When the Devil wants you

Ivy The coffin was the wrong color. I knew it was a stupid thing to notice. Knew I should be crying or praying or doing whatever people did when they buried their mothers. But all I could think about was how the mahogany was supposed to be darker. Rich and deep like the earth. This one had a reddish tint that caught the afternoon light wrong. Grandma had picked it out. Said it was beautiful. Said Mom would have loved it. Mom would have hated it. My fingers twisted in the cheap black dress someone from the village had lent me. It smelled like mothballs and someone else’s grief. The fabric pulled tight across my shoulders because the woman who owned it was smaller, frailer, already halfway to her own grave probably. Everything about this day was wrong. The priest was saying something about ashes and dust. His voice droned on like summer flies. My eyes tracked over the small gathering of mourners. Fifteen people maybe. Sixteen if you counted Mrs. Judith who was only here because she lived next door and felt obligated. Mom deserved more than this. The marble headstone to the left had a c***k running through it. Three inches long. Diagonal. Started at the top right corner and spider webbed down. The flowers in the vase beside it were wilted. Brown edges on the petals. Someone had forgotten to change the water. I hated that my brain did this. Noticed everything. Remembered everything. Couldn’t turn it off even now. Especially now. Because if I stopped noticing the wrong details I’d have to feel the right ones. Like the fact that my mother’s body was in that wrong colored box. That they were going to put her in the ground. That I would never hear her voice again or feel her hand smoothing back my hair or smell that lavender soap she always used. Stop. Don’t think about it. The c***k in the marble. Focus on that. “Ivy.” Grandma’s voice cut through the priest’s prayer. Rough and worn like old leather. She stood beside me, back straight despite her seventy two years. Not a tear in her eyes. She’d cried herself empty three days ago when we got the diagnosis confirmation. Now she was just hollow. “It’s time to say goodbye, child.” I looked at the coffin. Wrong color. Wrong day. Wrong everything. My feet moved without my permission. Carried me forward until I stood right there. Close enough to touch it. My hand lifted. Palm pressed against the smooth wood. It was cold. Mom hated the cold. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. So quiet no one else could hear. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here. I’m sorry I was at work. I’m sorry I didn’t know you were getting worse. I’m sorry—” My throat closed up. The words stuck there like broken glass. I’d been at my job at the village clinic when it happened. Filing paperwork. My brain made me good at organizing things. Remembering where everything went. The doctor had kept me late because they were short staffed and I didn’t mind. Needed the money anyway. Mom had collapsed in the kitchen. Alone. The neighbor found her two hours later. Two hours. My hand curled into a fist against the coffin. If I’d been home. If I hadn’t stayed late. If I’d just checked on Mom like I’d meant to that morning but forgot because I was rushing— “Come away now.” Grandma’s hand on my shoulder. Gentle but firm. “Let her rest.” Rest. Like Mom was just tired. Like she’d wake up later refreshed and smiling. The service ended. People dispersed like smoke. A few mumbled condolences that I barely heard. Mrs. Chen pressed a container of soup into Grandma’s hands. Said something about stopping by later. Then it was just us. Me and Grandma watching as the workers lowered the coffin. The wrong colored coffin into the ground. The dirt they shoveled on top made a sound I knew I’d remember forever. Hollow and final. We walked home in silence. The village was small. Everything was within walking distance. Our house sat at the end of a dirt road lined with wild grass. Paint peeling on the shutters. Roof that leaked when it rained hard. But it was home. Had been home. I didn’t know what it was now. Inside smelled like Mom’s lavender soap. The scent lingered even though she was gone. Maybe it always would. Maybe I’d smell lavender for the rest of my life and feel this crushing weight in my chest. Grandma moved to the kitchen. Started making tea even though neither of us would drink it. Just needed something to do with her hands probably. I stood in the doorway to Mom’s room. The bed was made. Hospital corners. Mom had been a nurse before she got sick. Old habits. The photo on the nightstand showed the three of us. Me at maybe seven years old. Gap toothed smile. Mom’s arms around me. Grandma standing behind us both. Taken before life got complicated. Before money got tight. Before cancer. My fingers traced the frame. Every detail burned into my mind. The tiny chip on the corner. The slight fade on the left side where sun had hit it. The way Mom’s smile reached her eyes back then. Really reached them. “We need to talk.” Grandma’s voice from the kitchen. Not harsh. Just tired. I didn’t move. Kept staring at the photo. “Ivy. Kitchen. Now.” I obeyed. Found Grandma sitting at the small wooden table. Two cups of tea steaming between us that neither would touch. The overhead light flickered. Had been meaning to fix that for months. “You’re going to the city.” Grandma’s words were blunt. No preamble. I blinked. “What?” “Your aunt Margaret. She’s coming tomorrow. You’re going with her.” “I’m not leaving you here alone—” “You are.” Grandma’s hand came down flat on the table. Not angry. Just final. “Your mother made me promise. Before she got too sick to talk properly. Made me swear I’d send you to the city if anything happened to her.” My throat tightened. “Grandma—” “Don’t.” Her voice cracked. Just a little. Just enough. “Don’t make this harder than it is. You think I want you to go? You think I want to be here alone in this house with her ghost? But I promised her. And I keep my promises.” “I can get a better job. Help you more. I don’t need to go anywhere—” “You need everything,” Grandma interrupted. “You need opportunity. Education. A future that isn’t this village and this poverty. Your mother wanted that for you. Wanted you to have chances she never got.” Tears burned behind my eyes. I refused to let them fall. “What about what I want?” “What you want doesn’t matter.” Harsh words but her eyes were soft. Sad. “You’re twenty three years old. Brilliant mind. That gift of yours being wasted filing papers at a clinic. You deserve more than this.” “This is home.” “Home will always be here. But you won’t be. Not after tomorrow.” The finality in those words settled over me like a shroud. I wanted to argue. Wanted to fight. But Grandma’s face told me it would be useless. She stood. Moved to the counter where an envelope sat. Handed it to me. “Your mother saved this. Little bits over the years. It’s not much but it’s something. For when you get to the city.” I opened the envelope. Bills inside. Counted automatically. Three hundred dollars. Which meant Mom had skipped meals. Skipped medicine probably. Saved every spare cent. For me. The tears came then. Hot and fast and I couldn’t stop them. Grandma pulled me close. Let me cry into her shoulder. Smelled like the same lavender soap Mom used. They must have shared it. Of course they did. They shared everything in this house. Everything except the burden that I apparently was. “I don’t want to leave you alone,” I sobbed. “I’m tougher than I look. And Mrs. Judith promised to check on me. I’ll be fine.” “What if something happens—” “Then it happens. We all die eventually, child. But you. You’re going to live. Really live. Like your mother wanted.” We stood there in the flickering kitchen light until my tears ran dry. Until there was nothing left but acceptance and exhaustion. That night I packed my single suitcase. Didn’t own much. Few changes of clothes. The photo from Mom’s nightstand. A book she had loved. The envelope of money. Everything that mattered fit in one bag. I couldn’t sleep. Lay in my narrow bed staring at the ceiling. Counting the cracks there out of habit. Seven major ones. Twelve minor. The water stain in the corner shaped like a bird if you looked at it right. Tomorrow Aunt Margaret would come. Mom’s older sister who’d married some rich guy in the city and barely visited anymore. Last time I saw her was three years ago at Christmas. She’d worn a coat that probably cost more than our yearly rent and complained about the cold the entire visit. And I was supposed to go live with her. In the city. Away from everything I knew. I turned on my side. Stared at the wall instead. There was a nail hole there from where I’d hung a poster when I was fourteen. Took it down years ago but the hole remained. Everything left marks. Sleep came eventually. Fitful and full of dreams about wrong colored coffins and dirt hitting wood.