The Visitation

Was it murder?

My writing friends just alerted me this morning that a flash fiction story I submitted had been published in the Ekphrastic Review.

https://www.ekphrastic.net/the-ekphrastic-challenge

The picture for this challenge was by Helene Schjerfbeck.

Every other week, the Review has a writing challenge to write flash fiction, non-fiction, or poetry to a posted picture. So I took a stab at writing fiction for the first time.

The Visitation

It wasn’t the first time that Maura had felt Cindy, although she couldn’t see her, and tried to look away and pretend it was just in her mind. It was the coldness of the air that could not be ignored. Brushing against her left cheek, she could feel its icy grasp as if pulling her into the other world as well. It wasn’t her fault that Cindy died, although she felt guilty. She had been the passenger, and Cindy had been the one driving when the car went over the bank on a perfectly beautiful morning in the hills of Tennessee.

“What do you want, Cindy? I know you are there. It has been two years now, and I think you should move on. Are you stuck?”

Cindy’s unrelenting pressure campaign echoed the tone she had also used when confronting Mother.
“What the hell, Mother! We have been out here in the rain ever since the bus dropped us off three hours ago.” Maura remembers they pounded on the door and could see their mother moving in the kitchen. Cindy charged almost aggressively toward her Mom when the door finally opened, and Maura ran crying to her room and put on her headphones.

“You girls are lucky to have me for a mother, teaching you responsibility. Maybe next time you will remember to take your house key and not depend on me to open the door. I am not your servant.” With that, she turned and disappeared into the kitchen.

Maura shook her head to dislodge this memory and sat down on the couch to stare out the window. Lake Michigan was so still this morning that the clouds looked like they were swimming in the icy water. Gazing at the horizon line always transported her to a frequency where she could talk with Cindy more clearly in her mind.

“I am not stuck. Ever since Dad walked out of our lives 23 years ago when I was 5, and you were 3, I have tried to be strong for you. To be your protector. I see you squandering your life by shrinking until you are now invisible even to yourself. I want to wake you up. Do you think it is okay that Mom murdered me and tried to kill you too? Please, Maura, find your voice.”

They had discussed Mother many times since the accident. It seemed plausible that she had known the brakes were defective when she told Cindy to take her car, instead of Cindy’s Volkswagen. It would have seemed forgivable, innocent even, except that Mother hated Cindy for defying her controlling demands from an early age.

“You will have more room if you take my car,” were the last words her mother spoke to Cindy. At the time, it seemed odd because why would Mother care if there was more room, but Maura shook it off like she always did.

This hatred between Mom and Cindy was a looming presence that inhabited their home and interjected itself in every conversation, every interaction. A toxic poison spewed continuously from Mother’s mouth, except when she talked to the neighbors in that silky voice that arose from her red lipsticked mouth.

After the accident, when Maura was recovering from a broken pelvis and a crushed leg, her mother visited her twice in the two months she was in the hospital. The first time was to ask her where she should dump Cindy’s ashes, and the next time to tell her she was moving to the Netherlands.

Good riddance, she thought at the time.

These repeating conversations with Cindy were upsetting. She wanted Maura to confront her mother. It was like Cindy could see she had become a hermit, living in this cabin by the lake, working remotely as a grant writer for a non-profit, ordering takeout, and binge-watching Netflix movies. Her only interactions were scrolling through Instagram and liking and commenting on strangers' posts.

Maura knew it was dangerous to be visible.

Staring out the plane window, Maura relived her conversation with her mother,. She had hired a private detective who tracked down her mother’s address to a small Dutch village. The detective also discovered that the investigation into the accident had focused on the car's faulty brakes, and the police were beginning to question her mother.

Somehow, with Cindy's help, she had found a desire to discover the truth and, with trepidation, called the number the detective had given her. She instantly recognized the fake silky voice when her Mom answered the phone.

“Hello Mother, this is Maura.” Her voice sounded stronger than she felt as the old fear gripped her.

“Maura!” Maura could tell her mother was truly shocked to hear her voice.

“I have a plane ticket, and I will be at your house on June 29th if all goes as planned.”

“What? You are coming here? No, don’t come. Frank would not like it.”

She already knew from the detective that her mother was living with Frank Barnell and that they both had moved to the Netherlands together.

“I am sorry, Mom, if it makes a problem for you, but I have something very important to ask you.” This was the first time in her life that she had stood up to her mother, and it shocked both of them.

“I do not intend to leave the Netherlands until we talk. We can meet at a restaurant if that works better for you.” Maura intentionally closed the door on her mother’s excuses, and it felt strangely delicious.

Maura stirred her cold coffee as she waited at the cozy restaurant in Marken, the one with a view of the water. Relief and anger surged through her as she recognized her mother wasn’t coming. She should have gone to her house; she had the address. But coming here had been a first step; maybe it was enough.

Cindy was sitting here with her, too, though fainter, as if she were disappearing.

Connie Meyer

Connie Meyer lives in Maryland with her husband, Alden, and is discovering a passion for writing after 40 years as a management consultant. She is always delighted to have new subscribers and readers of her Substack, Dispatch From Planet Earth | Connie Meyer | Substack.