1 Straight to Hell Read online

  She leaned a little closer. “Do you think that guy might be your dad?”

  Leave it to Jasmine to make a bad situation worse. Truthfully, I hadn’t even thought that my sperm-donor might show up. For the record, I have no idea who my biological father is. Nor, I’m pretty sure, did my mother. On the few occasions I’d asked her, she’d scratched her head and said, “Well, there are so many possibilities.”

  As a child, I’d imagined my real dad as a poet or artist or musician. A man who was dying to make a connection with me if only he knew where I was. I admit that this is very disloyal to Simon who was the best father a girl could have. But in my defense, this was around the time Simon got remarried and Jasmine was born. Also, there was the normal, childhood curiosity of my classmates who wondered why my dad was Chinese and I wasn’t. Sometimes I would patiently correct them, explaining that my father was in fact Japanese, and that he had adopted me (which was a partial truth – he never adopted me since Carrie was never around long enough to finalize the paperwork). Other times, in fact most other times, I simply threw a punch to get them to shut up.

  But as I aged, I grew to hate my sperm donor, realizing that if he’d really wanted to get a hold of me, he would have by now. Suddenly, every bad thing about myself (lank hair, crooked teeth, an inability to read a map) was his fault. But after years of idolization followed by years of hatred, I simply stopped caring altogether.

  Jasmine began to scan the room, carefully assessing every man she saw. “Maybe that guy,” she said, pointing to a squat man whose unfortunate selection of a turtleneck sweater made his large head and thin neck look like a light bulb. “Or that one.” She indicated a lanky fellow in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.

  “Give it up,” I begged. “I can’t deal with it tonight, okay?”

  “But aren’t you the least little bit curious?”

  “No, not really.” Which was a lie because now I, too, was looking over each of the male visitors. Please God, not that one, I begged of a man in a hooded parka who appeared to be stuffing his pockets with tissues. Used tissues.

  “I’ll find out. Don’t you worry,” Jasmine said, then floated off before I could tell her to stop.

  Ariel had refused to come to the visitation and had stayed home with Tommy, but Grace had solemnly asked to go along despite the fact she’d only met my mother a half a dozen times. For the past two hours, she’d been lingering by the casket, alternately reading the cards on the flower arrangements and peering fearfully at her grandmother’s body. I caught her eye, held out my hand to her, and she rushed over. She hugged me tightly. “Grandma Carrie sure knew a lot of weird people,” she whispered. We both looked over at a pair of men who were dressed in biker’s leathers and had bandanas tied around their heads. They had matching eye patches and enormous, mutton-chop sideburns.

  “Yes,” I wearily agreed. “She sure did.”

  When my father came through the door, I’d never been so glad to see someone in my whole life. Even if he was accompanied by his current wife and Jas’s mother, Evelyn. I don’t exactly hate her, but on the other hand, I’ve never forgiven her for marrying my father and bringing Jasmine into the picture.

  Evelyn, as always, looked perfectly groomed, like she’d stepped out of the salon and then dressed in clothes that had just come off a drycleaner’s hanger. I, on the other hand, was wilting like an uprooted weed on a hot summer day. My dress was as limp as the used tissue in my hand, and there were great, spreading circles of dampness under my arms. I hadn’t looked at my makeup in the mirror since arriving at the funeral home. I was too afraid.

  Grace gave her grandpa an enthusiastic hug, and shyly greeted Evelyn who smiled thinly and nodded. Evelyn is not a bad grandmother; she’s just a distant one. “I’m so sorry for your loss,” she told me.

  “Thanks, Evelyn.” There was something about this whole funeral thing that made me extremely vulnerable, like a freshly-healed cut under a Band-Aid. So Evelyn’s greeting, as perfunctory as it was, made me weep.

  She hugged me, something she very rarely does, and whispered, “You’re a very good daughter.”

  The unexpected compliment made me cry harder, and Simon offered me a fresh tissue and Grace hugged my waist until I was able to regain control.

  “There are a lot of people here,” my dad said, impressed.

  “They’re all Carrie’s friends.” If I sounded bitter, it’s because I was. Even though I’d called every person I knew, none of my old friends and neighbors had stopped by. Never mind that Ted and I had lived in the same house for ten years, or that I’d been on every single committee at Grace’s former school. And all those parties I used to attend? Yeah, no one from that circle, either. Not so much as a single flower arrangement or condolence card. It was as if, once the divorce was finalized and the fire forced me out of the house, I’d moved to another continent instead of only another zip code.

  Simon, knowing full well what I was thinking, whispered, “Screw them. They’re not good enough for you.”

  Have I mentioned how much I love my dad?

  “We thought we’d take the girls out for a bite to eat,” Evelyn said.

  Immediately, Jas’s selective hearing kicked in, and she came over. “Can you drop me off at the movies? And I need some cash.”

  Evelyn’s lips tightened slightly. I knew she hated how childishly her grownup daughter behaved. It was one of the many reasons she’d ousted Jasmine from the house in the first place. Simon, however, was already pulling out his wallet.

  “Can we go to Chuck E. Cheese or MacDonald’s,” Grace asked. “Or that place that has the double fudge sundaes with the sparklers on top?” Evelyn winced, but she nodded in agreement. Like I said, she’d not a bad grandma.

  After they left, my cell phone vibrated. It was a text from Ted, my ex. “Whatcha doin?”

  His callousness made my insides shrivel. I texted back, “I’m the funeral home. My mother died. Remember?” It was all I could do to keep myself from adding: a$$hole.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a man watching me. He stood near the display of family pictures that Jasmine and I had affixed to a large piece of cardboard. With his v-necked sweater and leather loafers, he looked more like one of Simon’s friends than my mother’s. He had one of those chiseled chins that looked like it had been ordered from the cover of a men’s magazine, and thick, dark hair that begged to be tousled.

  My cell buzzed again. Annoyed, I dragged my eyes from the visitor to my ex’s message. “Oh, sorry. I forgot about that.”

  The guy in the v-necked sweater was approaching, and I realized I was holding my breath, wondering if he’d stop by to say something. I didn’t remember him coming in, which wasn’t surprising since everything over the past few days had been a blur.

  Once more, my cell vibrated in my pocket. I was tempted to ignore it, but if I did, Ted would have continued to text me until I answered. His message read: “i would have come but got a med emergency.”

  Medical emergency, my ass. Like I said before, Ted’s an orthodontist, so unless a kid’s rubber band snapped hard enough to put out an eye, I doubted there was much of a crisis. I only had time to send him another text (“Ok. See you later.”) before Mr. V-neck sweater was standing in front of me. I had to tilt my head up to meet his gaze. Oh, there was such sadness in his eyes! But I had a feeling it wasn’t related to the funeral. It seemed come from a deep world-weariness or the weight of a secret that was too much to bear.

  I wanted to speak, but couldn’t. I’m ashamed to admit it, but this guy rocked me like I was a teenager all over again. My knees were watery, my cheeks hot, and I had that delicious, warm, tingling feeling between my legs. I wondered if it was okay to put the moves on a guy I’d just met at my mother’s funeral, but then I figured that if my mother had been in my place, she certainly would have done it. In fact, I’m pretty sure that she would have leapfrogged over my casket to get at him.

  He didn’t take my hand, though I wished he w
ould. Instead, he said, “Ms. Straight?”

  And there it was: the killer British accent. Dear gods, I thought. I’m ready to go up in flames. I dabbed at my sweating forehead and nodded.

  “I’m Mr. Darcy.”

  Have I mentioned that I am a huge Jane Austin fan? Or that I’ve worn out at least three copies of Pride and Prejudice? Or that I’m head-over-heels in love with Fitzwilliam Darcy? And, finally, there is nothing, and I mean nothing, on heaven or earth that I want more than to bear that fictional man’s children?

  He waited, clearly expecting a reply, but all I could do was utter a strangled, “Okay.”

  “Miss Spry sent me.”

  At first I wondered who the hell Miss Spry was, then I remembered. Oh right, Miss Spry. The woman who had told me that I was not only dead, but a succubus to boot. It wasn’t that I’d forgotten so much as I’d shoved the entire episode aside in order to think about it later.

  He was still looking at me with those doleful, brown eyes. “May we speak outside for a moment?”

  Could he speak with me? He could not only talk to me, he could take me to dinner. He could drive me to his place. He could soil me like a tissue if he wanted. Without a thought to the other people in the room, I floated behind Mr. Darcy like I’d suddenly left the real world for a place where dreams came true.

  Once outside, I realized how dark it had become. And cold. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered. Mr. Darcy carried a coat over one arm, but he never offered it to me. Somehow, this intentional slight only made me want him more.

  No judging me, okay? Besides, you weren’t there, so you have no idea how it was.

  “Miss Spry has a task for you,” he said once we were clear of the doors. “Tomorrow morning.”

  “A task? What kind of task?” I pictured picking up her dry cleaning or running to the pharmacy.

  He looked annoyed. “I don’t know. It isn’t our job to ask questions. Just be ready to leave at 10:00 tomorrow morning.” He turned and started walking away.

  That snapped me out of my daze. “Hey, wait up!” I chased after him. “Be ready how? Where?”

  He looked over his shoulder. “Just be ready. Wear something appropriate.”

  I ran to catch up, tottering on the high heels Jasmine had picked out for me earlier in the day. “Appropriate for what?”

  “Your occupation.”

  Occupation? Was he talking about the stretchy slacks and semi-dressy t-shirt that I generally wore when substitute teaching? But the hard look in his eyes said otherwise, and suddenly I felt very stupid. Of course he didn’t mean that. He meant dress like a succubus. Like a slut. My bowels felt liquidy. “I can’t do that.” I knew I was whining, but I couldn’t help it. “I could never go through with something like that.”

  His eyes were like knives. “You don’t have a choice. It’s what we do.” He turned away, walked a few more steps and disappeared like smoke into the night.

  What we do? What do you mean we, I wondered. Then it struck me. The smoldering gaze, the instant attraction. He was a male version of what I was. An incubus. No wonder I’d wanted to get naked with him in the backseat of my car. Was that what I looked like now? Irresistibly sexy? I started to have a little sympathy for Harold the undertaker.

  I might have felt proud of my new sexual attractiveness if not for the looming threat of tomorrow’s ‘task’. The idea of hooking up with a complete stranger made me queasy. I didn’t care what Miss Spry or Mr. Darcy said, I simply couldn’t do it.

  But the final blow came when I re-entered the funeral home. Miss Spry expected me at ten o’clock the following morning.

  The same time as my mother’s funeral.

  The next morning, when I walked into the kitchen, three pairs of eyes opened wide and three jaws dropped.

  “Holy shit, Auntie Lil.” Ariel was the first to speak. “Did you mug a hooker last night and steal her clothes?”

  Eleven going on thirty. That’s my niece.

  “My eyes are watering,” Jasmine said. “Where on earth did you find a tank top in lime green?”

  Your closet, I thought.

  Grace tipped her head, considering. “I kinda like it. I think the silver boots are really cool.”

  “You’re not going to the funeral like that. Right?” Jasmine couldn’t stop staring. I thought she was beginning to remember the tank top. And the much-too-short black skirt. And the bangles.

  “You totally should,” Ariel said and laughed. “Can you imagine?”

  I put down the purse and poured myself a cup of coffee. “Yes, I fully intend to go to the funeral in this.” And then I delivered the line that I’d conceived of when I was getting dressed. “It’s what Carrie would have wanted.”

  Three pairs of eyebrows went up, and three heads nodded appreciatively. Because, yes, it was exactly what my mother would have wanted.

  “Then I’m changing my clothes,” Ariel said and, before I could stop her, she’d ran back upstairs to peel off the new black dress I’d bought her.

  Grace looked up at me with hopeful eyes. “Can I wear my purple, sparkly shoes? The ones with the curly, pointed toes?” These were from last year’s Halloween costume, when she’d wanted to be a genie.

  “Sure, why not,” I said. Delighted, Grace ran off to find them.

  Jasmine looked at me over the top of her coffee mug. “You look like shit.”

  I felt like shit. I’d hoped the outrageous clothing would draw attention from away from my pale face and the dark pits beneath my eyes. Peeking in the mirror earlier, I’d seen a ghoul looking back. Which was no surprise since I’d spent the entire night in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet. There hadn’t been much to get sick on – I’d hardly eaten the day before – but every time I pictured what I was supposed to be doing at ten o’clock this morning, the dry heaves had taken over.

  I can’t do this, I thought once more. I simply cannot sleep with a strange man. But then as my sweet, little Grace ran into the room, proudly displaying her purple genie shoes, I knew there was no way I was backing out of this. Not if it meant that Miss Spry would keep me locked in hell, thereby leaving Grace motherless.

  “You look beautiful, Sweetie.” I hugged Grace tightly, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the tears at bay. “And I’m fine,” I told Jasmine. “Really.”

  But inside, I was dying.

  To help quell my anxiety, I popped a nearly expired Ativan, the last of my stash back from the days when I could use my health plan to pay for my visits to Dr. Feelgood or steal drugs from friends with well-stocked medicine cabinets. But a half-an-hour later, I was still so wired that when Grace slammed the car door, I jumped a mile and shouted at her to be more careful.

  “Geez, chill out, Lil,” Jasmine said, glaring at me and hugging my tearful daughter.

  We met with the minister in the basement chapel of the funeral home. His name was Reverend Someone-or-Other, and he preached, or presided or whatever it was that ministers do, at my father’s Presbyterian church. At first, Jas had offered the services of Tommy, but – to his credit – Tommy had declined. He told me that he would lead the funeral if I really wanted him to, but he’d rather someone with real credentials do the job. So my father, knowing my hatred of all things religious, had intervened on my behalf and asked the good reverend to conduct his ex-wife’s funeral. No one but a man of God would willingly fall on such a grenade, and I felt a small amount of warmth for him.

  But as he took out his Bible and began reading a few verses, I grew increasingly uncomfortable, wondering if Miss Spry was watching. Here I was, a newly-minted demon, sitting in a chapel, and listening to a man of God read from the Holy Book. Surely, that wouldn’t make Miss Spry very happy. In fact, it would probably piss her off. So when the minister prayed, I bowed my head for my father’s sake, but I kept my eyes open, trying to prove to Miss Spry that I was still on her side.

  The prayer droned on until, suddenly, one of the minister’s sentences caught my attention. “Lord, we don�
�t know what awaits us on the other side of death, but we do know your presence will follow us there.”

  God’s presence would follow us after death? My head jerked up. “What about if we go to hell?”

  I hadn’t meant to speak out loud, but the minister remained unfazed. He opened his eyes and smiled at me. He was about my father’s age, tanned, and still athletic looking. From what Simon had told me, the two of them played a lot of golf together. “Are you worried about your mother, Lilith?”

  “Sort of,” I said. But, mostly, I was wondering about me. If God was so amazing and omnipresent, why hadn’t he bothered to rescue me from Miss Spry? In fact, why had he let Sarah Goodswain make her deal in the first place? Or allowed the Mathers to arrest her for being a witch when she’d done nothing wrong?

  “Some people would disagree with me,” the minister said, “but I tend to believe the concept of hell is overrated. God is interested in redeeming souls, not damning them.”

  “And what if a soul is beyond redemption,” I asked. “I mean, what if they’ve done something really, really awful?”

  “No one is beyond the reach of God’s grace.”

  Clearly, this man had never met Miss Spry.

  My father was looking at me with such concern that I decided the best thing to do was shut up and let the minister move on. I closed my eyes and bowed my head as a signal for him to continue, and when he did, I sneaked a look at my watch. It was now 9:46. Time was creeping closer. Though I did what I could to prevent myself from imagining what lay in store for me, my mind was like a St. Bernard puppy on a leash – tugging me here and there against my will. I saw my own naked body lying under the sweating, grunting body of a strange man. I saw tangled sheets and a dim room and swore I smelled that nauseating, dirty seaside smell of sex. My stomach lurched.

  At nine fifty-five, as we were about to enter the small chapel, Simon took me aside. “Lilly, you look terrible.” He took a perfectly white handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped my sweating face. “Maybe I should take you to the hospital.”