Page 163 of Devils' Day Party
“Honey,” Cathy coos, but then I look up and see that Jane—stoic, uptight, perfectly coiffed Jane—has tears in her eyes. When Cathy lets me go, I stand up and throw my arms around my mom, burying my face against her neck, and doing my best to hold back the sobs as she gives me a hug unlike any other I’ve ever had from her.
“I love you, too, Karma, and you’re so welcome. You’re so very welcome.”
“You know,” Cathy starts as Jane and I hold each other, mother and daughter wrapped up in the most perfect embrace I’ve ever had, “we don’t have to talk about the accident today.” Jane releases me and I step back just in time to see her give her wife a look. “Mark my words, we will talk about it, but it doesn’t have to be today. There’s magic in the air. It is Devils’ Day, after all. It’s a time for sorcery and art and enigmatic things. Come, let’s cast a spell with paint and canvas.” Cathy stands up and offers her hand, and I take it. With my other, I grab Jane’s hand, and it’s like I’m five years old all over again.
That, that is some Devils’ Day magic right there.
Every once in a while, it feels good to be a kid again.The dress I sewed for last year’s Devils’ Day party is even more beautiful than I remember it, and my lips turn up in a gentle smile as I finger the see-through lace of the formfitting gown. It's half black, half white, split right down the middle. The sleeves are long, but there's a slit in the skirt that allows me to move freely, despite the fabric that hangs to the forest floor, a train of lace and tulle that drags behind it. After seeing Barron's curled coattails, and the way they pick debris up as he walks around in the woods, I've decided I want that, too. To collect some of the forest and add it to my ensemble tonight.
I weave a crown out of some dried roses my mothers give me, braiding the stems together and clustering the dead blossoms on one side. They used to be red, but now that they're dried out, they're more of a red-brown color, like rust, like old, dried blood.
Slipping the dress over my head, I call one my sisters in to help me button it up.
“There are so many buttons,” Emma whines after slipping just two of the silk-covered buttons through the holes. Katie takes over, her hands more patient than our sister's, steadier. On the easel beside my desk, the canvas with the stars and the moon sits, wet with paint.
Finished.
The last strokes I’ll ever make catching the light from the late-afternoon sun.
I’ve added a few things, people mostly. Their tiny figures stand near the tree, looking up at the moon. They each wear a mask, but we can’t see it. Instead, it’s just the backs of their heads, and the little pieces of elastic. Because you never really know what’s a mask and what’s not, what someone’s true face is, unless they strip themselves bare and show you.
There are three boys in the middle, two little girls holding their mothers’ hands to one side, and a pregnant girl leaning her head against her friend’s shoulder, her blue hair tinted silver under the moonlight. There’s even a woman with bloodred hair nearby. She stands near the girl with white-blonde hair, and the one with raven locks that fits more easily into the picture than she rightfully should.
I’ve painted everyone who’s touched me during this journey, whether for good or bad. Because every person on this canvas has mattered. They’ve all made a difference, their actions influencing me just as much as mine did them, even if they weren’t on repeat.
“It's like a wedding dress and a funeral garment all mixed into one,” Cathy says, leaning in my doorway as she watches Katie finish. I stand up and turn to look in the full-length mirror in my room, the gown's lacy length clinging to my curves, my purple hair loose and wild, as one should be on Devils' Day.
Katie balances on the bed and carefully places the crown of thorns and roses onto my head.
“A wedding and a funeral,” I repeat, watching myself in the mirror, big gray eyes in a pale, heart-shaped face, full lips, a small nose.
“I'll light some candles, and we can do a quick spell before you head out the door,” Cathy says, moving down the hall as I turn and wrap my arms around Katie, closing my eyes against a sudden rush of fear at the unknown.
“I love you, kid,” I tell her, and she goes very, very still in my arms, like she can sense where my trepidation and fear are coming from. “I want you to remember that, always.”
