GO WITH THE FLOW
Esther Friesner
“Honey, is something wrong?” Brent Crawn drew back from the lingering kiss he’d bestowed upon his fiancée, Cecilia. “Your mind’s elsewhere; I can tell. Is that the welcome I deserve when I’ve been away so long? Don’t tell me you’ve found someone else!”
He couldn’t help chuckling sotto voce at that. How could “someone else” hope to compete with what he brought to the table…and the bed? From one to ten on the Handsome scale, Brent ranked as Wowee and Then Some in the opinion of a lot of discerning ladies. Meanwhile, Cecilia’s appearance and mien both could be filed under Oh, Is That You? I Thought You Were a Desk. (It wasn’t a completely accurate assessment: unlike Cecilia, most desks fit in somewhere.) The only reason she didn’t have a cat was because she was so mousey, according to some of her more shrewish acquaintances.
Cecilia shook her head meekly. “Nothing’s the matter, dear. It’s just that—”
“Great!” Brent slipped his arm around her waist and steered her into the living room. “I need a drink. How’d you like to bring me a bourbon, rocks?” Without waiting for her to reply, he gave her an encouraging swat on the rump and slouched gracefully into his favorite chair, the lambskin upholstery bleating softly as he settled down.
She brought his drink and took her usual place, perched on the ottoman at his feet. Although the posh penthouse and everything in it belonged to her, she couldn’t help looking like a barely tolerated visitor in her own home. Brent emptied his glass and rattled the ice cubes at her, the silent command for seconds, chop-chop. Only a man of his charisma could make such an imperious gesture seem like a priceless favor. Cecilia leaped up to demonstrate her gratitude. However, though she was swiftly back with his refill, she balked at handing it over. Instead she held it just out of reach as she rocked nervously from foot to foot beside his chair.
“Is something wrong?” he asked. This question was not perfunctory since it concerned bourbon; his bourbon.
“Dearest, do you—do you recall the girl I sponsored up until last May?”
“Of course.” He frowned impatiently. “I was stuck telling her she’d washed out of the Crawn Institute voice studies program. I had such high hopes when she first enrolled! That’s why I chose you to be her patron. It was very hard on me when I realized she was a dead end. Why are you bringing up something so upsetting?”
“I—no—I—”
“Listen, I know we had that girl—Rita-something—we had her come here a lot while she was one of my students. I know you took a real liking to her. Do you want to see her again? Forget it. It’d give her the wrong idea, make her think the Institute’s giving her a second shot.”
“No, no, it’s not that I want to reconnect with her; it’s just—” Cecilia nibbled her lower lip, unable to go on. Her hand trembled enough to set the ice cubes tinkling.
Brent shook his head. “Cecilia, I am tired. Why are you working my last nerve? Am I being punished for leaving you alone for a month? It wasn’t a pleasure trip. I was scouting new talent for the Institute. I hear what some of your so-called friends say: ‘Oh, that Brent, Cecilia’s bought-and-paid-for pet! He wouldn’t look at her twice if she was poor.’” He glanced up. “Is that what this is about? Have they convinced you? Fine. Feel free to break our engagement. I can move out tonight. Never mind that I’m about to drop; I’ll do what makes you happy.”
“No! Please don’t talk like that! I love you!” Tears smeared Cecilia’s face. The rattling of the ice cubes went from allegro to prestissimo. “It’s only—oh, I don’t want to say it!”
“Your choice.” He sighed and let his body slump pathetically. “But if you’re going to make me play Twenty Questions, at least have the courtesy to let me do it drunk.” He held out one limp hand for the glass.
She passed him his drink. The ice had diluted the bourbon to an abominable degree, but before he could demand a replacement, Cecilia took a deep breath and blurted: “Rita came by to see me a week after you left and she said you slept with her and with some of the other girls and you expelled them from the Institute when you broke up with them and you paid them off with enough to go to a trade school if they kept their mouths shut and she could use the money, especially now, but she said I was always so good to her that she’d rather give me the truth than have you give her the cash and—and—and—” She paused to get her second wind. “—and she’s pregnant and it’s yours.”
Watered-down bourbon made for a bad drink but an excellent spit-take.
The scene that ensued was epic in scope. Brent had to unleash all his past methods for convincing Cecilia that being a puppet was much better than becoming a Real Girl. He tried jollying her out of believing Rita’s revelations—mean girls and their mean pranks! Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that she was being played? He tried slut-shaming—so many girls out there who were no better than unpaid whores! Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that this false accusation of paternity was the little bitch’s get-rich gambit? He appealed to her sense of dedication to the future of Art. Surely Cecilia was smart enough to see that Rita was a vengeful harpy? If she couldn’t become an opera star, no one would! She’d destroy the school with this fake scandal.
When these came a cropper, he tried acting hurt. Why was she treating him so shabbily? Didn’t she trust him? How could she let an outrageous lie destroy a love so true, so pure, so immortal?
No dice.
Then he just tried bullying and yelling.
For once, Cecilia held her ground. She cringed and shivered and sobbed, but she did not concede. It was an exhausting battle for them both, one that Brent soon recognized as a possible Pyrrhic victory. When he’d set out on his trip—seeking starry-eyed wannabe singers who just happened to be beautiful, pliant young women—his fond parting words included making Cecilia swear she’d pay a visit to her lawyer. He sought no bequest for himself while he was merely her fiancé—that would be too blatant. Ah, but a hefty endowment for the Crawn Institute—? So charitable, so altruistic! (So discreetly to be used at the eponymous Founder’s discretion.) He didn’t want to risk alienating her if she hadn’t finalized that arrangement yet.
First things first.
“Baby, please stop crying.” He took her into his arms with premeditated tenderness. “Why don’t we talk this out later? I’ve got a much better idea of how we should spend tonight.”
Cecilia crumpled into a damp little ball of acquiescence. She hated conflict as much as she loved her fiancé. Brent proceeded to pull out all the stops on the mighty Wurlitzer of Romance: he cooked her a gourmet dinner with lots and lots of wine. He presented all the trinkets he’d bought for her while on the road. (No need to mention that he’d had some shopping help from this or that young woman who’d warmed the solitary traveler’s bed.) He devastated the bouquet of red roses from the coffee table and cast their blooms over the sheets before making intense, expert love to her. Afterwards, he ran her a scented bubble bath and strewed the remaining petals atop the foam.
As he helped her out of her robe, he kissed her neck and said, “Now wasn’t that nicer than fighting?”
“Nice mucher,” she said in fluent Merlot. A tipsy giggle punctuated her wobbly approach to the luxuriously deep, freestanding black marble tub.
“You take a nice, long soak, darling,” he said. “Call me when you’re ready to come out. I’ll have some brandy waiting for us. Then you can tell me the good things you’ve done since I’ve been gone. You know, wedding plans?” He raised one eyebrow in a roguish manner. “Honeymoon details? A little chat with your lawyer about the Institute bequest?”
“Of course, dear,” she cooed. “I saw him the day after you went away. I know that’s been on your mind.”
“I don’t suppose you got around to mentioning the pre-nup while you were there?” he asked, giving her a steadying hand as she swung one leg over the bath’s massive rim. “Maybe tell them you’d like it to be a bit less …harsh?”
“I didn’t think of it.” She teetered just a bit as she prepared to lift her other foot into the tub. “But I’ll do that next time, when I set up the trust for Rita’s baby. You know, only if the paternity test proves he’s—”
“WHAT?!” Brent’s shock was explosive. He threw his arms wide, in a dramatic gesture many a soap-opera hero might mimic for the climactic Revelation of the Week.
What happened next was even more theatric. Brent’s sudden movement yanked away Cecilia’s only means of balance. She plummeted backwards into the tub, hitting the base of her head sharply on the rim as she fell. Horrified, Brent reacted without thinking, diving forward to save her.
In the instant before he could plunge his hands beneath the water, he did think. They were not generous thoughts. No, they were quiet, calculating, deathly practical ones. He was still thinking them as he calmly strolled into the living room, there to pour himself a fresh drink and wait however long would sound plausible before calling 911. I thought she was enjoying her bath. I had no idea. By the time I checked on her, she was—was—
Add one choked sob plus one heartrending breakdown into convincing, manly grief, and scene!
Trying to save her would’ve been useless anyway, he told his half-starved conscience. She was probably dead as soon as she hit her head. The thread of bubbles that had broken the surface of the scented water as he left gave him the lie, but those had been lost among the rose petals.
* * *
“Roses? I love roses. Can I have some?”
Cecilia blinked. Her head felt funny, heavier than usual. The same could be said for her entire body. She wondered who’d spoken. “I—I guess so?”
“Thanks!” The wavering image of a fresh-faced girl solidified before her, like a gradually resolving reflection on a pebble-troubled pool. The apparition’s slim fingers reached up to scoop a handful of crimson petals from somewhere above her head. She buried her face in them and sniffed appreciatively. “Mmm, delicious,” she said with a happy sigh. “Did he give them to you?”
“He…who—?” Cecilia was woozy. Somewhere behind the wall of fog now occupying her brain was a small, urgent voice trying to impart a vital message, but for the life of her, she couldn’t figure out what it was.
“You know, the man who just killed you. Although if you want to get technical, I guess he’s only the man who let you die. Either way, you’re dead. Pleased to meet you; I’m Lara. How’re you doing? Aside from being dead, that is.”
When something dawned on a cartoon character, the moment called for a light bulb flashing on above his head. Cecilia’s Thunderbolt Moment merited the Paris Opera House chandelier. Memories of her last minutes of life swarmed over her, including one of supreme bitterness.
“He could have saved me.” Her whole body sagged. “Why didn’t he even try?”
“Aw, don’t cry,” Lara said, drifting closer and offering the comfort of a gentle hug. “No one’s going to notice a few more droplets. Not down here.” Cecilia jerked her head up, perplexity writ large in her expression. “Down here,” Lara repeated. “Under the water. In your bathtub. With your corpse.” She gave her an amiable grin. “Don’t mind the corpse part: they’ll be taking it away soon. Once it’s out of your element, you’ll be free as a fluke!”
Cecilia looked all around, bewildered. “If we’re in my bathtub, with my—with my—me, how can the three of us fit?”
Lara dismissed the matter with a wave of her hand. “If myths and the spirits of dead things took up actual space, you wouldn’t be able to brush your teeth without jamming your elbow into a harpy and we’d all be up to our nostrils in classroom hamsters.”
“I’m going to guess you’re a myth.”
“Well, I’m no dead hamster, sister! I’m a naiad, a water nymph.”
“I thought that beings like you only lived in streams and rivers,” Cecilia said, finally finding a use for her Classical education. “What are you doing in my bathtub?”
“I came for you. It’s my job. I’m also a psychopomp. That means I—”
“You guide the souls of the dead to the next world. I thought that was Mercury’s line of work.”
Lara was taken aback. “That’s…right. How did you know? I mean, Mercury and I are a couple, so it’s always nice to hear someone giving him credit, but—”
“You and Mercury?”
“Oh, yes.” Lara bobbed her head with enthusiasm. “I tattled to Juno about Jupiter playing Here Comes the Lightning with one of my sister nymphs, so he told Mercury to take me to the Underworld, except he—Mercury, not Jupiter—fell in love with me and now I handle all the psychopomping when the client’s underwater because my sweet Merkypoo absolutely hates getting those adorable little ankle-wings of his wet.” The naiad giggled behind a veiling hand. “You’re the first of my Special Cases to know what a psychopomp is. The others all thought it meant I was insane and being snooty about it.”
“Latin major,” Cecilia explained. “Vassar.”
“My condolen—oh hey, they’re here!” The naiad was jubilant, for the bath water began to swirl violently, sending the two of them spinning wildly around the tub. When things settled down again, Lara explained: “That was the Coroner’s crew removing your body. Nifty ride, right?”
A dizzied Cecilia held her head and asked, “What happened to the E.M.T.s? What about the police? Didn’t anyone try to bring me back?”
“They’ve all come and gone. Time moves differently when you stand between mortality and Next. For some it stretches out, others it scrunches in, kind of like a cosmic accordion. It’ll all go back to normal once you allow me to escort you over the River Styx or across the spiritual borderland of your choice.”
Like every human being even mildly susceptible to catching a bad case of Philosophy, Cecilia had often thought about death and what might come thereafter. None of her musings ever included words like “allow” and “choice.” When she queried Lara about this, the reply was enlightening in the extreme:
“Of course it’s up to you! You can go Over any time you like, to whichever afterlife you prefer. Just remember, you’ll have to stay put and abide by the local rules once you get there. Eternity’s a strictly no backsies deal, so take your time. Any questions?”
It was like asking “Who wants chocolate?” in a crowded anywhere. Cecilia’s spate of inquiry as to the Spiritual “Now What?” yielded some startling information tidbits from her naiad guide, most amazing among these being:
“—and while you’re making up your mind, we can have some fun. You don’t need to stay in the tub. You can go any place you like.”
“Really?” Lara’s confirming nod made Cecilia smile for the first time since her death. “I’ve always wanted to see the pyramids at Giza.”
“We could do that. From a distance. In the Nile.”
“But the river’s so far from the site!” Cecilia protested. “I know; I researched it when I was planning—” She stopped herself before she could say: when I was planning where we should spend our honeymoon. It hurt too much. “You said I could go anywhere. Why not right up to the pyramids, and the Sphinx, and the—?”
“Because it’s too dry, okay?” Lara blurted. “You’re free to leave this tub, but you’ve got to travel someplace where you can stay submerged. I can help you puddle-jump, but there’s got to be at least this much water waiting for you at the other end of the trip.” She cupped her pale hands. “Sure, tourists carry water bottles, but they’re usually the opaque kind, or tucked away. You wouldn’t be able to see a thing. Hey, don’t blame me for rules I never made. Just stick to them, pick a different destination, and enjoy the privileges of an Elementary death!” Seeing Cecilia’s fresh confusion, she was quick to clarify that she wasn’t speaking of Sherlock Holmes. “You know, death by one of the elements? I mean the back-in-the-day kind, not your periodic table hodge-podge. The Big Four: Earth, Air, Fire and—your favorite—Water.”
“How is it my favorite? It killed me! Where’s the ‘privilege’ in that?”
“It’s a privilege because it’s not for everyone. You have to be one person who dies by the action of one element and the action—in your case, the inaction—of one other person. If someone breaks your skull with a rock, that’s a bankable death-by-Earth. If you’re caught in Pompeii on the wrong day, not so much.”
“I still don’t see how you can call Water my favorite element,” Cecilia said. “I barely squeaked by on my college swimming test.”
“Well, those days are over because—”
“Because I’m dead?”
“No. Uh, actually yes, but now it’s your Best Fluid Forever because—” The naiad spread her arms. “—because here you are, in it and of it, breathing it and being it until further notice. Water’s your servant. Water’s your home. Water’s your self for as long as you like. But why don’t I demonstrate? One splash is worth a thousand words. Come on!”
Lara grabbed Cecilia by the wrist and dragged her deeper into the tub. The bronzed plug glimmered dimly beneath them, the faucet above was a fleeting shadow glimpsed through a haze of rose petals and foam. Cecilia felt a moment of icy dread—Are we actually going to go down the drain? Into the sewer? Ew, ew, ew!—and then she was…elsewhere.
Repeatedly.
Dappled sunlight played over her eyes as she became a wavelet lapping a Caribbean beach.
Lobsters scuttled across her body in the cold depths of the Atlantic.
A seaweed cape flowed out behind her as Lara drew her through the Sargasso.
She danced a decorous pavane with manatees in the Everglades and raced Gentoo penguins around the Falkland Islands.
Her fingertips traced the twisted length of a narwhal’s tusk and she tapped her toes gently on the sleek shell of a sea turtle.
Dead as she was, she ran no risk in teasing the tentacles of a poisonous blue-ringed octopus in an Indian Ocean tidal pool or in wearing a lethal sea krait for a necklace while she explored a mangrove swamp.
Cecilia’s eyes widened, hungrily devouring so much beauty, such otherworldly creatures. Then, when it seemed as if she’d seen every marvel that her new existence had to offer, she gazed in wonder as her guide brought her into the midst of a sunken city. The weirdly ruddy water felt so hot she guessed they were near some volcanic fissure in the seabed. Massive white and orange blocks could find no resting place as the currents sent them bobbing. Here and there she glimpsed a flash of bright yellow, no doubt a titanic lump of gold from the king’s treasury that somehow had cheated the dulling effect of brine. Just as she was reaching out a hand to touch its smooth surface, she gasped to behold the slow, inexorable advance of monstrously fat, white, ghostly serpents. Even though she had no life left to lose, Cecilia could not help feeling primal terror when she saw that the hideous things were entirely featureless, without even the remnants of vestigial eyes. She opened her mouth to scream.
“And one for you!” Lara darted in to tear off a bit of the closest horror and pushed it into Cecilia’s mouth. “Go on, you can still taste things if you concentrate. Isn’t that yummy? I swear, this restaurant makes the best veggie-noodle soup I ever ate!”
Cecilia chewed the savory morsel slowly, processing it along with the fact that she was inhabiting a pot of soup. For the first time since her disincarnation she did not give herself over to shock or panic. She reevaluated her surroundings calmly. The bobbing blocks were chunks of carrots and potatoes, the lump of gold a stray kernel of corn, and the water in the tomato-rich broth was her new home, like all water everywhere, until she chose to say: Enough. I’d like to go Over now.
“Enough,” she said, then went off script to add: “I’d like to go somewhere else now.” She did not accept the helping hand that Lara proffered. “There’s someone I need to see before I let you take me Over and—and I want to do it by myself.”
“No reason why not.” Lara shrugged. “As long as you’re not paying a call in the middle of the Atacama Desert.” She took another bite of the giant noodle “serpent” and casually asked, “It’s that guy who let you die, right?”
Cecilia blushed, though it was difficult to make out, what with the reddish broth around her, then nodded humbly, afraid to meet Lara’s eyes. She feared that even if the naiad helped her see Brent again, it would be done with a smirk. Dead or alive, she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone’s scorn. She’d spent her whole life trimming her sails to catch the approval of others in hopes it would make them like her. The result was a handful of friends who enjoyed having a pet jellyfish but who still left her feeling perpetually unworthy, always on the outside looking in. Brent was the only one who’d ever let her believe there was a place she could truly belong.
“Maybe—maybe he didn’t really mean to do that,” she said. “Maybe it was just an accident after all. We were going to be married. He made me feel so…special. I want to see what he’s doing now, if he misses me, if he’s sorry for what happened. I want to be able to forgive him. I want closure.” She gave the naiad a sheepish look. “Do you think I’m being foolish?”
“Not too much. I get it: love isn’t logic, and it does come in handy for making things better. I can wait. Call my name when you want to come back. Now for the outbound leg of your trip, just think where he is and think wet; that’ll land you in the liquid closest to your target.”
“But I don’t know exactly where my targ—where Brent is right now.”
“Then make him your where. Only be careful you specify—”
Lara wasted her words on soup alone. Cecilia had vanished.
She reappeared almost at once. Her expression was a ghastly conglomeration of disgust, revulsion, trauma, and nausea.
“—not when he’s in the bathroom,” Lara finished too late to do any good. She tried not to laugh as she patted her errant pupil’s back. “Don’t be discouraged, sweetie. Give it another try.”
Cecilia made a weak gesture of acquiescence and repeated her disappearing act. Her guiding thought was: Take me to Brent when he’s not doing…that.
It was vague directive, but it sufficed. Her luck turned good. She found herself suspended beneath the surface of a glass of water. Brent’s familiar voice resounded over her head. He was trying to speak, but huge sobs garbled his words. She looked up and saw his face contorted by sorrow as he apologized for his outburst. “I’m so sorry, officer,” he said. “It’s just that when I think how different it could have been if I’d checked on her earlier, or if I’d insisted she bathe with the door open, or—or something, anything that could have prevented this—this—” He broke down again. “I’ll never get over losing her. Never.”
“All right, sir.” The policeman who was taking his statement passed him a box of tissues. “I think we’ve got enough. Under the circumstances, this is just a formality. You can go now.”
Brent stood and shook hands with the man. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything else from me, officer. You’ve been a great help in a tragic time.”
Cecilia watched him leave. When she could no longer see him from her vantage point in the water glass, she whisked herself back to Lara and reported all she’d heard. “I’m ready to go Over now,” she concluded. “He’s blameless. He does deserve the benefit of the doubt. He does love me. He’s heartbroken.”
“He’s a liar.” The naiad’s simple rejoinder, delivered in such a matter-of-fact manner, dashed the stars from Cecilia’s eyes. “From what you just said, he told the police he wasn’t with you when it happened. You and I know otherwise. But hey, if you’re okay with that and ready to go, who am I to stop you? I’m a psychopomp, not a therapist. Shall we?” She arose from the makeshift divan she’d assembled out of carrot chunks and imitated a maître-d’s most suave Your table is ready, follow me motion.
Cecilia balked. “Um, if it’s all right with you, can it wait just a bit longer? It might be a good idea if I saw him just one more time.” Lara waved her on her way with a knowing smile.
“One more time” multiplied. Cecilia left with a mission in mind. Lara’s opinion of Brent rankled her badly, past the point where she could dismiss it and move on. Eternal irritation was one heck of a way to spend the afterlife. While she did accept that Lara was right about Brent having lied to the police, she just couldn’t find it in her now-stilled heart to condemn him entirely. He was her first love, the only man who’d asked—no, who’d implored her to marry him. Memories of sweet words, sweeter kisses, and sex loud enough to piss off the neighbors bubbled up, sending her thoughts from zero to Totally Insane Rationalization with frightening speed:
My death was an accident. He must have been too paralyzed with horror to save me after I fell. By the time he came out of his shock, I was gone. If he told the police the real story, who knows when they would have let him go? He’s the sole administrator of the Crawn Institute. If he were detained too long, what would happen to it, to the students, to their hopes and dreams? He knows how deeply I cared about those kids. Oh, and what about poor Rita? He must remember that my last words were about helping her, but how could he do that—honor my final request—if he got caught up in a drawn-out investigation? If he did twiddle with the facts a teensy bit, he did it for me! I want Lara to know that, too. I’ll trail him to gather proof of how much he loves me and how miserable he is now. She might question one instance, but what if I bring her more? Three should be enough. And when I describe each example to her, I’ll—I’ll—her years interred in Poughkeepsie ultimately paid off with an inspired way to make her report to the naiad unimpeachable—I’ll swear to her by the River Styx that it’s so!
Indeed, there was no stronger or more binding oath recognized among the gods of Greece and Rome. Thus prepared, Cecilia dove into her pursuit of tailor-made truth. Her bodily odyssey carried her to those liquid lookout posts whence she hoped to gather evidence of Brent’s good character and best intentions. The timing of these separate occasions was linear but compressed, verifying Lara’s claim that the speed of minutes and hours and days had a different flow for souls on the near side of the Styx. It didn’t take Cecilia long to embrace the slightly disorienting, highly convenient phenomenon.
She was present in a cup of coffee served at the reception following her funeral, where she heard Brent pour out his grief to her only living relative, Cousin Maud. Either there was a family gene for painful timidity or the two women had developed the trait independently. Maud was even more of a mouse than her departed cousin. It was heartwarming for Cecilia to witness that dowdy, plain-faced maiden find just enough courage to reply when Brent introduced himself, then offer him a few stammered words of comfort. And wasn’t it just like him to overcome his sorrow long enough to call Maud an angel of mercy and thank her with a smile whose melancholy made it all the more alluring?
Cecilia next eavesdropped from the antique inkwell on her lawyer’s desk. It was one of those old-fashioned affectations of décor that charmed his conservative clients. As that trustworthy gentleman of the bar read Cecilia’s will, Brent made ample use of a large handkerchief throughout the procedure, no doubt to hide his anguish. He sighed deeply when that document named Maud as the executrix, made a sound that was possibly a stifled sob when the Crawn Institute bequest was mentioned, and nodded stiffly, as one in pain, at each entry on the list of worthy causes Cecilia had chosen to support posthumously.
He was able to restrain the full measure of his woe until the lawyer reached the sentence at the end of the document that left the entire remainder of the estate to Cecilia’s husband and offspring, if any, and to her cousin, Maud.
Brent’s unbridled moans sent ripples through the ink.
Poor darling, she thought. He’s mourning how close we were to being married. She was right.
This would have been a satisfactory place for her to return to Lara, well-supplied with evidence of Brent’s faithfulness and regret. However, Cecilia’s loving spirit simply could not leave it at that. The intensity of Brent’s lamentations made her fear for his sanity. What if it led to the dark path of taking his own life? She could not go Over with a clear conscience until she saw him able to accept her death.
Stepping into the stream of time and water once again, she emerged in the ruby depths of a glass containing a fine Romanee-Conti Pinot Noir from her late father’s costly collection. The intoxicating environment made her a bit giddy. It took her a while to center herself and search out her beloved.
There he was, one hand cupping the bowl of the wine glass where she drifted, the other entwined with the fingers of the woman across the table from him.
Cecilia’s brows rose. She’d expected to be taken to visit a few more moments along the time-stream showcasing Brent’s slow, reluctant return to the joys of living. Why had she landed in the midst of a scene that showed her former fiancé neck-deep in the social swim? Has it been that long since I died? she wondered. Where did the years go? And then, ashamed of herself: I suppose I should be happy, knowing that he’s been able to make himself a new life after—
“—two months ago, I thought my life was over, darling,” Brent said.
His voice was as suave and caressing as Cecilia remembered it, but his words made her jaw drop. Two months? That’s it?
“I owe everything to you for saving me,” he continued. “Your kindness brought me back from the brink of despair. Your generosity allowed me to keep the Institute open, to help even more young talent.”
Why would the Institute be in danger of closing? I left it a huge bequest!
“I’ve never known a woman with the same passionate commitment to music as I. Is it any wonder that I love you? We’re kindred souls, bonded hearts, our fates entwined. Can you forgive me for speaking this boldly? I know we should keep our association strictly professional, but I’m terrified that if I don’t tell you how I feel, I’ll lose you. I can hardly sleep, and when I do, you’re my only dream. I can hardly breathe, imagining my life without you!”
Cecilia recognized those words. They were almost identical to the ones Brent had used when he pleaded a similar load of true love’s aches and ouches on the evening he first took their relationship from donor-and-donee to bedroom-and-breakfast.
A shy giggle came from the other side of the table. Although she was floating easily in the sea-dark wine, Cecilia had the sinking sensation she knew the object of Brent’s recycled affection. Sure enough, when she peered through the Pinot Noir, she saw her cousin caught up in the same amorous flutter she’d experienced herself.
“Oh, Brent,” Maud breathed, adoration in her eyes. “I feel the same way about you. But we mustn’t give in. It’s too soon. People will talk. We owe it to Cecilia to wait a decent interval until—”
“Until what, Maud?” Brent switched gears, going from soft-eyed swain to steely-voiced commander. “Until you get tired of leading me on? I know I’m not good enough for you. I’m not in your class.” He spat out the word as though it were a dung beetle. “I get it: you’re rich and I’m not. You can toy with me, but respect me? Fat chance. Well, I can’t take that kind of treatment again. It’s what your cousin did. Did you ever see the pre-nup she put in place as a condition for us to marry? I thought you were better than her. I thought you didn’t set conditions on love!”
I never did! Cecilia’s thoughts were wild. It was my lawyer who insisted! It was written into Daddy’s will and the family trust funds! I—
“I’m sorry!” Maud seized Brent’s hand in both of hers, skinny fingers digging into the flesh. “I’d die before I’d do that if you ever wanted to—to—” she pulled back into her meek shell suddenly, and in a shaky whisper said “—marry me.”
Brent took Maud in his arms then and there, kissing her with all the fire of a thousand romance novels. As she melted in his embrace, he proceeded to do things to her on the (thankfully sturdy) dining room table that upset his wine glass and forced Cecilia to take refuge in the decanter, thence to witness Brent’s expertise become her cousin’s ecstasy. By the time he was done, Maud was eagerly acquiescing to take Cecilia’s place as his betrothed.
It was not enough. “No, Maud. You’ll never be my fiancée.” Brent’s face was as pitiless as his words. In the decanter, Cecilia’s grim expression aped his own, though for a different reason: she recognized his gambit all too well.
Give a starving heart a morsel of love, then threaten to snatch it away forever, she thought. Make it a big, dramatic, Verdi finale when you deign to give it back. That’s how you scare your prey into a lifetime of blind devotion. She hugged herself. It worked on me.
She’d called it. Brent let Maud suffer for a bit, then cupped her face in his hands, placed a gentle kiss on her forehead, and said, “I won’t have you for my fiancée because I want you for my bride.”
While Cecilia’s cousin wept tears of relief, Brent filled her ears with praises for the forward-thinking laws and customs of Las Vegas, where blood tests and waiting periods were pushed to one side so that loving souls could enjoy all the benefits of matrimony, stat!
“We’ll leave tonight.” He nuzzled her neck aggressively. “No second thoughts, no waiting.”
“Don’t good things come to those who wait?” Maud said, making an awkward stab at being kittenish. It didn’t suit her.
Brent’s barking laugh reverberated inside the crystal decanter. “The only good thing I ever got from waiting was thanks to your cousin. If she hadn’t made me wait so long to marry her, she’d be my wife instead of you. What a god-awful mistake that would have been!” He gave Maud a second helping of delight among the dinner dishes, done to reinforce his control and her bondage. It was not so extended or elaborate as the first, but time was a-wasting and last-minute flight reservations had to be made. Nonetheless, he still broke both wine glasses and came dangerously close to sending the decanter likewise crashing to the floor.
Cecilia saw red, and it wasn’t because she was sunk in wine. Rage burned away any lingering impulses to excuse what Brent had done to her. What steamed her most was that the bastard was about to repeat the noxious process, except this time he’d learned from past mistakes. He wouldn’t give poor Maud the chance for doubt, or thoughts that wisely counseled caution, or the safeguard of a pre-nup, or the opportunity to inconvenience him by dying before he could burrow into her will, like a tick on a Rottweiler.
He’ll make her into even more of a puppet than I was, she thought. I know Maud. If—when!—he cheats on her, she’ll blame herself and apologize. She’s got all the grit of a bowl of yogurt. She felt a rising tide of fierce protectiveness toward her hapless cousin. He played me for a fool. There’s nothing I can do about that now, but if I let him get away with doing the same thing to her, it won’t matter which afterlife I choose: they’ll all be hell.
The decanter lurched, banging Cecilia against the curved, transparent wall. Her view changed radically as a triumphant Brent brandished the crystal vessel overhead. “A toast, my dearest! Sorry about the wine glasses, but this will do. To us!” He set the rim to his mouth and drank.
Oh my God, what’s he doing? Cecilia braced herself against the glass, watching her liquid world guzzle away. I’ve got to get out of here before—
She stopped. The frantic need to escape dropped from her like lotus petals. An ancient memory out of elementary school days washed over her. She was back in Miss Buxton’s fifth grade class, hearing her teacher convey a rather interesting fact about Our Friend, The Human Body. Cecilia’s eyes widened as a sweeping vista of possibility opened before her.
Of course! Eureka! Whoo-hoo! With a wicked, wonderful smile, she stopped resisting and instead rode the rushing current of Pinot Noir to what was now her desired destination.
Splashdown in Brent’s stomach was the figurative kickoff. She wasted no time spreading out from there. She sent threads of herself through every organ she fancied, invading any soft tissue that suited her intentions. When she took over his tongue, she relished his reaction of petrified surprise, but this was only the appetizer. Soon enough she was feasting with glee over his desperate struggles to cast out the alien presence making him say…things—horrible, incriminating, disgustingly honest things!
He babbled about what a gold mine the Crawn Institute was, so long as there were well-heeled, gullible women who fancied themselves patrons of the arts. He described how that half-assed excuse for a school was his own private hunting preserve for one seduction after another. His recitation of conquests fell short of the “Catalog Aria” from Don Giovanni, but he took pains to tell Maud that his was still a work in progress. She fled the apartment weeping, but saved. She never noticed that while his confessions came freely, his eyes held the anguish of an animal caught in a leg-hold trap. Content with her handiwork for the moment, Cecilia gave Brent’s brain a strategic tweak that rendered him unconscious on the floor before she took off to rejoin Lara.
The psychopomp was still loitering in the soup pot. She greeted Cecilia’s return with a cheerful, “Ready to go Over now?”
“Not quite.” Cecilia recounted what she’d seen, what she’d done about it, and what she still intended to do before she was finished with Mr. Crawn. Part of her plans involved making his hands write checks to support Rita and her baby and making his libido-linked body parts unlikely to cause any further mischief. “I’ll come with you eventually,” she concluded. “I don’t plan to play puppeteer with Brent forever; just until he’s eighty or dead, whichever comes first.”
“My money’s on dead. Take your time,” Lara said. “I’m not one of the Furies, but I do admire their work. You might want to consider choosing the Classical afterlife for your final destination and asking them for an internship when you’re done with your business in this world. But tell me, where did you get the power to take control of him like that?”
“From you.” Cecilia’s hands traced graceful eddies through the soup. “And from this. Remember what you told me about water? How I’m in it and of it, breathing it and being it until further notice? Especially being it.” Her self-satisfaction was worthy of a cat, than which there is no higher bar set. “Water is my servant, just as you said. It answers to me!”
The naiad nodded uncertainly. “That still doesn’t explain—”
Cecilia paid tribute to Miss Buxton’s memory by assuming her long-gone teacher’s crisp diction when she said, “The human body is approximately sixty per cent water.” She laughed. “So is his.”
“How about that. I guess you’re never too immortal to learn something new,” Lara reflected. “I’ve met some smart souls in my day, but no one as brilliant as you. Sweetie, you’re a genius!”
Cecilia received the nymph’s praise with the tranquility of a forest pool. Her spirit was at peace. After so many years of not fitting in anywhere, she was in her element at last.