. We’re adding magic, hope, and love to every dish we prepare. That means boosting our natural powers to make sure the emotions sink in as we prep with intention.”