Worlds Of Ash: Chapter Four

The memorial service took place three weeks later, but only after endless amounts of forms�"and many a scrap of buried paper�"had been read and then reread countless times.  It hadn’t taken all that long for everyone to realize that Poppa Henry hadn’t left a will, and that that had meant that everything would become�"pretty much instantly�"way more difficult.  Ash, and Peter, had definitely spent way too many evenings, and quite a few mornings and afternoons as well, only watching as their father had started to put this phone, or that other one, to his ear after uncovering some number that had been scribbled down onto the top of some document labeled only as, “From Rome.”

It had been because their father had been desperate to figure out what to do, what last few wishes might have been expressed�"somewhere, anywhere�"so that Poppa Henry could be laid to rest as he’d always wanted.  But nothing had been discovered, and soon their father had had to take a few days off from work to deal with the stress.

And no matter how much their mother had begged for him to take it even easier�"to just sleep all day long if needed or even to get back to some yells…at her, the wall…whatever made him feel better�"their father had just kept those phones at his ear.  In fact, the only other thing he’d done was to start endlessly pacing once he’d also been told of some other issues that were in no way related to the lack of any will.

The first had come from the hospital itself.  The doctors there had spent a good six days holding onto Poppa Henry’s body, in case it was a hazard to the public.  It was the speed at which he’d gone.  Ash overheard that every time her father had had to deal with some administrator whenever they would call to apologize.

When her Poppa Henry had died so sudden, arriving at the hospital and getting diagnosed with a very mild case of pneumonia, yet then passing out in the lobby when he and her father had been trying to leave, his lungs so filled with fluid he could hardly breathe, every doctor had been certain it had to be because of a contagion of the highest degree.  They’d even made sure to order test after test to find out what had happened after he’d been gone, yet when the final test had come�"after way too long…days and days of way too long where her father had done nothing but beg to get Poppa Henry released�"all results had proved them wrong.  It had only been pneumonia after all, as mild a case as it first had seemed.

But the hospital had been so sorry even after Poppa Henry had been handed over, so concerned too that someone could go to the press and say something nasty, that they’d offered to pay for funeral arrangements, or cremation, whatever might be needed.  Everyone only had to agree to stay silent, to sign a few forms and then never speak ill of any doctor, or any nurse, though everyone also already knew, and knew quite well, that the hospital had truly done nothing wrong.  They’d just wanted to cover their bases.

Still, taking that offer had soon become something no one wanted to bother with anyway.  They were all too occupied with the final issue they had to deal with.  The biggest issue of all: they were rich…like really, really, rich.

It was all because while Poppa Henry may not have had a will, he’d at least had a key on him when he’d died�"one that fit a safety deposit box that Ash, Peter, and their mother had gone to after the hospital had released not only his body, but also the scant traces of whatever had been in his pockets.  They’d met with a manager of First United Trust, one who’d explained�"but only after studying that key�"that it seemed Poppa Henry had made only one thing very, very, clear: Whenever they visited that bank, Ash�"or her father, or even Peter or her mother�"could handle his stuff anytime they wanted, no matter if Poppa Henry was with them or not, as long as they had that key in hand.

Such words had made Ash breathe a little easier.  For a while, she’d been so scared something bad would happen, perhaps even that no one would be allowed to see what her Poppa Henry had kept hidden.  But as she and her mother had followed that bank manager back into a room filled with endless silver containers, one of which already had a black number fifty-three etched onto it�"exactly like what had been on their key�"that hadn’t been the case.  They’d been seconds away from revealing everything.  Ash had been so sure of that.

Except she’d been wrong.  Their key hadn’t, actually, opened number fifty-three a few seconds later.  It had at first just sprung a lock which had allowed for that container to be pulled from its row.  Something, it seemed, Peter had been prepared for.

He’d already slipped away, deciding to stand near to a table set up in the center of the room�"exactly the right spot to be in when that bank manager had pulled out container fifty-three only to then shuffle it over to that table to put it down.  It had even been Peter who’d pointed towards another lock, this one at the far end of the container, which would finally let them open everything fully.

Ash had watched with a growing sense of excitement as the room had started to crackle with anticipation, the fine hairs on her arms standing up.  It had been as if that container knew it held something delicious inside.

At that moment, if she’d been asked, Ash would have even said that something was there�"another weird sense of happy perhaps, like when she’d been under the bleachers and magic had felt so close�"but then her mother had taken a step forward and Ash had quickly returned to reality.  She couldn’t believe she’d allowed herself to think such nonsense again.  Happy…magic…they belonged only to Penthya and her grandfather, and now all of that was gone.  She had to think of something else.

Her mother helped.  She’d moved once more, this time lifting a hand to open that second lock as, instantly, Ash’s every thought had shifted onto something much more significant.

What had been inside container number fifty-three was a gold and emerald studded ring that Ash had seen�"it had called to her�"before she’d torn herself away so that hundreds upon hundreds of other shiny gems, cut and polished with care, could be taken note of as well.  Rubis and diamonds, sapphires and impressive silver coins, even a couple tiny gold nuggets and glimmering slivers of jade, had lain all mixed together.  Actually, and to the containers brim�"almost cascading over, really�"treasure had been revealed and no one had known what to do next.

However, it hadn’t taken her mother all that long before she’d adjusted and had reached over to close that container up tight.  Offering first an apology�"to be honest, she’d closed that container rather violently�"she’d instructed that bank manager to return everything to its row as she’d stayed with Ash and Peter to make sure he did.  And only once he’d accomplished that task had they all gone back home.

But back there�"once he’d been told…pretty much by everyone stumbling over themselves in a jumble that had made everything rather chaotic�"their father had been just as confused as to how Poppa Henry could ever have been that rich.  Yet he’d also still been too stunned by his loss to do much over that realization.  In the end, the only outcome of the jewels was that no one had wanted to take the hospital’s offer.  After consulting with their mother, after even taking Ash and Peter aside to gauge their reaction, their father had signed every form but had then made it clear that that would be enough.  Everyone would stay silent without any money changing hands. They would cremate Poppa Henry all on their own.

That had truly been everything�"each major roadblock that had hindered every single day of their grief�"and Ash could only shake her head in sorrow.  Three weeks…it had felt more like an entire year.

She tried to stare at the one large mirror in her room, a freestanding thing that, as she grew, showed more and more of her.  Nowadays, it let her see from the top of her brown and red streaked hair to almost all the way down to her ankles.

Ash cocked her head to the side, and brought up a hand to flick little bits of red and brown off her ears.  She liked her ears.  They seemed rather perfect, things not too large and not too small.  Still, she wished she had more hair.  Something long and thick that she could constantly brush aside to reveal a hidden beauty.

Recently, it had become so hard to see any beauty along her body.  At thirteen, her once trustworthy mirror was now presenting to her a mess she hardly recognized.  Her spindly arms, pasty white twigs that jutted out awkward, were awful.  In her house, they were things she despised, yet at her school, they were somehow worse.  Even with them being twigs, she could feel them swinging like anchors at her side, two pendulums of uncool that dragged her down.  And to think her arms had once been things she hardly noticed.

Ash supposed it was the curse of growing up, starting to be bothered by stuff that had before been not a concern.  She could try to ignore her thoughts about magic and happy, but she was lost as to how she could ever ignore how she felt about herself.  If it had even been just her arms maybe she could have gained some measure of peace, but there were also her legs.  Her mirror did reveal almost all the way to her ankles.  She couldn’t help but notice them too.

Her mother really did have such tone and definition along her legs.  Even the beautiful and popular Emily Baker had that�"and some muscle that ran under her perfect mocha skin.  Ash had always supposed that her mother had gotten everything naturally, while not bothering to pass much of that on to her, but as for Emily, Ash was sure of something else.

Emily’s legs came from all those after-school activities with her friends, and maybe from walking down hallways with those same friends who adored her every word.  But Ash had never joined any activity, after school or otherwise, and though she sometimes found it more than a comfort to walk alone, she already understood well that no matter how thin she might be, there was still enough of her to make it so she would never disappear.  Emily would see her, or someone else would, and the teasing would start.

Ash shook her head again.  Bad thoughts, too many bad thoughts, and now was not the time to get trapped inside such nonsense.  Besides, she did have her rather cute ears to focus on.  She just wished for the millionth time that she could tell her mother that her hair wanted to be longer.  Maybe then she could brush away any strand, reveal amazing all the time.

Ash turned from her mirror and stared at her bed and the outfits that were laying there.  She didn’t know what to wear.  The service for her Poppa Henry was only an hour or two away, followed by a spreading of his ashes at a nearby park.  But she wasn’t sure if a nice dress was more appropriate or if pressed pants with a shirt and jacket�"a suit attire she had from her limited time as a junior member of the student council�"was better.  If she made the wrong choice, she didn’t think she could forgive herself.

What about that too: beyond the many issues with her body, she still had all that other stuff she’d once let build and build until her Poppa Henry would stop by and she could escape.  It was going to drown her.  Who was there that could ever tell her she was smart like he had?

Ash sighed and shook her head one last time.  If she kept indulging these thoughts�"that nonsense, that forever nonsense�"she just knew she would be consumed, and that couldn’t happen.  She would not be the one to make the memorial go bad.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” a voice, Peter’s voice, said from behind her.

Ash had just grabbed her dress from her bed.  She held it up, a nice blue thing that fell to her knees and had thin straps that felt so wispy delicate on her shoulders.  She even had another jacket, a lighter jacket, that went with it and she’d been so lost in trying to imagine what she would look like in that dress�"and with that jacket�"that she just hadn’t noticed.  Peter simply appeared as if from nowhere.

“I can’t believe it either,” Ash sighed as Peter brought up a hand to dry his eyes.

It was an action that made her try hard not to burst back into tears as well.  She had cried enough during the past week, and she couldn’t let that happen again.  Seriously, and if only for this day, she would look good with no puffy cheeks.

“Sometimes,” Ash sighed again.  She was successful, no tears.  “Probably way too many times, I keep thinking he’ll knock on the door downstairs, barge on in like always.”

“Yeah, I keep thinking about that too,” Peter said.  He walked into her room and sat on the edge of her bed.  “It’s either that or I think about him coming up to tell us a story.  He’s been on my mind so much, I thought I saw him in my bedroom mirror, the one that hangs next to my door.  It was only a weird reflection, but…and for just a second…I really did think he’d come to tell me about Penthya.”

Ash threw her blue dress back on her bed.  She let it fall behind Peter before she scooted him over so she could sit down too.  This was, truly, the worst thought of all.  Poppa Henry’s stories were gone.  How could anyone ever get over that?

“Penthya,” Ash said as Peter rested his head on her shoulder.  “Did he tell you about Princess Isabella and her mystery husband?”

“Of course,” Peter said, “my favorite story.”

“Mine too,”

“Maybe,” Peter began, his voice trembling with hope.  “Maybe we could tell it to each other?”

“Maybe,”

Peter moved away before standing up to stretch.  He was already dressed in a nice gray suit Ash had seen him in only once before, at the wedding of some friend of their mother where he’d somehow been given the position of ring bearer.  Back then, he’d looked so uncomfortable in the loose-fitting clothes, but as he stood in the doorway of her room, he only looked sad.  Instead of bringing up a hand to wipe away fresh tears, he let them flow free until Ash couldn’t help it.  Whether it ruined her face or not, she just couldn’t stop her own sorrow from joining in with his.

“But it won’t work, will it,” Peter sobbed as Ash’s heart began to break.  She could hear it so clear.  His hope was fading.  “He died,” Peter sobbed on, “and Penthya went with him.  We could never tell it like he did.”

“Peter, if we�"”

“You should wear the dress,” Peter said, “and the jacket.  You look nice in blue.”

“Peter.”  Ash wanted to go to him, but she didn’t feel brave enough to attempt such a thing as Peter finally dried his face and turned to make his way downstairs.

“Just do the dress,” he said, his voice getting further and further away, “I’m sure Mom and Dad will like it too.”

Ash leaned over.  She was about to do as he’d said, when something caught her eye.  Something was there, something was moving in her freestanding mirror, the glass clearly reflecting her bedroom and a little bit of the hallway outside, it even captured a bit of her way-too-thin legs, yet, for a moment, something else was there as well.  Had Peter come back?

But when Ash twisted to look more closely, it wasn’t Peter she saw.  It was her Poppa Henry.  He looked exactly liked how he’d been on the last day she’d seen him alive, except�"honestly�"maybe a little better.  He had on the same clothes, the same jacket and worn blue jeans, with the same green sweater underneath, but his skin wasn’t as pale and his body didn’t seem as weak.  Ash was even certain that if he were to speak, his voice would sound richer and not as filled with fluid.  But there was no way he would speak.  There was no way he was there.

Ash pushed herself off her bed and tentatively made her way to her door to slowly peek out into the hall beyond.  It was empty, Peter already downstairs where the rumor of noise, of her parents and brother moving about, filtered up to let her know how alone she really was.

She stared back at her mirror.  There was no one in there either, the glass devoid of anything except the reflection of her and everything else not Poppa Henry.  She walked over to it.  The mirror reached a height a few feet taller than her head, and she stretched so she could grab its top to flip it around.

Its back was the same hard wood as normal, and when she returned it to its regular state, it also was as it usually was.  Just a thing reflecting what was in her room, and whatever she’d seen had been an illusion, another hope of magic that had been aided by a level of sorrow pushed way too far.  She was so upset she’d done that.

Poppa Henry�"and magic, maybe even happy�"was as gone as Peter had said, and she really needed to never think, or hope, for otherwise.