Doomed

DECEMBER 21, 12:35 P.M. HAST Camille in Denial

Gentle Tweeter,

“Who’s Persef…?” I ask my mother.

“Persephone,” says she. If Leonard’s to be believed, Persephone was a girl so extraordinary that a brute named Hades had only to glance at her to fall madly in love. She lived with her loving parents on Earth, but Hades seduced her and eloped with her to his kingdom in the underworld. In her absence the world cooled. Without her grace present the trees shed their leaves and the flowers withered. Snow fell. Water turned to ice, and the days waned shorter while the nights waxed longer.

With her new husband, Persephone was happy for a period. In her new underworld home she made friends and learned the customs. She became a favorite among her peers just as she had been on Earth. Hades loved her as much as her parents had, but eventually she pined to visit them. After half a year Hades relented. Such was his love that there was little he could deny his wife. Only when she had sworn to return to him in the underworld did Hades allow her to leave.

Upon her return to Earth the snow blanketing her old home melted. Trees flowered and bore fruit, and the days stretched so long that the nights between them were almost gone. Persephone’s parents were overjoyed to see her, and for half a year the three lived together as they had before her marriage.

According to Leonard, when six months had passed Persephone bade her parents farewell and returned to her husband, Hades. The Earth slept in her absence. When half a year had again passed, she returned to bring summer.

“That’s it?” I ask. “She never goes to college or gets a job or anything? She just shuttles back and forth between her folks’ house and her husband?”

With a sad smile, so wan that I suspect the effects of Botox extend into the afterlife, my mom says, “My daughter is Persephone….”

My own response to her speech is complicated. I couldn’t accept such a proposal from Satan, but coming from my mother it is more palatable. It’s not overly flattering: the concept that I’ve been born and bred and fattened like a calf for some ritual slaughter. My parents stood apart from me because they knew my life would end so tragically. They even selected my assassin and abandoned me to his deadly manhandling.

Perhaps that explains my carnal preoccupation with the ruddy Goran. Aren’t we all entranced by the means of our own future demise?

It’s not without appeal, the possibility that I was born already doomed and that everyone I loved knew more about me than I did about myself. If that’s the case I’m absolved from doing any wrong. I’m helpless and ignorant, but I am innocent.

What chafes me is the image of Leonard the puppet master, some slide-rule misfit telephoning my mother and jerking her chain. Leonard, seated at his telemarketing console, wearing his headset in Hell, dictating his philosophy to my impressionable eleven-year-old mom… the image prompts me to say, “I know him. I know Leonard.”

I say, “He’s book-smart, but he doesn’t know everything.”

My mom’s spirit looks Ctrl+Alt+Stunned.

I say, “He tricked you. Leonard bought your trust with winning lottery numbers and insider stock market tips just so you’d let me be murdered.” The words pour out, unstoppable. “Leonard’s a liar, Mom! Boorism is a big mistake!”

I advance to comfort her. My arms spread wide for a nurturing hug, I say, “It’s going to be okay. You were just an idiotic eleven-year-old girl. I know the feeling….”

The blow lands across my ghost cheek. Yes, CanuckAIDSemily, a ghost can slap another ghost. And apparently a ghost mother can smack her own chubby baby girl ghost. What’s more—it hurts.

Granted, my mother’s ghost is already fading. Her body sprawled on the divan, the chest stirs. Color rises in her cheeks. The ghost hand that slapped me has almost vanished. Perhaps it’s only the idea of the slap that stings.

“You’re the liar!” shouts my vanishing blue mom. “You’re a hallucination!”

It’s not the most sensitive reaction, but I say, “Don’t be stupid.” I say, “You’re leading the entire world to Hell.”

What remains of her ghost is invisible. Only her words hang in the air of the salon, almost inaudible as she says, “Whatever you are, you’re not my daughter. You’re an evil, overweight nightmare. My real child is beautiful and perfect, and on this very day she has returned to bring eternal sunshine to all of mankind.”