Of Sound Body and Mind

The sky seemed to grieve her too.

Rain fell fast as tears. The overcast sky rumbled with the beginnings of a thunderstorm, white crackling amidst all the gray. The boom of the following thunder rattled the ground. In the sea of black, the smooth wood of the bleached coffin was stark. Bright against all the monotonous dark of their clothing, the gray of the sky, and the brown of the earth beneath them.

Myra wouldn’t have wanted her funeral to be so… dry.

If it weren’t for the dread that had settled in her stomach, Mae would’ve fallen asleep during the service. Everyone was so... tight. Straight backs and high chins and thin mouths. No one knew what to say. Myra didn’t have many friends. Just the two people she employed to help maintain her house: Rafael Vasquez and Lillian Campbell. Both of whom stood on the other side of the grave. Rafe holding an umbrella over both of them.

Besides them, it was all family- family who hadn’t seen Myra in fifteen years- all except for Mae. She was the last person to see Myra, to talk to her, before… everything.

Myra’s coffin had been closed during the service. Mae was glad for it. She didn’t know if she could handle seeing Myra like that. Dead.

That final night had been just like the others. She’d driven up from New York to go see Myra in New Haven. The last time she’d seen her, Mae had met Myra in the library before heading to bed. Her great-aunt had been sitting on one of her chaises. Her hair was already wrapped for bed, her bathrobe tied loosely. When she’d seen Mae she’d waved her over and Mae had sat across from her, as she always did.

“You wanted to see me?” Mae had been bored, her eyes drifting from bookshelf to bookshelf, taking in the sconces on the wall, and tugging at her hair, done up in twists. Her bonnet slung over her shoulder. She’d been in the middle of getting ready.

“Mae, babe, you do know that I love you, don’t you?”

That was enough for her to sit up straighter. “Of course. What makes you ask?”

Myra’s eyes were hard in a way they’d never been before. There was no smirk to offset them, no raised brow in that way she always liked to arrange her face. “Nothing, nothing. I just… well I’d like to give you something.”

Myra took a deep breath and handed Mae a little black notebook. There was a lock over it and no key. The book was thick, stuffed full of torn pages and sticky notes, the paper worn with age.

“What is this?”

When she’d run her fingers over it, the cover of the book was rough, the lock cool against her fingertips.

“Something I’d like for you to have.”

“You’ve never given me gifts like this before. Are you alright Myra?”

Myra nodded. Took another deep breath. “I promise you that I am of sound body and mind. Now, go on to bed Mae. I’m old, quit asking me all these questions.” She waved her away.

Mae smiled. That was more like the Myra she knew. “Alright, alright. Wouldn’t want to strain your old bones.”

“Mae-”

“Night Myra. Thanks.”

Myra had simply nodded.

A week after, Lillian had called her. Her voice was thick with tears. They were at the hospital. Myra had had a heart attack and died before the paramedics could do anything.

Now, with the rain pouring around her, Pastor Joe’s voice was drowned out by the crackling thunder. Mae ran her fingers over that little black book, tucked into the pocket of her jumpsuit.

Myra never had the chance to give her the key.

Pastor Joe raised his hand towards the pouring sky, crossing himself before he turned to face that white coffin. “Myra Reid: Receive the Lord's blessing. The Lord bless you and watch over you. The Lord make his face shine upon you, and be gracious to you. The Lord look kindly on you and give you peace; In the Name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

Mae’s tongue was lead in her mouth. “Amen.”

***

The wake did little to lift spirits.

Mae’s grandmother, Sandra, sat on a chaise, her daughter holding her. Sandra’s face was stone, her body stiff and rigid. Myra had been her sister. They’d never gotten along but that didn’t matter much now. Myra was gone. On her other side was Sandra’s brother, Lloyd, he wasn’t holding her- he just stared out the window to where his older sister was buried, his face blank as Mae’s mind felt.

The only noise was the ticking of the grandfather clock that hung in Myra’s sitting room. Mae’s uncle, Isaac, and her father, Randy, stood on the other side of the room. The tie her father was wearing seemed to choke him, he’d never been one for formal clothes.

They’d each received a copy of Myra’s Will from her lawyer, a stately-looking woman with braided dreads named Julia Palmer. The book was heavy in Mae’s pocket as she looked the folder over and over. Her name was written over the top in Myra’s chicken scratch cursive. No one had opened their folders yet.

The grandfather clock kept ticking. Myra wouldn’t have wanted it to be so quiet.

Mae opened the folder and slipped out the crisp white paper, her hands trembling. The sound of paper sliding against paper alerted the rest of them, her mother glancing up to meet her eyes. They were ringed with red.

Mae could barely read the words printed on it. It wasn't Myra's handwriting but they were her words, just barely.

Being of sound body and mind, I do hereby declare this to be my last will and testament.

Myra’s house was first, given to Rafael and Lillian.

She was giving her artwork to the family to split amongst themselves.

The final line…

I bestow and bequeath a sum of $20,000 to my grand-niece, Mae Amelia Bailey.

Mae’s heart stuttered. Myra had left her something. A pressure built behind her eyes until it was like a dam breaking. Inside the folder was a chain, with a key on the end. Mae pulled it out slowly, the eyes of her family on her.

She wanted to open the book there and then, but it was private. Just for her. Myra would've wanted her to wait. So Mae slid the chain around her neck, clutching the key to her heart.

The Will readings continued until none were left. The family was left to roam the house and grieve in their own little corners. Mae walked the corridors, her mind carrying her feet past the hallways she knew so well. Every hallway was covered in paintings Myra had done.

Myra’s parents, Papa Ace and Yvonne in the middle of laughing. Papa Ace with his arm wrapped around Yvonne’s middle. His lips pressed to her cheek while her mouth opened with laughter Mae could almost hear, Yvonne’s arm was outstretched to push him away. They couldn’t leave Jamaica to make it to the funeral. Yvonne had fallen and fractured her arm a week ago, she wasn’t ready to travel, and her husband wouldn’t leave her.

Uncle Isaac with his wide, buck-toothed grin. Aunty Ann was in a rocking chair. Her pretty round face practically glowing with the force of her smile. One hand was resting on her pregnant belly, fingers intertwined with Isaac’s.

Grandma Sandra with her serious eyes stood behind Mae’s mother, Cynthia, A soft smile graced her mother's dark face, box braids weaved into a bun. Sandra’s eyes bored into Mae, her head tilted to one side, her slender fingers clasped protectively around her daughter’s shoulders. There were no pictures of Mae’s father. Though that wasn’t a surprise. Myra had never been too fond of him. But there weren’t any pictures of Myra either.

The last painting in the hall was of Mae. Sitting on Myra’s patio with Tara, her best friend. Radiance bloomed around them, Tara’s tawny russet skin and Mae’s own carob brown were luminous with the sun behind them. Tara’s brown eyes were wide as she animatedly told a story. Mae’s legs were crossed, one hand propped under her chin as she listened to Tara ramble. Her hair was tied back, rebellious coils springing forward. The radio by her feet had been playing Is This Love. It’d been a week after Tara had cut her hair short, the black curls forming a messy halo over her head. It was the weekend after Finals Week. And Mae had suggested going up to meet with Myra. That’d been three months ago.

A distinct sort of pain speared through her heart as she ran her fingers over the brushstrokes. She didn’t know Myra had painted them. Taking her phone from her pocket, she snapped a picture, though it didn’t do it justice- it wouldn't do any of them justice.

Down the hall was the door to Myra’s office. She’d never been inside even with all the time she’d spent there. Myra was rarely ever in it. She was either in the library or outside in her garden sipping iced tea with Lillian and Rafael.

Her hand hesitated as she reached for the door before finally grasping the knob and pushing only to find it already partially opened.

Her heart stuttered as she stumbled backward, slamming her back against the wall and shutting the door behind her. Myra was there.

There, right above the desk, was Myra. Or- a painting of her. The only one in the house as far as she was aware. Myra was seated in a chaise, one arm over the top and leaning, relaxed. Her black dress was arranged neatly around her and her dreads fell over her shoulders. A single brow raised and that fox’s smirk on her face- always looking like she knew something you didn’t.

Mae sat in the chair before the desk, staring up at Myra. She took the chain from around her neck and the book from her pocket. The key slid in smoothly, giving a little click before opening. Mae flipped to the final page, careful to catch any loose papers- and was hit with the words written there.

May 15th, 2018

9:49 PM

Well, it seems time has finally caught up with me.

I can’t believe it. Sixty-nine years on this Earth and heart disease is what kills me. The Doctor says I should be careful. I could suffer from cardiac arrest any day now and that would be it for me.

I don’t plan on telling anyone. Not even Rafe or Lilly… Or Mae. But I will give her this. I’ve already cleaned up everything. I’ve got lawyers and everything. Even an actual Will.

I didn’t… plan for this, Mae, if you are reading this that is- I hope you are.

I do love you but I won’t apologize.

Death comes for us all, babe, it just came for me a little sooner.

There were dried tears on the page. Mae added her own to them. She shuddered. Harder and harder until she was heaving with sobs. The sky lit white, the steady rain finally turning into a storm to mimic the one she felt inside. Harsh winds lashed at the windows. Rain pattered on the roof to the rhythm of Mae’s cries as she beat her fist against her chest. Myra didn’t deserve to be left alone to die like that. She didn’t deserve any of it.

There was a hand on her shoulder. The Myra from the painting standing beside her and glowing, her eyes soft. Mae rested her hand atop hers, her eyes still bright with tears.

“Death comes for us all, babe.”